christianity

Story: Worthy Birds

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A small green bird perched on a larger tree branch.

June 21, 2026

Genesis 21:8-21
Romans 6:1b-11

During the summer, some of the birds in the Hawaiian mountain forests like to gather into flocks. You’ve probably seen flocks of mynas around Hilo, and one evening I saw a big flock of cattle egrets, which was impressive, and I’ve also seen flocks of seven or eight nene flying about. Did you notice that those flocks have something in common?

They were all made up of the same kind of bird. Mynas with mynas. Cattle egrets with cattle egrets. Nene with nene.

The mountain birds do their flocks differently. They gather birds of different kinds together, so you’ll have ‘apapane (probably the biggest number), ‘amakihi, ‘akepa, i’iwi (not all of them are solitary and territorial), and even mejiro. The funny thing is that the birds in these flocks don’t entirely share the same diet. Some of them mostly eat nectar and may eat a bug or two from time to time. Others, like the ‘alawi, don’t eat nectar at all and rely on bugs and caterpillars.

So when an ‘alawi joined the flock, one young ‘apapane got huffy about it. “What use is an ‘alawi?” he asked a friend. “They’re not like us. They won’t help us find flowers in blossom.”

“They’re good at finding bugs,” said his friend. “Just watch.”

“I like nectar better than bugs,” said the first bird, and while she watched the ‘alawi hunt along a tree branch – and find some tasty caterpillars – he flew off somewhere else.

“I don’t think we should allow them in the flock,” he told someone else on another day, who ignored him.

You see, the flock was having a rough time. It had been dry on the mountains, and the trees weren’t flowering much. That meant that nectar was in short supply, but it also meant that the bugs who ate the nectar weren’t available, either. The birds didn’t know where the bugs were, and they didn’t know where the flowers were, and they were feeling the pinch.

“Look at that ‘alawi,” said the grumpy ‘apapane again. “He can’t even find the bugs I don’t want to eat.” The other ‘apapane gave him a sad look and flew off without a word.

“What use is an ‘alawi to any of the rest of us,” he asked one morning amidst a group of ‘apapane, ‘amakihi, and a haughty i’iwi. “Let’s get rid of this one, I say. There will be more for us.”

“Oh, be quiet,” said the i’iwi. “We flock together to help one another. That doesn’t mean that every bird has to be helpful every day, or even every season. Heaven knows I haven’t helped anyone find any flowers this year, and neither have you, ‘apapane. Let the ‘alawi alone. He’s just living his life, the same as you.”

“When is he going to prove his worth?” demanded the ‘apapane.

“When are you going to prove yours?” replied the i’iwi.

There was silence for a moment, and then the rustle of wings. The ‘alawi, who they hadn’t noticed at the edge of the group, had taken off.

“For pity’s sake, you’ve offended him,” said the i’iwi, and flew off after him. The other birds followed, including the arrogant ‘apapane, who really hadn’t intended the ‘alawi to hear him.

To everyone’s surprise, the ‘alawi led them, straight as an arrow, to a grove of ohi’a trees in full blossom. Plenty of the nectar-feeding insects were there, too. They sent a couple birds back to fetch the rest of the flock, and then settled in for the best breakfast they’d had in days.

The ‘apapane hopped over to the ‘alawi and said, “I’m sorry for what I said.”

The ‘alawi turned him a bright eye and said, “I didn’t hear anything. I just realized I could smell flowers on the air.”

He hopped over to a neighboring branch and plucked away a tasty spider. “But don’t worry,” he told the ‘apapane. “You’ll show your worth someday, too. Not that you have to, of course.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story I wrote does not precisely match the story I told.

Photo of an ‘alawi (Hawai’i Creeper) by Eric Anderson.

Story: The Merciful Myna

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

June 14, 2026

Exodus 19:2-8a
Matthew 9:35-10:8

This may sound a little bit odd to you – it sounds a little bit odd to me – but one of the mynas that lives near our church decided to listen to the sermon. Without falling asleep, which is a nice trick. And as you know, I’ve been talking about God’s mercy recently.

This myna woke up one morning and decided, “I’m going to be merciful today.”

The problem was, how could a myna be merciful? He thought about it while he had breakfast, and he couldn’t think of a thing. Mercy would be something like rescuing stranded sailors from a disabled ship. He couldn’t do that. Mercy would be something like healing a bird with a broken wing. He didn’t know how to do that, and there was also the fact that none of the birds around him had a broken wing. He was smart enough to abandon the notion that he could break their wing and then fix it.

“That wouldn’t be merciful,” he said to himself, and he was right.

While he was thinking, one of the other mynas jostled him and he hopped back and said, “Pardon me.” The other myna said nothing, just kept pecking at the ground.

A few minutes later that same myna bumped into another couple mynas and a screeching argument began. Our myna stopped thinking about being merciful and hopped over to calm them down. The bumping myna wanted to yell some more, but was persuaded not to. The bumped mynas wanted to whack him with their wings, but some gentle tones calmed them down.

“How am I going to be merciful?” he wondered.

A little later, he noticed a house finch hopping nervously about at some distance from the myna flocks. She looked hungry, but the ground she was on had already been picked over by hungry mynas. “Hop over here,” he suggested, and she gratefully did, and began to enjoy her breakfast.

“How am I going to be merciful?” he wondered.

A cat wandered along to the edge of the grass, and the mynas, finches, and sparrows didn’t notice until he spotted it and screeched, “Into the air, everyone! There’s a cat!”

They all took to their wings and settled again in branches and on roofs as the cat pretended to just be going from here to there, thank you, and walked away. Some of the other mynas wanted to peck and annoy the cat, but our wanting-to-be-merciful myna persuaded them not to.

The whole day went like that. He tried to think of ways to be merciful, and he didn’t think of a single one.

As the sun was setting he found an auntie and poured out the whole story to her. “You want to be merciful,” she said. “Don’t you think you were merciful when that bird bumped you and you didn’t get into a fight? Don’t you think you were merciful when you calmed the other birds down? Don’t you think you were merciful when you invited that finch to feed, or when you warned everyone about the cat?

“Mercy can be big and grand, nephew. Mostly, though, it’s small things that matter a lot. You won’t always get thanks for it; some may not even notice. But it’s mercy all the same.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full in advance, but I tell them from memory and inspiration, so the story you read does not precisely match the way I told it.

Photo of a common myna by Eric Anderson.

But I Can’t

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

“[Jesus said,] ‘As you go, proclaim the good news, “The kingdom of heaven has come near.” Cure the sick; raise the dead; cleanse those with a skin disease; cast out demons. You received without payment; give without payment.'” – Matthew 10:7-8

Give without payment, O Lord? But I can’t.
How will I eat, where will I sleep,
if I don’t have a contract or letter of call?

What do you mean, life has no guarantee?

Cast out the demons, O Lord? But I can’t.
I’m not sure I’d recognize a demon in person,
and surely I’m lacking the strength for such spirits.

What do you mean, my strength is in you?

Cleanse those with a skin disease, Lord? But I can’t.
Ask my dermatologist. My own skin’s a problem.
I cannot heal myself, let alone someone else.

What do you mean, bring healing, not cure?

Cure the sick, you say, Lord? But I can’t.
I’ve no more control over illness of body than skin.
Send the physician to those who are sick.

What do you mean, you are a physician of souls?

Raise the dead, you say, Lord? But I can’t.
If I had such power, I’d have used it already,
to hold all the loves that I’ve lost in my life.

What do you mean, give hope to the hopeless,
strength to the fainting? What do you mean,
pilot the rudderless, encourage the fearful?

What do you mean, breathe life into your Body?

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 9:35-10:8, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 6 (11).

The image is The Sick Awaiting the Passage of Jesus (Les malades attendant le passage de Jésus) by James Tissot (between 1886 and 1894) – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2006, 00.159.118_PS1.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10195961.

Watch… Me?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

[Jesus said,] “Go and learn what this means, ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.'” – Matthew 9:13

Would you like to know what blessing is? asks Jesus:
Watch me.

Would you like to know what light is? asks Jesus:
Watch me.

Would you like to know what righteousness is? asks Jesus:
Watch me.

Would you like to know what love is? asks Jesus:
Watch me.

Would you like to know what honesty is? asks Jesus:
Watch me.

Would you like to know faithfulness is? asks Jesus:
Watch me.

If you watch me, says Jesus, you will find compassion.
You will find forgiveness.
You will find welcome.

If you watch me, says Jesus, you will find healing.
You will find inclusion.
You will find life.

The challenge, says Jesus, for those who would follow me,
is when people would know about
blessing and light, righteousness, love.
When people would know about
honesty, faithfulness, healing, inclusion, and life:
What will they see when they watch you?

And I ask:
What will they see
when they watch me?

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 5 (10).

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Story: Those Birds

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

May 31, 2026

Genesis 1:1-2:4a
2 Corinthians 13:11-13

A lot of the honeycreepers in the mountain forests have brightly colored feathers. I think I’ve mentioned that before. The ‘apapane and the i’iwi are bright red and black. The ‘amakihi and the ‘akiapola’au are bright yellow. The ‘elepaio has these fascinating speckles in its feathers, even if they aren’t all that vibrant.

And then there’s the oma’o. The oma’o is basically gray. Gray head. Gray wings. Gray belly. Some brown in the back, but basically gray.

This oma’o felt perfectly fine about that. He didn’t see the need to show off his feathers. He was content to sing out with a good song when he felt like it, and to eat the berries and bugs he found. All in all, he felt pretty good about the world.

Except for the i’iwi.

He couldn’t help but notice that some of the i’iwi in the forest had some bad habits. They didn’t like other birds nearby when they were feeding. They didn’t like other birds nearby when they were singing. They didn’t like other birds nearby most of the time. If an ‘apapane settled nearby, they’d chase her away. If an ‘amakihi perched in a neighboring tree, they’d chase him away. Sometimes it felt like the most common sound in the forest was the wingbeats of an i’iwi chasing another forest bird.

Some i’iwi live alongside other birds without feeling the need to chase them away from flowers in blossom, but the oma’o didn’t actually notice that. It’s the noisy ones that get attention in the forest just as it is among people. The oma’o’s eye passed right over inoffensive i’iwi as their aggressive cousins chased ‘apapane and ‘amakihi away.

“I’iwi are evil,” the oma’o announced one day after one had bullied three ‘apapane, an ‘amakihi, and a confused ‘alawi (who doesn’t even eat the same food as and i’iwi) out of the neighboring stand of ohi’a trees. “Something should be done.”

“Like what?” asked his sister, who was perched nearby.

“I don’t know,” said the oma’o, “but look at what’s happening. What kind of world is that for ‘apapane and ‘amakihi to live in?”

The sister said nothing then, but she did some thinking. Could an entire kind of bird be evil? Could a combination of feathers and beak and diet and song make you automatically harm others?

She perched near her brother a couple days later and asked, “How are you different from the i’iwi?”

“That’s simple,” he said. “I’m not evil.”

“Okay,” she said, “but you’re alike in a lot of other ways. You’ve got feathers, and you fly. You’ve got a beak and feet that can wrap around a branch.”

“They’re nothing alike,” he protested. “My beak is straight and short; the i’iwi has one that is long and curved. I’ve got gray feathers; they’ve got red and black. I eat berries, they eat nectar. Most of all, I don’t chase other birds.”

“Do you think their red feathers make them chase other birds?” she asked. “The ‘apapane doesn’t. Or their curved beak? The ‘akiapola’au doesn’t. Or their diet of nectar? The ‘amakihi doesn’t.”

She looked him in the eye. “Isn’t it true that you don’t chase birds because you choose to? Isn’t it true that some i’iwi choose to, and some don’t? Isn’t it true that you and I have more in common with an i’iwi than we do with a nene, who doesn’t bother much of anyone at all?”

He had nothing to say.

“We’re all birds of the forest up here,” his sister told him. “We choose good and bad. I’iwi aren’t just evil. They’re our cousins, too, sometimes for better, and sometimes for worse. We can only encourage everyone to be better to one another.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from a combination of memory and improvisation. The story as I first wrote it does not match the story as I told it.

Photo of an oma’o by Eric Anderson.

Praise the Poet

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments


God saw everything that he had made, and indeed, it was very good. And there was evening and there was morning, the sixth day. – Genesis 1:31

Praise the Poet, Breath and Wind and Word,
who movement on the waters stirred up light
and night and land and sea, stars and planet whirling
on the cosmographic page.

Praise the Poet, summoning the earth to green abundance,
summoning the seas to swarm with life,
summoning the trees to welcome birdsong,
summoning the land to bear the tracks of feet.

Praise the Poet, maker of more poets, speakers of the word,
creators in the image of Creator, author of more authors.
A human writer often finds their characters find their direction.
The Poet watches poets make a universe of words.

A poet of the people, though, relies upon the languages
of human speech, on rhyme and rhythm and multiple meanings,
while God has written in broad rays of light, in buzzing bees,
in sweet perfume, in gentle touch, in salt upon the tongue.

Praise the Poet, Breath and Wind and Word!

A poem/prayer based on Genesis 1:1-2:4a, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Trinity Sunday.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Story: Whatever It Was

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

May 24, 2026

Acts 2:1-21
John 20:19-23

I don’t know what it was that he found in the tree. Maybe it was a collection of seeds. Maybe it was some burrowing insects. Maybe it was material for a nest. Whatever it was, he was the only house finch to know about it, and as far as he knew (or I know) the only bird in the neighborhood to know anything about it.

“Wow!” he said to himself, but not very loudly. He had already decided what to do with it all, you see (whatever it was). He had decided to keep it to himself.

“I’ll be really happy with all this,” he told himself, and he didn’t tell anybody else.

Having decided this treasure (whatever it was) was his, he settled into a nearby branch to protect it. He made sure he had a good lookout on the whereabouts of other birds, but he also made sure that he wasn’t too obvious. If other birds noticed that he wasn’t going much of anywhere, they might get curious. Not to mention if a cat noticed him staying still, the cat would get interested for different and more dangerous reasons.

So he perched on his branch, ducking down from time to time to avoid notice, and guarding his treasure. He only snuck away briefly to get water and eat. If you’re thinking, “Ah, ha! His treasure wasn’t food!” all I can say is, what if he wanted to avoid birds noticing that he didn’t have to go anywhere else to eat?

He kept guarding whatever it was.

One of his sisters finally noticed that she wasn’t seeing him in the usual places. She got worried, of course. When a brother goes missing, sisters get worried. She looked about for some time before she finally spotted him just before he ducked his head down out of sight again.

“What are you up to?” she asked him.

“Nothing,” he lied.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “Have you been in this same spot all day? Why would you do that?”

“It’s a fine spot,” he said. “You should find one of your own.”

“What are you up to?” she said, and flew a little closer. Then she saw it.

Whatever it was.

She was impressed. “I can’t believe you found all that,” she sighed.

“It’s mine,” he told her. That surprised her. She didn’t think of him as that kind of bird.

“All right, it’s yours,” she said. “What are you going to do with it?”

Now, for the first time, he thought about it. His day in one spot in the tree hadn’t been all that great. He’d never really eaten or drunk quite enough, so he was uncomfortable. He was worried about cats. He hadn’t spoken to any of his friends or family until his sister came along. He hadn’t even seen when the finch races had taken place a short distance away.

“Keep it,” he said, but he didn’t put much heart in it.

“You can, I suppose,” she said, “but it seems lonely and uncomfortable to me. Wouldn’t things go better if you shared it?”

He thought some more. Then he nodded.

“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll stay here a bit longer to protect it, while you fly around and tell everyone about it. Then we can all share in it.”

And that’s what they did. They all shared it.

Whatever it was.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full in advance, but I tell them from memory (plus improvisation). The story as I’ve written it is not the same as the way I told it.

Photo of two house finches by Eric Anderson. I don’t actually know that one of them is guarding anything at all.

Story: One Might Know

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

May 10, 2026

Acts 17:22-31
John 14:15-21

This story didn’t take place on our island, because although one of the birds in it lives on Hawai’i, the other doesn’t. I took this picture on Kauai, though both birds also live on O’ahu.

The one on the left, swimming in the water, with its red beak and red on its forehead, is an ala’e ‘ula, or Hawaiian gallinule. The one on the right, standing on long thin pink legs with white and black feathers and a very long straight black beak, is an ae’o, or Hawaiian black-necked stilt.

Both of them like to search for food in roughly the same kinds of places: relatively still and shallow water, like old fish ponds or coastal marshes. They don’t eat the same food, however. The ala’e ‘ula likes plant roots and seeds and shoots, and enjoys a snail or two. The ae’o mostly looks for fish, but will snap up water insects when it finds one.

Actually, the ala’e ‘ula will eat those insects, too, but neither of them is so fond of a diet of bugs to get very upset about it.

On this day the ae’o was getting somewhat upset, but not about bugs. It was fish. He couldn’t find many. Oh, one or two swam his direction, but where were the rest of them? He was getting hungry, and he was also getting irritated with the world. Being hungry does that to some people, and to some birds as well.

“Where are the fish?” he squawked in frustration.

“You can’t find fish?” asked an ala’e ‘ula a short way away.

“No, I can’t, and is that any of your business?” he said rudely.

“No, I suppose not,” said the ala’e ‘ula, who’d been feeding quite happily on roots and shoots and therefore wasn’t hangry with the world. “Would you like me to tell you if I find some fish?”

“You do what you want to do,” said the ae’o irritably, and as the ala’e ‘ula swam off to another section of the fishpond, grumbled to himself, “It’s not as if you’ll be of any help.”

It wasn’t very long, though, before the ala’e ‘ula swam back toward the hungry, grumpy ae’o. “Say, friend,” he said. “Take a look over there. There’s a good sized school of fish milling around eating flies.”

“How would you know?” demanded the ae’o, who couldn’t make out the flies on the water from where he stood.

The ala’e ‘ula shrugged. “One might know if one looks under water,” he said. “I was pulling up a root and there they were, all around. When I got my head out of the water I saw the flies swimming on the surface.

“I suppose you could make a meal of the flies if you have to,” he said thoughtfully, “but I imagine you like the fish better.”

“One might know,” muttered the ae’o as he stepped over to where the ala’e ‘ula had been, “but one probably doesn’t. More fool I.”

Then he saw the milling flies, and he saw the ripples where the fish had risen to the surface. He saw the water swirl as they swam beneath. In a moment he was there, and dipping his beak, and catching his fish, and feeling better than he had all day.

“I guess one might know at that,” he said when the ala’e ‘ula found him again shortly after.

“One might know,” said the ala’e ‘ula.

“Even better,” said the ae’o, “one might share what one knows. And the world gets a little bit better than it was.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full ahead of time, but I tell them in worship from memory and improvisation. The story as written and the story as told are not identical.

Photo of an ala’e ‘ula (Hawaiian gallinule) and an ae’o (Hawaiian black-necked stilt) by Eric Anderson.

Looking Carefully

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments


For as I went through the city and looked carefully at the objects of your worship, I found among them an altar with the inscription, ‘To an unknown god.’ What therefore you worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you. – Acts 17:23

Not looking carefully, I typed “Kiijubg” as first word
for the title of this poem/prayer.

It’s not a word I’ve seen before; I’d struggle to define it,
and truthfully it’s definitely not the word I meant.

But Shaw once wrote that when a thing is funny, search it for a hidden truth
(and promptly replied to himself that it takes all the fun out of it).

That fierce and fascinating man from Tarsus, though offended
by the shrines to idols all about, found one shrine

Which honored Agnostos Theos (perhaps); enough to base
a sermon on, to find a common root within a verdant forest

Of complex and disparate devotion,
and twist a cord to complement relationship

Between the human children worshiping the God of Jacob,
and the human children worshiping Olympians.

If Paul had looked less carefully, perhaps his ire for idols
would have leapt to his lips.

Instead his plea for understanding fell on ears
which heard. Some scoffed, it’s true,

But if he’d launched into a diatribe against the shrines,
what could they do but scoff and turn away?

For anger, like a hand misplaced upon the keys,
makes meaningless its words, however filled with hope.

A poem/prayer based on Acts 17:22-31, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Sixth Sunday of Easter.

The image is a photo of the “Altar of the unknown god” ca. 90-110 CE, discovered on the Palatine Hill in Rome (not Athens) in 1820. Photo by Sailko – Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=56294298. The inscription can be translated, “Whether sacred to god or to goddess, Gaius Sextius Calvinus, son of Gaius, praetor, restored this on a vote of the senate.”

Flexible Hope

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments


“But filled with the Holy Spirit, he [Stephen] gazed into heaven and saw the glory of God and Jesus standing at the right hand of God.” – Acts of the Apostles 7:55

I wonder about Stephen, what he knew
when he was brought before the council of
the priests. Did he expect they’d hear him out?
Or see the door as gateway to his grave?

Oh what a fool he was to speak the words
he did if he had hope they’d hear him as
they’d heard out the apostles not so long
before, and waited on the signs of God.

Yes, “stiff-necked people” echoed Genesis,
and all he said about the troubled times
of their ancestors had been said before
by those who crafted First and Second Kings,

But telling those in power that they lived
just as their grim progenitors had done,
as faithless slayers of the prophets, roused
their wrath and spurred them order his death.

Now, if he had a hope of being heard
he spoke the ravings of a fool, and died
for it, but if saw the writing on
the wall, he spoke a liberated word.

Without a hope of living through this trial,
his mind and tongue could speak his fearless truth,
his soul adjust to choose another hope,
one which did not rely on human beings.

“I see the heavens opened and the Son
of Man, who stands there next to God,” he said,
and as they dragged him to his death, he found
that hope is flexible enough for all.

A poem/prayer based on Acts 7:55-60, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Fifth Sunday of Easter.

The image is The Martyrdom of Saint Stephen by Bernardo Daddi (ca. 1337-1338). Photo by Sailko – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=73011620.