“This was not because we do not have that right but in order to give you an example to imitate.” – 2 Thessalonians 3:9
We have the right to claim whatever we want. We say. We have the right to say offensive things and sneer at those who hear. We have the right to say to one, “Go here,” and to another, “Go there,” and they will go. We enforce. We have the right.
Are we any more than irresponsible, mere busybodies, tearing down the building of a blessed community?
Is it not true that we who say, “The one who does not work, we’ll let that one not eat,” do little for our neighbors?
Is it not true that we who say, “The one who does not work, we’ll let that one not eat,” will underpay their workers?
Is it not true that Paul’s example, sparing those he served from burdens, that the greatest burden, ignorance of love, might lift from them, is our greatest call to work?
Is it not true that we are Paul’s “mere busybodies, not doing any work,” not building up community. How can we claim our right to eat?
A poem/prayer based on 2 Thessalonians 3:6-13, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year C, Proper 28 (33).
The ‘iwa, or great frigatebird, has a bad reputation among the seabirds around Hawai’i. ‘Iwa have been known to bully other birds to get them to drop their meals, which the ‘iwa then swoops down to eat. That’s pretty nasty. As a result, a flock of koa’e ula – red-tailed tropicbirds – had decided to have nothing to do with them.
When an ‘iwa flew by, they ignored him. Or her. They veered off to one side or another to keep their distance. When the ‘iwa called out a friendly “Aloha!” they said nothing in return. They called out to one another instead.
Except for one bird.
This koa’e ula decided that until an ‘iwa actually did anything mean, he’d assume that they were as worthy of a friendly “aloha” as any other bird. Seabirds tend to swoop around together a lot, which means that the air is full of “aloha,” which sounds a lot like lots of bird calls to us. A shore with lots of seabirds over it can be a very noisy place.
“Why are you greeting the ‘iwa?” asked his friends. “They’re bullies. They’re mean. They’re never going to give you an aloha.”
“I don’t know about any of that,” said the koa’e ula. “None of the ‘iwa I’ve greeted have done anything to me. Except to say, ‘aloha’ right back.”
Koa’e ula can fly for a long time, but they also like to spend some time resting on the ground, usually on smaller islands offshore from bigger islands like Kauai. There came a day when most of this particular flock was resting from some pretty vigorous flying and fishing. On that day something had happened a long way away that they didn’t know about. It was a big earthquake, and it kicked up the water into an ocean-spanning tsunami. All this was much too far away. The birds had no idea.
Hours later, a series of great waves approached the little island. A few of the koa’e ula were aloft, but they weren’t looking at the water closely. As the first wave came closer, an ‘iwa swooped low over the island, right over the place where the friendly koa’e ula had settled.
“Take off! Fly!” cried the ‘iwa. “There’s a big wave coming! Get into the air!”
“Take off! Fly!” shouted the koa’e ula to those near him, and he opened his wings and leapt into the air. Those near him did the same, and in a few moments the island was empty of birds and the sky was filled with them.
They looked down as the first wave washed over the entire island where they’d been. They were so shocked that they forgot to call “aloha” to one another as they circled. Without the warning of the ‘iwa, they’d have been there when the wave came.
“How did you know?” they started to ask the friendly koa’e kea, the one the ‘iwa had come to warn. “Hod did you know that the ‘iwa would know to warn us?”
“I didn’t know,” said the koa’e kea. “I just knew that everyone deserves an aloha. Everybody deserves aloha.”
As the ‘iwa swooped by with an anxious look to make sure her friend was all right, the koa’e ula called out, “Aloha and mahola nui loa to you!” The ‘iwa looked relieved and called back, “Aloha!” and she soared off once more.
I don’t know what other flocks do – there are ‘iwa and there are koa’e ula all around the world – but I can tell you that there’s been lots more aloha among those birds from that day to this, and long may it stay the same.
by Eric Anderson
Unfortunately, the video recording of worship for September 28, 2025, did not include audio, so there is no recording appended.
He was a yellow-billed cardinal, and he was young. He was so young, in fact, that the feathers on the top of his head weren’t red; they were brown. He was so young that his bill wasn’t yellow, it was tan.
He was old enough to be living mostly on his own, finding his own food among the seeds and berries, and his own shelter for the night. He was old enough to enjoy a sunrise or a sunset, and he was old enough to enjoy sitting quietly in the sun.
What he wasn’t old enough for was to understand what “peace” was.
That may seem odd, given that sitting quietly and enjoying the sunshine sounds pretty peaceful, but it didn’t always feel that way. For one thing, if he sat in the sunshine for too long, he’d start to feel hungry. Feeling hungry, he thought, wasn’t very peaceful. I guess he had a point there. Being uncomfortable isn’t very peaceful.
Worse than that, though, when he got hungry, he had to find food. He knew how to do that, of course. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that other birds would show up, and he didn’t like that. Other yellow-billed cardinals were usually OK – he knew a couple of them that tended to tease him – but he really didn’t like it when different kinds of birds turned up. House finches made him nervous. House sparrows were kind of scary. Saffron finches made him feel uneasy about his rather dull coloring.
Worst of all, as you might guess, were the mynas. For one thing, they had brighter yellow bills than he did. For another, they were a good deal bigger. And, of course, they were often really loud, really argumentative, and really frightening.
As he got older and his head feathers turned red and his bill turned more yellow, he still didn’t like it when other birds turned up while he was feeding. He didn’t really notice that the finches and sparrows and kolea really paid him no mind. They just got on with looking for bugs and seeds and worms to eat. So when the myna turned up near him while he was eating, he jumped.
“What’s wrong, youngster?” asked the myna. “Is there something wrong?”
“Oh, no, myna sir,” said the yellow-billed cardinal. “Nothing wrong at all.”
“You jumped,” said the myna. “Did something startle you?”
“Well,” said the cardinal, “you did. You caught me by surprise when you landed.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” said the myna, who sounded somewhat relieved. “Sorry about that. You had me worried for a minute there.”
“You worried?” said the yellow-billed cardinal. “Why?”
“Some birds get upset about mynas,” said the myna. “They think we’re loud and obnoxious. They don’t like it when we’re around.”
The yellow-billed cardinal had thought such things, so he thought that now he’d better stay quiet.
“I’m glad you’re not like that,” said the myna. “I could do with a bit of peace today.”
That’s when the yellow-billed cardinal learned what peace could be – a time when creatures who were rather different could live side-by-side, meet their needs, and not fear one another. A yellow-billed cardinal could be safe from the bullying he feared from a bigger bird. A myna could be safe from the rejection and disdain of a smaller bird.
“I could use a bit of peace myself,” said the yellow-billed cardinal. “Let’s enjoy it while we can.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory, which means things change.
The oma’o’s heart was in the right place, mostly. The physical heart was, of course, in the right place in his chest and beating regularly. His emotional and spiritual heart was maybe a little bit off to the side, because while he was thinking a little bit about another living thing, it has to be said that he mostly was thinking about himself.
It was a thinnish koa tree that he chose to protect. Its leaves were pretty thick even if its trunk wasn’t the widest. He liked the flavor of its flowers. There were some other birds that did, too, and he began to chase them away whenever he saw them. “I’m preventing them from over-feeding,” he said to himself. “That way the flowers can bloom and the fruit will grow.”
There were also bugs and caterpillars on the trunk and branches of the tree. Some of those he ate, because an oma’o will eat just about anything. Most of them he ignored. Oma’o might eat anything, but when there’s fruit around, they’ll eat that.
But he also wouldn’t let other birds approach the tree to eat the bugs, either. He chased away ‘apapane and ‘amakihi, ‘alawi and ‘elepaio. He even chased away the hook-beaked ‘akiapola’au after he caught one digging into the tree bark with its short lower beak.
“Stop digging into this tree!” he shrieked. “You’re hurting it!”
“This caterpillar in the bark is hurting it,” said the ‘akiapola’au. “I’m getting it out.”
“Not while I’m around!” shouted the oma’o, and chased the other bird away.
As the days went on, the koa leaves started to turn funny colors and droop. When the oma’o landed on a branch, it didn’t spring back up the way it had. Twigs dried up and fell away. Leaves littered the ground around the base of the trunk.
“That tree is sick,” said an ‘elepaio to the oma’o. “It’s got too many bugs. Let us help!”
“No,” said the oma’o. “You’ll hurt it.”
“Look at all those caterpillar tracks below the bark,” said an ‘akiapola’au. “Let us dig them out. The tree will get better.”
“I’m not letting you anywhere near this tree,” said the oma’o.
Even he had to admit that things weren’t going well. He no longer ate flowers from the tree, because there weren’t any. He visited other trees for fruit. There were plenty of bugs to eat, but when he ate some, there were always more.
When a tree falls in the forest, it does make a noise. The birds hear it. And they cry about it.
The birds heard the oma’o’s tree fall. And they cried.
“Why are you crying?” the oma’o asked an ‘elepaio. “It was my tree, not yours.”
“I’m crying because that tree could have been a place to nest for decades,” said the ‘elepaio. “It would have sheltered my family in the rain,” said an ‘amakihi. “It would have fed my children and my grandchildren,” said an ‘akiapola’au.
Looking around, the oma’o realized that not only had he hurt the tree he’d called his own, he’d hurt all the birds around. Not only that, he’d hurt future generations.
When a tree falls in the forest, the sound of its fall echoes into the future.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory (plus improvisation), so it does not match the text you just read.
He wasn’t the oldest among his siblings, cousins, and friends from nearby nests, but he was one of the first to molt from his young feathering to his adult colors. He’d had gray feathers on the chest and brown on his head and back, with black on his wings and tail. They all did. It made their games of hide-and-seek pretty difficult, because those colors melded into the shadows on the tree branches pretty well.
As I say, though, he was the first among them to start losing some of those brown and gray feathers, and start to gain the red feathers from head to tail. Frankly, it wasn’t going well. Loose feathers itched, and so did the new feathers as they grew in. They also didn’t fall out evenly. He found himself with a grayish belly blotched with the new red feathers.
“You look ridiculous,” said one of the young ‘apapane who played hide-and-seek with him, and, well, he felt ridiculous.
“Can’t you hide that?” asked another of the ‘apapane. He was a cousin, but he could be mean, even to a cousin. Our young ‘apapane couldn’t think of how.
“Go clean that up,” ordered one of the bossier young ‘apapane. She was one of those who thought she knew best for everybody else. But he still didn’t know how to take care of it, so he kept his perch and tried not to cry.
“Knock it off,” said the smallest of the young ‘apapane. All her feathers were still brown and gray, and she looked like she’d just been groomed by the finest feather-settlers of the forest. Everybody assumed that she was talking to the young bird with the splotchy red.
“Yeah, knock it off,” said the one who’d started this by calling him ridiculous in the first place.
“No, you knock it off,” said the smallest ‘apapane. “And you. And you. And all of you.”
She shook her wings and continued, “First of all, what can he do about it? You all know that our feathers will change from what we’re wearing to what our parents wear. Did you think that happened overnight? Didn’t you realize that it’s going to take time and that there are rough spots along the way?”
As it happened, none of them had thought about it.
“What are you going to do,” she demanded, “when this happens to you in a week or two? Are you going to make everybody going through this fly away, or are you going to help them when it itches and tell them it will be all right? What would you want for yourself?”
She asked that last question straight at the bird who’d ordered the molting ‘apapane to go clean that up. She didn’t say anything until it became clear that she had to answer.
“I’d want help,” she said.
“How about the rest of you?” demanded the smallest ‘apapane. They all admitted they’d want help.
“And that’s what you’ll get,” she said. “We’ll start with our friend here.”
“So how are you?” she asked. “Does it itch today?”
That’s how that generation of ‘apapane made it through their molt.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. What you have just read will not match the way I told it.
Photo of a juvenile ‘apapane in molt (at least that’s what I think it is) by Eric Anderson.
Simon Peter went to see a man A Roman centurion with power in his hands. “Speak to us, Peter, we’d like to hear news of a new way of living, one we can choose.”
[Chorus]
Who are the people of Spirit? Open my heart to see. Who are the people of Spirit? Is it you? Is it me?
[Verse 2]
Simon Peter told his story to them How a crucified brow bore a bright diadem. Then he gasped as those Romans, unashamed Displayed in their bodies the Spirit unchained.
[Chorus]
[Verse 3]
Simon Peter brought the Council the word That even in Gentiles the Spirit had stirred. “Who am I, who are you, to hinder our God?” In the grace of the Spirit their spirits were awed.
The young ‘amakihi was nervous. She had been busy growing up, which ‘amakihi do a lot quicker than human beings do, but there was a lot to pack into that time. There was eating, and learning what to eat. There was taking care of her feathers, which changed when she molted and the feather lengths changed. And of course there was flying.
Then she had to learn about eating again, because there were things she could get to with working wings that she couldn’t get to in a nest. She learned about new bugs, new fruits, and new flowers. She’d been too busy to be nervous.
She was nervous now, though, because her parents had announced that the family would join a flock for the summer. She wasn’t really used to other birds. She’d met an auntie or an uncle or two, and of course her tutu, but these would be strange ‘amakihi. Would they like her? Would they be mean to her?
It made her more nervous to realize that the flock wouldn’t include just ‘amakihi. It would include ‘akepa, ‘alawi, and scariest of all, ‘apapane. She knew there were a lot of ‘apapane around. She’d seen far more of them than she had ‘amakihi. She’d also seen them chase ‘amakihi through the forest, even her own father. “I got too close to their nest,” he’d explained, and that made sense because she’d seen him chase other birds away from her nest, but still. The ‘apapane made her nervous.
“It will be all right,” said her father. “It’s different when birds aren’t worried about nests and eggs.”
“It will be all right,” said her mother. “You’ll make it all right.”
The day came when she and her brother and her parents flew over to an ohi’a tree filled with other birds. There were other ‘amakihi, and she knew some of them because her tutu were there. There was ‘akepa and ‘alawi showing off their green and bright orange feathers. Mostly, though, there were ‘apapane. They hopped through the branches, singing their beautiful songs, and looking very sharp in their red and black feathers.
One of them, who was keeping rather quiet, hopped over to the branch where she was sitting, keeping very quiet and hoping nobody would notice her.
“Hi,” said the ‘apapane. “What kind of bird are you?”
“I’m an ‘amakihi,” she said. “And you’re an ‘apapane.”
“I am,” he said, and looking rather nervous, said, “I feel really dumb. I’ve never seen most of these birds before. Do you know any of them?”
“Well, I know my family,” she said, “and I’ve seen a couple of these other birds before,” – she didn’t mention that they’d been chasing her father away from their nest – “but most of these birds are as new to me as they are to you.”
“Oh, good,” said the ‘apapane. “I guess this is new to most of us youngsters?”
“I think it is,” said the ‘amakihi. “I’ve been worried that nobody would like me.”
“You’ve made me feel better,” said the ‘apapane. “I think most birds would like you for that.”
“And you’ve made me feel welcome,” said the ‘amakihi. “Thank you so much for that.”
Mother had known, after all. She had made it all right.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from a combination of memory and improvisation. As a result, what you’ve just read will not match what you hear.
I’m afraid it’s true that there are not many nene. They are easily outnumbered by the ‘apapane, and more than easily outnumbered by people. You may wonder why, if there aren’t that many of them, you hardly ever see them one at a time. I mean, wouldn’t you expect that a nene would go its own way from time to time, just to find some ‘ohelo berries of their very own?
One nene thought that independence sounded like the way to go.
He’d been to nene school, so he thought he knew it all. He knew how to find food. He knew how to fly. He’d done the drills at formation flying without getting excited about it. He was going to be the nene who made his own way, without relying on (and, you know, sharing with) the other nene.
So off he went to find his own spaces.
There’s a lot more of Hawai’i Island than there are nene, so it wasn’t difficult. If he spotted a little flock of nene in the air or on the ground, he’d just go somewhere else that they weren’t. That was lots of places, and plenty of those places had food, and water, and places to rest and relax. All in all, he thought he was having a pretty good nene life.
One day as he was in the air looking for another place to relax and eat, he heard the calls of some nene behind him. Glancing back, there was a little “V” shape of five geese flying in formation. They called out a friendly greeting, to which he replied – he liked being alone, but he wasn’t going to be rude about it.
What surprised him, however, was that the little “V” of nene was catching up with him. In fact, they passed him in the air, still calling out their “Hello!” He thought he was a pretty good flier, but they sped on by and he couldn’t keep up. It didn’t take long before they’d disappeared into the clouds.
How had they flown past him so fast?
Sometimes when you don’t know something and you don’t have Google, the best thing you can do is ask someone who should know. So he sought out his nene school teacher. When he found her, she was just finishing up a formation flying class. He waited, mostly patiently, until she was done, and told her about being passed by those other nene.
“Am I just so slow?” he asked her.
“No,” she said. “You’re not slow. You’re alone. Flying together – in that ‘V’ formation – allows us to fly more easily. The wings of the birds in front create good flying air for the birds behind. It makes a difference. We can put more strength into it. We fly better together.”
“You mean,” he said, “that if I always fly alone, I’ll always fly harder and slower?”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” she told him. “Together is the easy way to fly.”
Never let it be said that nene won’t learn. He found his own place in a little flock, and there in its “V” he flew easier and faster than he could remember doing before. Together is the easy way to fly.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory plus inspiration. The story you just read will not match the recorded telling of it.
Everyone thought she was one of the best singers among the ‘apapane. Her notes were clear, her improvisations were delightful, and she had the breath to sing long bubbling musical runs. Other ‘apapane used to listen for her in the mornings, and if they heard her, they’d take off in her direction.
It turned out that she used to sing loudest and longest when she found a grove of ohi’a with lots of blossoms, so everybody who flew into the neighborhood got a good meal. She’d sing, however, even in a tree between flowering times. When she did, the other ‘apapane – and the akepa, and the ‘alawi, and the ‘amakihi, and even the i’iwi – settled into nearby trees to listen.
It was like having a great concert every day.
She couldn’t help noticing that a fair number of birds got a free lunch, or breakfast, or dinner out of her songs. At the start she didn’t mind – she was pretty flattered that everyone flew to hear her sing – but as time went on it started to rankle. “Can’t they find their own trees?” she grumped to her brother one day, and if he had anything useful to say, she didn’t listen.
Then she had a bad scare. She’d landed on a branch near to the ground, which she rarely did, and began to sing. Suddenly the branch heaved with a heavy weight. She fluttered into the air, taken by surprise, and only then noticed the hunting cat which had leapt onto her branch and only just missed her.
She flew higher into another tree, whistling with alarm, and watched while the cat climbed back to the ground and disappeared into the forest.
The next day the sun rose, but her voice didn’t rise. The day grew brighter, but nobody heard her song. Other ‘apapane and ‘amakihi and mejiro and the rest begin to sing, but she remained silent.
She found a place deep within some leafy ohi’a branches and hid from the world.
They noticed that she wasn’t singing that day, the other birds did, but they mostly thought she’d gone to another part of the forest and would be back soon. But one day became two, and two became four, and four became over a week and nobody had heard her song. They began to look around, hoping to find her well, and terribly afraid that something bad had happened.
Her mother found her – mothers often have a talent for finding their children – still huddled in her ohi’a tree, silent and afraid. She told her mother about what had happened with the cat.
“I don’t want to sing ever again,” she said.
“Your songs are beautiful,” said her mother. “Everybody loves you for them.”
“Everybody follows me because they think they’ll eat well,” said the daughter. “Somebody else can do that. Not me.”
“Listen for a moment, daughter,” said the mother, and the two were quiet. The forest, however, was not. The calls and songs of the forest birds sailed out over the trees.
“Listen to that,” said mother. “It’s everybody’s song.”
“Won’t they attract cats?” asked the singer.
“They might,” admitted her mother, “but there are ways to sing beyond their reach. Mostly, though, realize that it’s your voice, and your melodies, but it’s not really your song. It’s everybody’s song when you share it, greater and more wonderful than you know.
“What do you think, daughter? Can you sing with everybody’s song?”
In answer, the young ‘apapane opened her beak and sang.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in advance, but I tell them in worship from memory and from improvisation. What you’ve just read will not match what you watch.
The three nene goslings had grown from the day they’d hatched. They’d joined their parents on walks around the nest area, which had grown longer as they’d grown stronger, to find the grasses and berries that made them a good breakfast. And lunch. And supper. And any-time-of-the-day snack.
Nene don’t really have a lot of use for set times for their meals.
The three goslings had learned to fly once their feathers had grown in and their wing muscles had become strong enough. They’d flown with their mother, and they’d flown with their father, and they’d flown with them both, and a few times just the three of them alone. They’d had something of a scolding from their parents the first time, but not after that.
They thought they’d got themselves set up for living. They had family. They had food. They had flight. What more could you ask?
It turns out that there was something else. To family, food, and flight, they needed to add: flock.
“What’s that?” asked one of the goslings, who hadn’t heard the word before.
“It’s more nene, dummy,” said his slightly older sister, who had heard the word.
“Don’t call your brother dummy,” said their mother.
“Yeah, don’t call him dummy, even when he is,” said the youngest of the three, a little brother who had been practicing teasing his siblings and become good at it.
“Stop teasing,” ordered their mother, “and listen.”
“We’re part of a larger flock,” said father patiently. “We’re a small family, and the other nene are the bigger family. They help us find food when it’s scarce, and they help us keep i’o away, and, well, it’s good to have them there.”
“I don’t need anybody else,” said older brother. “Food, family, and flight. And even some of my family could be better behaved.”
“Look, son,” said mother, “when I was young I didn’t think I needed a flock, either. But the world is bigger than what you’ve seen so far, even though you can fly. There’s an ocean and there are people and there are other creatures. In the flock we get some help when we’re confused. We learn things we wouldn’t otherwise know.”
“Fly with me,” said father, and the little family took off and soon landed amid a larger, but still rather small, group of nene. He introduced the three youngsters to the others.
“You need to become part of the flock,” said one of the new nene, who was actually a kupuna nene. “Fly with us.”
So they did. They took off together and did a series of circles around the place where they’d met. It wasn’t elegant – none of the young nene had been to Nene School yet, so their formation flying was pretty awful. Still, they did their best, and as they flew they realized that the air flowed over them differently when it was shaped by other birds’ wings. As they landed, they realized that the group had chosen a different place, one where the ‘ohelo was abundant.
“You are now part of the flock,” said the kupuna nene. “We are glad to have you fly with us.”
The next day, of course, they began Nene School, so they could eat better and fly better. And they were glad to fly with their new flock.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in full (it’s what you just read), but I tell them from memory during Sunday worship. Memory and improvisation creates some differences!
ordainedgeek 