#faith

Story: How to Build a Nest – Or Not

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

September 27, 2026

Ezekiel 18:1-4, 25-32
Matthew 21:23-32

A lot of birds build nests of some kind. Some are very simple, just a scrape in the earth. Others don’t build a nest at all, including the oh-so-brave manu-o-ku, which simply lays an egg on a branch. Some build pretty complicated nests. The ‘amakihi makes a very complex nest, and only the expectant mother does the building. Among the ‘apapane, both mother and father work at it. Or at least, that’s how it’s supposed to work.

An ‘apapane couple was very excited because two of their children, both males, had found wives and decided it was time to hatch some eggs and fledge some chicks. These were their first, um, grandbirds, and that makes both people and ‘apapane very happy.

What they weren’t happy about was how the preparation was getting along.

Their first son flew over with his wife and they asked, “How’s the nest building going?” The younger couple looked around in embarrassment for a bit before they confessed that they hadn’t started. “How are you going to lay any eggs if you haven’t got a nest?” demanded the hopeful Tutu.

“Go build your nest,” said the grandfather (he hoped) to be, and to his surprise the younger couple said, “No.”

“What?”

“No. We’re going to rough it, like the koa’e kea. We’re going to keep it simple. Find a hollow in the rock. That will be enough.”

The parents were appalled as they flew off. A few moments later, the other son and his wife flew by.

“Please tell me you’re getting a nest ready,” said the grandmother-to-be.

“Oh, absolutely,” said her son, and his wife agreed. “It will be ready well before time.”

“What a relief,” said grandfather-to-be as they flew off. “At least we’ll have some grandchildren raised in a proper nest.”

Strange things happen among birds – and among people, too, but these are birds. That first couple, who were going to lay their eggs in a hollow in the rock, like a koa’e kea? They checked out those holes in the cliffs, and they looked uncomfortable and they felt uncomfortable. Shortly afterward, they were flying about the forest collecting mosses, twigs, and leaves. The nest took shape high in an ohi’a tree.

The other brother and his wife started work on a nest, but they got tired and bored. They barely poked at it. When they left it for a day or two, it began to come apart. No nest took shape. And they didn’t lay any eggs that year.

The ‘apapane grandparents were disappointed, but they were also thrilled. One son and daughter-in-law had said they wouldn’t prepare, but then they did, and raised three much-loved chicks to fledglings and adults. The other couple said they would get ready, but they didn’t, and it would be some time before they had their first nest, and eggs, and children.

“If you do the things to get ready,” said the grandmother to her grandchicks, “it comes out right.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write theses stories in full ahead of time, but I tell them from memory and improvisation on Sunday morning. The story as you read it does not precisely match the way I told it.

Photo of two ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

Story: The ‘Apapane Who Deserved More

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A brown bird with lighter belly feathers, and some red feathers starting to appear. perched on greenery with a red flower filled with nectar.

September 20, 2026

Jonah 3:10-4:11
Matthew 20:1-16

‘Apapane chicks don’t all behave the same way, just as human children don’t all behave the same way. You have loud ones and quiet ones, greedy ones and hungry-but-not-pushy ones, polite ones and brash ones.

This ‘apapane nest had an assortment. There was one who was greedy and pushy, and mom and dad had to push him out of the way quite often to feed his brother and sister. The sister was pretty pushy herself, but not quite willing to get into wrestling matches with her brothers. The last brother, though, was quiet and polite. He waited patiently for mom or dad’s attention, ate his caterpillars with every sign of appreciation, and even chirped, “Thank you.” Politely!

His parents had had a number of chicks by then, and most of them had been pretty pushy when mealtimes came along. They didn’t quite know what to do with a polite chick, but they made sure they he was fed the same as his brother or sister, despite his siblings’ best efforts to get in front all the time.

They all grew, of course, and they learned to fly. The pushy brother and sister alternated between pushing to the front and loudly squawking that it was too scary to fly. The polite brother kept his beak shut, watched his parents closely, and when it came time for that first leap into the air managed a very creditable first flight. His brother and sister protested that they would have been better if they’d gone first, but they hadn’t, so…

The days drew on, and it was time to leave the nest. Mother and Father continued to feed them from time to time, but they were finding their own food, and they were getting better and better at it. The pushier siblings did, in fact, excel in seeking out new blossoms, bugs and caterpillars. The polite one tended to follow along behind and not get in anyone’s way. He ate just as well, though.

They were out of the nest, and the rambunctious chicks were making a somewhat rambunctious life. The polite one stayed near his parents, and to their surprise, kept making occasional flutters with his wings at them. That was a sign that he’d like something to eat – but he was fully capable of finding food himself. One day Mother just had to ask.

“What’s the matter? Why are you asking us for food? Is there something wrong?”

“Not at all,” said the polite son. “I just thought it made sense.”

“You thought what made sense?” asked Mother, who didn’t know.

“I’ve tried to be a good son,” he said. “I’ve tried to be calm and polite. I’ve tried to learn things quickly and well. I’ve tried to treat you, my brother and sister, and all the birds well.”

“And I appreciate it,” said Mother, who still didn’t understand what that had to do with wanting to be fed.

“Shouldn’t there be a reward for that?” asked his fledgling son. “Like more feedings, perhaps?”

“Feedings aren’t a reward, son,” said Mother. “Your father and I love you, and we love your brother and sister, so we’ve given you what you need. And you’ve grown. You’ve learned. You’ve thrived. Nothing we’ve done was intended to reward any of you. We’ve seen to your needs.

“But now you don’t need what you’re asking for. You have our love always, and it’s bigger than you know. But you need to be your own bird, and that’s how we’ll love you today: by giving you what you need. Again. Go find your own nectar, and enjoy it.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full beforehand, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story as you read it and as I told it are not identical.

Photo of a juvenile ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

About Five O’Clock

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

“And about five o’clock he [the landowner] went out and found others standing around, and he said to them, ‘Why are you standing here idle all day?’ They said to him, ‘Because no one has hired us.’ He said to them, ‘You also go into the vineyard.'” – Matthew 20:6-7

I know this isn’t about me. How could it be?
The tales that people talk about, they feature princes, kings,
princesses, queens, and emperors (however poorly dressed).
They do not linger on the laborers.

This story is about the one who wandered in
the marketplace five times, and each time hired
workers for the vineyard, even as the sun was headed
for the horizon.

The light upon the market stalls was tinged with gold
(the only gold I’ll see) when he came by and asked
why I was idle, as if I hadn’t sought a place all day
to work and earn some bread.

“No one has hired me,” I said, for it was true,
a truth that meant a troubled sleep with empty belly
for myself and for my daughter, wife, and son.
In idleness was my despair.

“Go work,” he said, and so I’ll go, to earn
what bread I can. It will not be enough to feed
my hunger let alone the others in our creaky home.
It is but what it is.

Tomorrow I will hope to find this vintner
or his manager much earlier, and earn
a full day’s wage, and maybe eke a living from
the hot and penetrating sun.

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 20:1-16, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 20 (25).

The image is “The Parable of the Workers in the Vineyard” (central panel) by an unknown illustrator (11th cent.) – Codex Aureus Epternacensis, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10315166.

Author’s Note: A number of commitments have prevented me from writing LectionPrayers in recent weeks, and it is more than likely that some added responsibilities around the office will prevent me from doing so in some weeks to come. I intend to resume this weekly reflection when I can return those tasks to other people. In the meantime, I consider a LectionPrayer in any week to be an accomplishment. Please bear with me.

Foreigners and Eunuchs, Eunuchs and Foreigners

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A single image with three elements of the same story. In the upper left, a child flailing in bed. In the center, a woman leaves the home to follow a group of men, one of whom is Jesus. In the the lower right, she kneels to him in petition, with a dog next to her.

Do not let the foreigner joined to the Lord say,
    “The Lord will surely separate me from his people,”
and do not let the eunuch say,
    “I am just a dry tree.”
– Isaiah 56:3

Foreigners and eunuchs;
Eunuchs and foreigners.
Anathema they are in the words of the law.
Anathema they are in the tales of the histories.
Foreigners and eunuchs;
Eunuchs and foreigners.

Suddenly, inspired by God
a new word: “These I will bring
to my holy mountain,”
to joyfully raise up their prayers.
Foreigners and eunuchs;
Eunuchs and foreigners.

We have heard other words,
have we not, from this time,
from our time, from the times
of so many others rejecting outright
Foreigners and eunuchs;
Eunuchs and foreigners?

We can choose what we read
and believe from the Bible.
Foreigners and eunuchs;
Eunuchs and foreigners
Exiled from the homes that they made
with their families, commanded by Ezra.

Foreigners and eunuchs
Eunuchs and foreigners;
would challenge the limits that Jesus
imposed on himself and win
healing for children, not dogs,
with great wit and compassion.

Foreigners and eunuchs;
Eunuchs and foreigners
would read in Isaiah
of a lamb deprived justice,
and persuaded by Philip
would seek out the waters.

So which shall it be,
and how shall we be, with
Foreigners and eunuchs,
Eunuchs and foreigners?
The cruelty of Ezra?
The welcome of Philip?

Or perhaps we might follow
the quick turn of Jesus
to hear wisdom and heal
and to lay down our limits on
Foreigners and eunuchs;
Eunuchs and foreigners.

A poem/prayer based on Isaiah 56:1, 6-8, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternate First Reading for Year A, Proper 15 (20).

The image is Jesus and the Woman of Canaan by Lucas Cranach the Elder (1537) – https://www.sammlung.pinakothek.de/de/artwork/8eGVWjr4WQ, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=105154922.

The editors of the Revised Common Lectionary chose to omit Isaiah 56:2-5 from the reading, which specifically address the welcome for eunuchs in the prophet’s vision. I’ve chosen to include their inclusion in this poem.

Like Jesus

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments


“For John came neither eating nor drinking, and they say, ‘He has a demon’; the Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Look, a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners!’ Yet wisdom is vindicated by her deeds.” – Matthew 11:18-19

There was a time they said I looked like Jesus. I
had grown my hair quite long, and wore a beard
whose scraggly thinness I would not wish on a Savior.

Has anybody ever said I act like Jesus? I
cannot say I have overheard the words,
although it’s true I like to eat and drink.

Nobody, I’m quite sure, has said I look like John,
or act like him. I’m no ascetic. As I said,
it’s true I like to eat and drink.

Nor does it matter. Whether clothes are soft
or ragged, whether wine is sweet or sour,
the task is still to testify to truth:

That God is real, and God is loving. God
cares about the ways we treat each other, more
than making regular appearances at worship.

God is not fooled by fools, and not by shrewd
deceit. Yes, God will judge, and yes, God will forgive,
but God will grieve for every sin we wreak upon each other.

So unconcerned about my clothes and diet, I
still wonder: does anybody think I act
like Jesus, righteous, showing love and grace?

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 9 (14).

Photo of Eric Anderson by Eric Anderson.

During my first year of college, I was cast in a play set in the 17th century. To look “the part” a little better, all the male actors let their hair and beards grow. During my spring break back home, a number of old friends insisted that I looked like Jesus, much to my surprise and consternation. I think I’ve finally lost the portrait photo taken for the lobby display, which is all for the best.

Story: Fish Stories

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

June 28, 2026

Jeremiah 28:5-9
Matthew 10:40-42

I’m not a fisherman. You’re not likely to find me along the shore with a long fishing rod or standing in the shallows somewhere with a net. What I do know about fishing, however, is a piece of advice I’ve only picked up in recent years.

“It’s called fishing, not catching. There’s a reason for that.”

People who fish spend more time not catching fish than they spend actually catching fish, and that matches my admittedly limited experience.

The ‘auku’u doesn’t have much choice about whether to go fishing or not. If you want to eat, and your diet is basically fish, well, you’ve got to go fishing. For our young ‘auku’u here (you can tell she’s young because of her brown feathers and orange eyes; the older ones have blue-black feathers and red eyes), that wasn’t a problem. She liked fishing.

She liked catching better, but she didn’t mind fishing, at least if it led to some catching. The problem was that she wasn’t entirely clear on where to go to minimize the fishing and maximize the catching. That’s one of things you learn if you’re a young ‘auku’u, and she was still learning.

She knew two older ‘auku’u who were happy to give her advice. One was a cheerful uncle of a bird who was always enthusiastic about guiding her to good spots. The other was a rather gloomy auntie, and she was much more likely to say, “Don’t go to this spot; there’s no fish there.” The number of spots she could tell you had no fish in them was impressively long, but also downright depressing. The young ‘auku’u wanted to be told where to go, not where not to go.

So she tended to listen to the happy uncle.

It worked out less well than you’d hope. When she asked him, “Uncle, are there fish in that pool in the next cove?” he tended to say something like, “Oh, my, yes. I’m sure there are. Go have a good breakfast!” Reassured, she’d go see. Sometimes there were fish there, but more times than not, there weren’t.

She learned to ask him, “Have you checked that lately?” but he always said he’d checked it today, and strangely, the fish had often gone somewhere else by the time she arrived.

She did far more fishing than catching in the spots uncle suggested.

Gloomy auntie, on the other hand, didn’t get things wrong very often. There were times when uncle said, “Fish here!” and auntie said, “There’s no fish there,” and auntie had been right. When auntie said she’s found fish recently, there were always fish to catch there. She was always gloomy, but she was often right.

The young ‘auku’u asked her straight out one day: “Auntie, why do you and uncle tell me different things about fishing, and why don’t I find fish where he says more often?”

Auntie considered this question rather sadly, then said, “Niece, I tell you what I actually know about. I know the spots I’ve been to on the day, so I know when there’s no fish there. I might not always know where the fish are, but I can tell you where I haven’t found them.

“Your uncle, on the other hand, likes to tell happy stories, and he doesn’t check things before he tells them. Sometimes he’ll be right by pure chance, but most of the time he just doesn’t know and he says it anyway.”

The young ‘auku’u considered this. “Sunny stories are all very well,” she said to her auntie, “but fishing is fishing and catching is catching, and one of them will have me hungry and the other won’t. If it’s all right, auntie, I’ll ask your advice more than uncle.”

“That’s fine,” said auntie, “and when you have nieces and they ask your advice, try to tell them what you know, and not what you’d like to believe. They’ll eat better that way.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

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

Photo of an immature ‘auku’u (black-crowned night heron) by Eric Anderson.

Don’t You Think I’d Rather Tell You What I Want to Hear?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“And the prophet Jeremiah said, ‘Amen! May the LORD do so; may the LORD fulfill the words that you have prophesied and bring back to this place from Babylon the vessels of the house of the LORD and all the exiles.'” – Jeremiah 28:6

I hoped I’d have a simple life. I had
ambition, certainly. I would succeed
but in a nation resting in its justice, peace,
its people living all in righteousness.

It was a pleasant dream. Though some
may learn while young how hard the heart
of human beings may be, I hardly knew.
With age I learned that things were not as I assumed.

And so I find myself today a croaking voice
of warning, heard sometimes with pity (which
is better than contempt). I’d tear my hair,
except I know I’d add derision to contempt.

Do you not think I’d rather say that everything
will be all right? Do you not think I’d rather claim
that the illusions of my childhood will
become our daily bread and feed us all?

The prophets long before me named the sins
impoverishing the poor, empowering the rich,
and warned that these would undermine
the underpinnings of the covenant,

The covenant with God, and with the people who
are paid so little, and who ask that if
they lack the wealth, at least they might receive
the justice to maintain themselves in life.

Increasingly this justice is denied. Increasingly
this covenant is broken, as the rich
grow wealthier, and the poor grow desperate,
and imperiled populations walk in fear.

Do you not think I’d rather tell you what
I want to hear? I yearn to live my working life
and my retired life in peace. The times say otherwise.
And though I’d rather tell you lies, I’ll speak the truth.

I’ll speak the truth I do not wish to hear.

A poem/prayer based on Jeremiah 28:5-9, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternate First Reading for Year A, Proper 8 (13).

The image is Jeremiah Lamenting the Destruction of Jerusalem by Rembrandt van Rijn (1630). Web Gallery of Art:   Image  Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15417236.

Cast Out This Slave Woman with Her Son

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment

“But Sarah saw the son of Hagar the Egyptian, whom she had borne to Abraham, playing with her son Isaac. So she said to Abraham, ‘Cast out this slave woman with her son, for the son of this slave woman shall not inherit along with my son Isaac.'” – Genesis 21:9-10

They laughed, the boys at play.
How many mothers watched? But one
saw threat and dissolution of
the wealth expected for her own.

How precious was her Laughter! She
had laughed to hear an angel say
that she would bear a much-desired son,
for she had forced her maid already to

Her husband’s bed, there to conceive
the older laughing child. No wonder that
she laughed, not just at things that could not be,
but that she’d brought an heir to life.

But now, she finds that promises fulfilled
have made a change. The boy she forced
another human being to bear, what is his place?
She could not bear to share the wealth.

“Go, cast them out,” she said to Abraham.
“He cannot have a place beside my son.”
Now Abraham had argued with his God
to find a place for his first born, but no.

He would not argue with his wife. He cast
them out. He knew the skin of water would
not last, and neither would the food. He cast
them out to where the sun would bleach their bones.

They were disposable, these two,
to Sarah and to Abraham. They’d had
a purpose once, but it had flown.
No purpose in the camp? Then go.

Too often and too many people find
they have been named “disposable”
by others with the power to displace
them, cast them out, and let them die.

But God, despite a failure to tell Abraham
and Sarah, “No. You shall not kill,” at least
preserved the lives of Hagar and of Ishamael,
declared that they were not disposable.

How soon will our humanity see what
our sacred texts still strain to see: no people are
disposable. All souls have worth to God,
and if to God, then how much more to us?

A poem/prayer based on Genesis 21:8-21, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year A, Proper 7 (12).

The image is Agar and Ismael (Hagar and Ishmael) by Jean-Charles Cazin (before 1880) – webmuseo.com, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=16403268.

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.

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.