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Story: Considering and Preparing

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment

September 7, 2025

Philemon 1:1-21
Luke 14:25-33

People, in general, don’t do well if they eat a lot of food quickly. It’s a good way to feel sick. Sometimes, somebody who eats a lot of food really quickly will get sick.

Ick.

The young ‘akekeke had learned something similar from his parents as they led him and his sister and brothers around the Alaskan tundra near where they’d hatched. There they found the bugs and worms that filled their bellies and kept them growing. Both mother and father, however, warned them against eating too much, and after one of his brothers ignored their advice and got a nasty stomachache the rest of the chicks decided their parents knew something after all.

As the summer wore on, it became time for the trip to Hawai’i. The four chicks became fledglings, learned to fly, and watched as more and more of the ‘akekeke began flying toward the coast. Their mother joined in with lots of the other mothers, leaving them with their father to finish flight school with him.

Even more birds departed before their father gathered them along with some other youngsters into a little flock and said, “It’s time to get ready.” They flew to the shoreline where they found a number of other groups of ‘akekeke probing through the shallows for small fish and shrimp.

“It will be time soon,” said their father, “to make the long flight to Hawai’i. You’ll need all the energy you can get for this. So eat. Eat all you can. Eat more than you think you can.”

“But wait,” said his son. “You’ve been telling us for weeks not to eat too much. In fact, when our brother tried it anyway, he got sick. Are you telling us that was wrong?”

“It was wrong then,” said father, “but now we’re doing something very different. We’re making a long flight and there’s nowhere to stop and eat until we get there. This is the time to plan. This is the time to prepare. This is the time to get ready.”

The young ‘akekeke wasn’t convinced. He wasn’t convinced that eating a lot was a good idea, even though his sister and two brothers had plunged right into an outcrop of mussels. He also wasn’t sure that taking such a long flight was a good idea, even if so many of the adults had already gone. His father looked at him with sympathy and with love.

“There’s some time, youngster,” he said. “Take time. Consider. I don’t think you’ll enjoy staying here for the winter – it gets cold, you see. But think it over. I hope you’ll join us.”

The young ‘akekeke thought about it. He thought about being cold, which he couldn’t really imagine. He thought about eating more than he ever thought possible, which he couldn’t really imagine, either, but he could see that his father, sister, and brothers didn’t seem to have any troubles as they ate their way along the shoreline. He thought about Hawai’i, which he also had trouble imagining, since he’d never been there before. Mostly he thought about being the only ‘akekeke in Alaska when everybody else had gone.

A little while later he was industriously feeding himself alongside his father.

“I’ve thought it over,” he said, “and I’ll stick with you.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them without notes, so the text I prepared does not match the way I told it in worship.

Photo of an ‘akekeke (ruddy turnstone) on Hawai’i Island by Eric Anderson.

I’m Waiting

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“[Jesus said,] ‘But when you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to you, “Friend, move up higher”; then you will be honored in the presence of all who sit at the table with you.'” – Luke 14:10

Is it fair to tell you I’m waiting, Jesus?
Yes, waiting for you to return in power.
Yes, waiting for resurrection’s dawn.
Yes, waiting for the Day of the Lord.

But I’m also waiting for your advice to work.

For truly, and sadly, I’m just as proud
as ever I was. When others are honored,
a part of me waits to hear my name called
though I know that it’s not about me.

But Jesus, you know, it’s still about me.

I’ve no cause to complain. I’m aware
that the praise I’ve received is more
than I’m due. I know it, and know I should head
for the end of the room, and take my place there,

But Jesus, you know I don’t like to be there.

I like the limelight, the spotlight, the office.
I like the small pond where my frog looks big.
I like it, and sure I’ve received it quite often.
I’ve heeded the summons of, “Friend, move up higher.”

But Jesus, I don’t always think I should be.

I can’t say I’ve bidden the poor to my table.
I can’t say I’ve done all the work I could do.
I can’t say I’ve lifted the spirits beside me.
I can’t say I’ve always been guided by you.

So Jesus, I’ll wait, and I’ll pray that you call.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 14:1, 7-14, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 17 (22).

The illustration is The Parable of the Humble Wedding Guest (1782) by Bartsch, Adam Von (1757-1821), based on an unfinished drawing by Rembrandt van Rijn – http://hdl.handle.net/1887.1/item:1629982, CC BY 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=99478604.

Of all the temptations to which I’m subject, pride is the greatest.

Where Is My Treasure?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“[Jesus said,] ‘Sell your possessions and give alms. Make purses for yourselves that do not wear out, an unfailing treasure in heaven, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.'” – Luke 12:33-34

Jesus, I am not a wealthy man… by some standards.
Were I to leave my work, I’d quickly run through savings,
have no home, sell the things I use to give me joy –
the instruments, the cameras, the things that prompt my memory.

By other standards, I have wealth beyond imagination.
I do not know where my next meal will come from, but
I know that it will come. I know that if a wave arises
or a lava river flows, I’ll have a place where I am safe.

My wealth be great or small, I must confess, it still is mine.
In honesty, I’d sooner heed Isaiah’s words: do good,
seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, raise
my voice in favor of the widow. But.

You, Jesus, raised the bar. The tithes has turned to everything:
my ukulele, photographs; my work time and my leisure,
what I think and write and speak and make.
For you demand all these be yours, be God’s, be holy gift.

So Jesus, I confess that though I give you much,
it is not all. I may give alms; I may give time;
I’ve taken on the role of the religious, but:
it is not all. It is not all.

Dear Jesus, please accept my offerings, my alms
of treasure and of time, of sweat and contemplation. Take
the portion of my heart that unreservedly I give to you. And
forgive the heart, and treasure, which I still keep for myself.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 12:32-40, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 14 (19).

Photo by Eric Anderson.

You Fool

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments
A skeleton stands beyond a seated man in fine clothes with food and coins before him.

“But God said to him, ‘You fool!'” – Luke 12:20

It hardly seems fair to call him a fool.
Call him a practical man,
call him far-seeing,
call him descendant of Joseph, I say.

What did he do when faced with a surplus?
He saved! Did the thing I’ve been told since a lad
I’m to do with the coins that remain.
When the rainy days comes, I’ve been told, they’ll be there.

In Egypt, the dreams of a monarch warned Joseph,
“Prepare when it’s fruitful for days when it’s not.”
And so I’ve been taught (if not followed so well),
and so I have urged when it’s my turn to tell.

What’s wrong the rich man? Why was he a fool?
He followed the ancient advice to the letter:
Built barns that would hold all a good year
produced; saved grain for the needs a bad year would demand.

Is that what he did? No, he said, “I’ll make merry
with all of my goods in my barns and my hand.
I might give a pink slip to all of my workers.
They’ve done all I want, and I want to be done.”

Whose will the grain be? And whose all the wealth
when the soul and the body divorce in the night?
Not his. He has gone where the soul is the seed,
and gold is the spirit which he had ignored.

How easy, how likely, to play such a fool,
to mistake greed for prudence and pride
for precaution. How often, I wonder, have I
played the fool, for much lesser riches

And hubris as great? You know, Storyteller,
and though you disclaim it, I know that
you judge with a knowledge I lack.
Though I’ve no grain for barns,

And no fruit for freezers, I’ll spend
what I have for the people around me:
a poem, a song, or even a sermon.
May God bless these gifts. May God bless us all.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 12:13-21, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 13 (18).

The image is Der reiche Mann und der Tod (The Rich Man and Death) by David Kindt (1622) – CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=22079990.

I really like this painting. Subtle it’s not.

In the Night

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments

“[Jesus said,] ‘I tell you, even though he will not get up and give him anything out of friendship, at least because of his persistence he will get up and give him whatever he needs.'” – Luke 11:8

I could wish that Israel had been so considerate
of its poor, instead of getting into bed
with riches and with greed. I’d think that hard-edged coins
would break their sleep, but sleep they did until they slept no more.

I could wish that Hosea had been so considerate
of his wife and children. Yes, It was a metaphor of power,
but I’d think the tears of hard-said words and names
would break their sleep, but sleep they did.

I could wish the neighbor heard his friend’s distress
and rose with empathetic energy to meet his need.
I guess the friend was fortunate that shouts and calls
would break their sleep, until they brought the bread and slept anew.

I could wish all these many things and more,
when wealthy men enrich themselves at the expense
of people who, deprived of healing balm, find death
would break their sleep, and carry them from this world’s cares.

While in the shadows Jesus watches, weeping.
While in the shadows God is raging, tears a-stream
to know that in these broken covenants even the rich
will wake from sleep to find their fortunes blazing.

While in the shadows God the Holy Spirit waits
for someone who will listen and embrace
the wisdom that resounds of old: to give your neighbor care,
and wake from sleep to bright and joyful day.

A poem/prayer based on Hosea 1:2-10 and Luke 11:1-13, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading and Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 12 (17).

The image is The Importunate Neighbour by William Holman Hunt (1895) – http://www.ngv.vic.gov.au/collection/pub/itemDetail?artworkID=32843, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10103482.

Story: The Soaring Hero

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

July 6, 2025

Galatians 6:1-16
Luke 10:1-11, 16-20

If you go up to the summit of Kilauea, look around for some white birds with long white tails flying about. I mean, they might be there when you’re there, and they might not, but take a look. If they seem to be gliding about on the warm air that rises above the volcano, you’ve seen a koa’e kea, the white-tailed tropicbird.

Koa’e kea fish far out to sea, so they’re not flying about the volcano summit looking for food. They do like to nest on the pali, the cliffsides, around Kaluapele. And, unusually for this bird that’s found all around the world, they like to soar.

It’s not just at the Kilauea summit. I’ve seen koa’e kea soaring above the water pool below Wailua Falls on Kauai. Those birds certainly looked like they were having fun.

Something Kilauea has that Kauai doesn’t is hot lava. For these last few months, Kilauea has sent these amazing plumes of lava high into the air, and it’s been flowing out on the crater floor and raising it higher. It’s been impressive. So what have the koa’e kea been doing when there’s been hot rock of about 2,000 degrees flying in the air?

Well, they’ve been flying right next to it, riding the hot air rising over the pooling lava, and getting far closer to the lava fountains than I would ever go.

One young koa’e kea was particularly fond of soaring over the lava, and every time the jets spouted into the air, there he’d be. He liked to toy with getting closer and closer to the plumes. He was sensible enough to keep from getting burned, and he stayed away from the rain of hot rock and ash, but he got close enough to make all the other birds of his generation go, “Wow!”

A photo of a lava fountain with a white bird flying between it and the viewer.

“Wow! You got so close!”

“Wow! You must be brave!”

“Wow! You must be a hero!”

I’m afraid it went to his head. He started to strut when walking, which is a difficult thing for a koa’e kea to do. It’s built for flying, not walking. More than that, though, he started to look down his beak at his friends who wouldn’t fly as close to the lava as he would. “You’re not so brave, are you?” he’d ask. “When are you going to be a hero?” he taunted. He left a lot of bad feeling behind.

Even his flying showed how arrogant he was, and it wasn’t pretty. It just said, “I’m better than you.”

His father joined him as he soared one day. “You’re flying well, son,” he said, “but maybe you could turn down the attitude. It doesn’t suit you.”

“It certainly does,” said the son. “I’m the brave one. I’m the best. The rest can just deal with it.”

“You’re certainly brave,” said his father, “but do you know what ‘koa’ in our name means?”

“No,” said the younger koa’e kea, who spoke bird, but not Hawaiian.

“It means ‘hero,’” said his father. “We’re all heroes. And if you’re a little braver than most, realize that someone else is certainly as brave as you. Be glad that you can fly in the rising air, and take joy in all the wonder of it all. Others of our kind don’t get that chance, and plenty of other birds can’t do what we do at all.

“Be glad, son, but leave the pride behind. It doesn’t add to your happiness. It just hurts the ones who love you.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory and interaction, so the way I told it is different from the way I wrote it.

Photos of koa’e kea and lava fountains by Eric Anderson.

Who Do You Say I Am?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 6 Comments

“And he sent messengers ahead of him. On their way they entered a village of the Samaritans to prepare for his arrival, but they did not receive him because his face was set toward Jerusalem. When his disciples James and John saw this, they said, ‘Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?’ But he turned and rebuked them.” – Luke 9:52-55

Did I not ask you, not so long ago, who you say I am?
James? John? Do you remember that?
I guess you thought I was Elijah, after all
(or that you were?), to call down fire
on the captains and the fifties, or onto their
Samaritan descendants in this village.

Did I not say that those who’ll follow me will bear
a cross, and lose their life to save it? And were
you listening to me, or to your glorious dreams?
No wonder that the heavenly voice which called me “Son”
demanded that you listen to me – since you weren’t.
And now you want to destroy lives with heavenly fire.

Well, no, my friends, we won’t do that.
We’ll make our way on by, and take our rest
where people offer welcome out of grace,
not out of threat, and we will tread
a Via Dolorosa, you and I and all our friends,
to show God’s love will not be bounded by

rejection much more thorough, drenched
in blood’s finality, a breath unfinished,
body broken, and forsaken by my friends.
No, James and John, the world is filled with fires;
no need to summon them from heaven’s vault.
What’s needed is to love, and love, and love.

A poem/prayer based on Luke 9:51-62, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Proper 8 (13).

Photo of lava fountains on Kilauea by Eric Anderson (May 25, 2025).

Story: Truth and the ‘Akiapola’au

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

June 15, 2025

Proverbs 8:1-4, 22-31
John 16:12-15

Birds are pretty honest creatures. They sing when they’re happy, and they screech when they’re mad. They give alarm calls when they’re scared, and they make hungry noises when they’re hungry.

An ‘akiapola’au  used to follow ‘elepaio through the forest to find food. The funny thing is that ‘elepaio and ‘akiapola’au don’t eat the same things. ‘Elepaio like bugs and spiders, which I don’t, to be honest. ‘Akiapola’au will eat those, it’s true, but they prefer the worms, caterpillars, and bugs that burrow into the wood of koa trees. It’s been noticed that a tree full of bugs and spiders is probably also one that’s full of burrowing insects, too. The Hawaiian canoe makers knew that, and the ‘akiapola’au knows it, too.

The ’elepaio could be trusted to tell the truth.

This one ‘akiapola’au, however, came up with a new idea one day. You see, while he was following the ‘elepaio, other birds were following him. He worried that they’d eat all the food before he did. The fact that none of them ever left the trees hungry didn’t seem to make a difference. He had to protect his food.

He thought.

Not that it was his food before he ate it, but anyway.

So he developed the habit of tapping at tree branches that didn’t have bugs in them. ‘Akiapola’au do that to find where things have burrowed into a tree, but he started doing it, and then digging where he hadn’t found any. It attracted other birds. They’d come in to see.

And he’d fly off to some other tree where he’d try to find something he could actually eat.

The result was a fair number of frustrated birds, who’d look around where he’d been tapping and find fewer spiders and insects than they expected. They went to bed somewhat hungry.

He was pretty satisfied with his trick when his auntie turned up after a day of tapping on insect-free trees. “Nephew, why are you spending so much time hunting in trees without food?” she asked.

“Don’t tell anyone, but I’m drawing the other birds away from the good trees,” he said. “I don’t want to run out of food and be hungry.”

“So you’re lying to them?” she asked. “And before you say, ‘No,’ don’t think about lying to me.”

“I don’t think I’m lying to them,” he said.

“You’re acting as if there’s food where there isn’t. You don’t have to say a word. It’s still a lie. It’s a lie that’s bringing hunger to our forest when it isn’t necessary. There’s plenty to eat. Isn’t there?”

“I guess so,” he said.

“As for you, you’re spending so much time in trees without food: how hungry are you when you go to sleep?” she asked.

He realized that, in fact, he spent so much time in trees without caterpillars that he was hungry at the end of most days. His lie meant that he wasn’t eating enough.

“No lying, nephew,” said auntie. “It’s not worth it and it never was. Go find the trees with food in them, and share the word with the other birds around us. We’ll all be better for the truth.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory and inspiration. On this particular day, I’d happened to speak to one of the young people the night before on a video call, where I told him that I’d be telling him a story the next day.

Photo of an ‘akiapola’au (adult male) by Eric Anderson.

Both Men and Women

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments


“In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.” – Acts 2:17, quoting Joel 2:28

Assembling for the feast of Shavuot, the Spirit roared.
No gentle breeze for us; a tempest howled there
among our trembling circle, through our trembling souls.
The flickering light upon our foreheads did
not shed illumination, no. I saw it as
a portent of our immolation.
Not since the angel told me not to fear
have I been so afraid.

My limbs have dragged my shivering frame
into the streets, which teem with goggling worshipers.
They fight their way upstream along the way
my son last trod beneath the burden of a cross.
How many know, how many care, that Jesus died
abandoned by his follower-friends, attended by
these women who, like me, recall dear Miriam,
who danced before the Law.

The raucous streets resound with Babel sound,
with accents I know well, and languages
I don’t. To my astonishment, one voice is mine,
another comes from Mary here, and Mary there,
and from a hundred other throats. We praise
our God, because when Jesus had been laid into
his tomb, the Holy One rejected our rejection, called
him back to life.

They scoff, of course, that we are drunk (how drunk,
they do not know, for I am filled with Spirit I have never known).
I draw my breath in deep. I plant my feet upon the unforgiving stones.
I start to lift my arm to summon all to hear my words,
and then I hear it: Simon’s voice, my son’s beloved Rock,
against all expectation quoting from the prophet Joel.
Who would have thought it? I rejoice, except: I wonder, when
will faithful people hear a woman’s voice again?

A poem/prayer based on Acts 2:1-21, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Pentecost Sunday.

The image is The Virgin surrounded by twelve apostles or Pentecost, by Master of the Crucifix of Pesaro (ca. 1380). Photograph by Rama, Wikimedia Commons, Cc-by-sa-2.0-fr, CC BY-SA 2.0 fr, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=11148957.

Many artists included Mary among the Twelve in their depictions of Pentecost.

Full inclusion of God’s people does not stop at men and women.

Story: The ‘Amakihi Hoard

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

June 1, 2025

Acts 16:16-34
Revelation 22:12-14, 16-17, 20-21

He was young, which may explain why he tried something that an older bird would know didn’t work. He was also pretty anxious about things, which explains more. In the end, though, it was his tutu who saw the biggest reason, which was…

I’m getting ahead of myself. Perhaps I should start the story at the beginning.

The ‘amakihi was young. And, as I mentioned, he could get anxious about things. If it was sunny, he worried about whether rain would come again. If it was raining, he worried about whether it would ever stop. If he was surrounded by other birds, he worried about whether it would ever be quiet with all these birds singing. If he was by himself, he worried that he’d be lonely forever.

Mostly, though, he worried about being hungry.

As a young and growing bird, he’d driven his parents to distraction by his constant calls for food. Some birds, and people for that matter, eat when they’re hungry. He’d call for food when he was full, because he knew he’d be hungry again soon. That can be pretty unhealthy for people and for birds, but frankly his parents couldn’t keep up with his demands, so they fed him more or less the right amount of food.

When he left the nest, he kept it up. If he was hungry, he’d head for the nearest flower, snap up the bugs, and drink the nectar. If he was still hungry, it was time for the next flower and the next bug. And if he wasn’t hungry, he’d still move on to the next flower.

What kept him from getting sick from overeating is that he had to do enough flying between trees that he couldn’t quite eat more than was good for him. Not quite.

One day, though, he was watching some bugs instead of trying to eat them. They were bees in their hive, and they were gathering nectar and storing it away. Suddenly it struck him.

“I can gather flowers and store them away like the bees,” he said. “Then I’ll never have to worry about finding flowers, and I’ll never be hungry.”

Off he flew.

He started snipping blossoms from the trees: Ohi’a, Mamane, anything he could find. He tucked them into an abandoned nest he found, then flew out in search again. If there were other birds around, he’d chase them off first so he could get the flowers. He had gotten rather big with eating, so other birds tended to fly away. The forest filled with squawking, protesting birds as he flew about with flowers in his beak.

He’d made quite a few trips and the forest was in an uproar when he found his grandmother perched next to his store of flowers.

“Aloha, Tutu,” he told her.

“Aloha, grandson,” she said to him. “What are you doing?”

“Storing flowers,” he said, “so I’ll never be hungry.”

“Really?” she said. “Who gave you that idea?”

“The bees,” he said. “They store nectar and pollen and they’re never hungry.”

“Grandson,” said Tutu, “would you look carefully at your flowers?”

For the first time since he started collecting them, he looked. No longer connected to their branches, they’d wilted and faded. Their nectar had dried and disappeared. A few bugs were crawling on them, of course, but even the bugs preferred the liquid nectar of a living flower.

“Why did you do that?” she asked. “Did you really think it would work?”

“I thought that I needed food for myself,” said her grandson, “that the other birds couldn’t take away from me.”

“The forest is for everyone,” said Tutu, “for every one of us. We’re not bees, who have ways of storing things, and they share what they store with the entire hive. We are forest birds. We don’t hoard. We don’t keep things away from others, not from ‘amakihi, not from ‘apapane, not from i’iwi. We share.”

She looked at him closely. “What do we do, grandson?”

“We share, Tutu.”

“Good. Let’s go have lunch.”

They left the sorry hoard behind for the living flowers they shared with all the creatures of the forest.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full ahead of time, but I tell them from memory (and inspiration).

Photo of an ‘amakihi by Eric Anderson.