hope

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.

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.

Story: The Crunchiness of Life

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 6 Comments

February 22, 2026

Genesis 2:15-17, 3:1-7
Matthew 4:1-11

Saltiness, sweetness, and yes, I’m visiting another one of the taste buds. I’m afraid it’s bitterness. That’s not a favorite for many people.

Now, coffee drinkers do tend to like some bitterness to it, but the birds of the mountain forests don’t drink coffee. Instead, they drink nectar, and as I mentioned last week, nectar is basically sugar, so it’s sweet. ‘Apapane and ‘amakihi both like the nectar of ohi’a and koa and mamane and lots of other flowers and flowering trees of the forest, as well as some of the fruits.

Those trees don’t flower all at the same time, and they don’t flower all the time, so the birds have to move to and fro to find the ones in blossom. If you’ve got wings to fly with, that’s not so bad, but when those birds can’t find flowers, they look for other sources of food. Mostly, that’s bugs and spiders.

To which I say, yuck.

As it happened, so did an ‘amakihi.

Plenty of birds, ‘apapane and ‘amakihi and others, like the taste of bugs. They like the flavor. They like the crunch. Best of all, they like the way that after they eat some, they don’t feel hungry, which is a very good thing.

This ‘amakihi didn’t like feeling hungry, it’s true. Unfortunately, he really didn’t like the crunchiness of a bug meal. And he didn’t like the flavor at all.

“It’s bitter,” he complained.

“It’s not that bad,” said a friend.

“I rather like it,” said another friend.

“Yuck,” said our ‘amakihi. “It’s bitter and nectar is so much better. I don’t want to deal with a crunchy life.” So he flew off to look for flowers.

It was a bad day for nectar. Most of the trees were in seed, not flower. The trees that did have flowers also tended to have grumpy i’iwi in them who’d chase him away. He’d get a sip or two from a lonely flower on a lonely tree, then fly off again, sometimes with an i’iwi behind him.

It was a bad day for nectar, and it was a bad day for him.

Sitting on an ohi’a branch, he spotted a spider’s web. That had made for a bad day for some bugs, but now the ‘amakihi was hungry enough that he’d manage the bitterness. He poked his beak about until the spider came out, and a moment later he’d eaten it, bitter crunch and all.

“Yuck,” he said, but his heart wasn’t in it. That bit of food inside him made him feel so much better, so much better than he’d expected. He found another spiderweb and another spider, and he caught a couple of flying bugs as well.

“How are things going?” asked one of those friends he’d flown away from a couple hours before when he went to search for nectar. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Not really,” he said. “I didn’t find many flowers, and the ones I found were claimed by i’iwi who chased me away. I found something better, though.”

“What’s that?” asked his friends.

“I can deal with the bitter when I have to,” he told them. “I can hold on until a better day. I can appreciate being fed even when it’s not so sweet. I can even savor the crunchiness of life.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full, but I tell them from memory and from interaction. The story as you read it does not match the way I told it.

Photo of an ‘amakihi (and a spider) by Eric Anderson.

Story: Caterpillar’s Hope

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments
An orange and black butterfly resting on a fern leaf.

November 30, 2025

Isaiah 2:1-5
Romans 13:11-14

Caterpillars don’t have the easiest life. They don’t get around very much – but then, when you move mostly to find another leaf to eat, you don’t need to move very far. There are things about that, while you’re eating leaves, would be very happy to eat you, and that makes for more than a few anxious moments. A lot of the birds I happily tell stories about would happily eat a caterpillar, and that makes them rather sad.

Caterpillars are among the most hopeful creatures on Earth, however. Each one of them hopes to go from an animal that crawls slowly across the branches to one that flies through the skies. They hope to go from someone that you hope will be overlooked (and so not eaten) to one that glows brightly in the sunlight. They hope that the beauty they feel on the inside will be mirrored on the outside.

What’s amazing is that that’s what happens.

Two caterpillars were sharing their hopes on a branch one day between bites of leaf. I’m going to leave out the biting and chewing, because it actually took more time than the conversation. Caterpillars are serious about eating.

“I’m really looking forward to being a butterfly,” said the first.

“Me, too,” said the second.

“I can’t wait to fly,” said the first.

“Me, too,” said the second.

“I’d like to see more of the world than this flower patch,” said the first.

“It’s a good patch,” said the second.

“I’m not saying it isn’t,” said the first.

“You’re right, though,” said the second. “It would be nice to visit another one.”

“All we’ve got to do,” said the first caterpillar, “is wait.”

“Just wait?” asked the second.

“Just wait,” said the first.

“That doesn’t’ sound right,” said the second. “I think we’ve got to build a chrysalis, and stay in it, and then come out as butterflies.”

“Don’t be silly,” said the first. “You hope for it, and then it happens.”

“I don’t think so,” said the second. “I think you hope for it, and then you do something about it. And then it can happen.”

I don’t know what happened to the first caterpillar. I hope it made a chrysalis and became a butterfly, because the second caterpillar was quite right. Caterpillars become butterflies in the chrysalis. They’ve got to make things happen to make other things happen.

Dream of better days. Hope for them, and believe they can come to be. But don’t forget to do the work for them. Hope is good, but hope and effort are better.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them on Sunday from memory plus inspiration. The story you just read will not be identical to the story as I told it.

Photo of a monarch butterfly by Eric Anderson.

I Have to Choose Hope

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

Author’s note: I wrote this song in 2021 during height of the COVID-19 pandemic. The performance is from November 2024.

[Verse 1]

The road behind me has been rugged and rough.
The signs have directed me to sorrow.
The sun’s gleam has sparkled in tears
As it cast a tiny rainbow.

[Chorus]

I have to choose hope because my heart is wary.
I have to choose hope because my spirit is scarred.
I have to choose hope because I just can’t feel it.
I have to choose hope though I’m tired.

The day’s labor: was it worth the cost?
Did my heart and mind change at all?
Was a soul fed or a body lifted up?
Was anybody better off?

[Chorus]

Tomorrow’s shroud obscures its joy and pain.
Will hearts be wearied? Will hearts rise again?
I will summon a confidence far beyond my own
To believe in seeds that grow.

[Chorus]

© 2021 by Eric Anderson

Story: In the Rain

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

December 3, 2023

1 Corinthians 1:3-9
Mark 13:24-37

The heavy rain this past week put me in mind of some hard rain that fell on some young ‘elepaio. I would guess you weren’t happy about all that hard rain? Well, neither were the ‘elepaio.

I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back a bit.

When the eggs hatched, there were two chicks in the ‘elepaio nest, a brother and sister and within just a couple of days they were constantly hungry, keeping their parents jumping to bring them food. Mother would stay with them while father fetched food, then father would stay with them while mother fetched food. As they got older (and hungrier) both parents would be away finding them things to eat.

One day when both had been away for what seemed like a long time but was probably five minutes (they were both hungry), brother said to sister, “What good are parents?”

“Yeah!” said sister. “Parents are so slow.”

Mother returned to feed them a moment later, and then father, so with their mouths full they said nothing more. But I have to admit that from time to time over the next few days they continued with these complaints when they were hungry.

“What good are parents?”

“Parents are so slow.”

“I’m so hungry!”

And so on.

A little over two weeks after hatching, they spread their wings to fly. They didn’t go far – just a couple branches away – but they didn’t go back to the nest, either. They started gathering their own food from the leaves around them, and their parents continued to feed them on their branch. They continued to complain if it took more than a minute.

“What good are parents?”

“So slow!”

And so on.

That’s when the clouds opened up and the rain streamed down on the ohi’a forest. Even sheltered by the ohi’a leaves, the two young ‘elepaio were soon soaked and cold and miserable.

“What good are parents?” said sister to brother.

“I’m so cold!” said brother to sister.

That’s when mother hopped over to brother and led him toward the tree trunk, where there were more leaves overhead. She got him to crouch down on the branch and spread her wings over him. Father and sister were soon alongside, with father’s wings over sister, keeping her warm as the rain cascaded down.

“Parents are the best,” said sister to brother.

“They’re right there when you need them,” said brother to sister.

I’m afraid not all ‘elepaio parents are right there with their chicks, or all human parents with their children – it’s not just rain that makes the world an uncomfortable place. What I can tell you is that God is always there when you need, and we shelter beneath God’s wings when it’s wet, and cold, and dark in the night.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, and tell them in worship from memory. Memory plus… re-creation. What you read and what you hear will not be the same.

Photo of an ‘elepaio by Dominic Sherony – Hawaii Elepaio (Chasiempis sandwichensis), CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=52150179.

Story: Dry Season

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments

March 26, 2023

Ezekiel 7:1-14
John 11:1-45

A dry season had come to the ohi’a forest, and one ‘apapane was worried about it.

She still considered herself young, but she’d long since left the nest, and for most of her life things had been rather predictable in her forest. That is, there would be rain, and there would be sun, and there would be clouds, and there would be rain again. It was often hard to tell when any of those things would happen, but she knew that they would happen, and if it seemed to rain for a long time, the sun would come again.

That season, however, had been very sunny, and the nights had had mostly clear skies. Clouds had spread across the sky sometimes, but they’d been high up and they hadn’t been the sources of rain. She’d been accustomed to sipping water from the tops of leaves from time to time, but she hadn’t been able to do that for several days. That was all right; she could satisfy her thirst with nectar, but she could tell that the trees were beginning to suffer from the dryness themselves.

Trees that went into blossom produced fewer flowers. Other trees simply didn’t go into blossom, or seemed to be putting it off. She was doing all right for now, but she wondered – she worried – about what would happen if this went on. Would there come a day with no flowers at all?

She sang a sad little song as she settled into a branch to sleep overnight. It was a song about sadness and fear and just a hint of hunger and thirst. The ohi’a heard the song, and when it was done, the tree sang its reply in the breeze rustling its leaves.

The ‘apapane didn’t really hear the tree’s song, she was asleep. Instead, the song became something of a dream, and in the dream she saw the sun leaping from the horizon, speeding across the sky, and diving below the opposite horizon – and then it all happened again, faster and faster. She realized, in wonder, that she was seeing days race by in seconds. Those days included sunshine and clouds and rain, but each one took just a brief time before the sun was flying across the sky with the next day again.

Then, in her dream, came a series of days in which the sky stayed blue and the rain didn’t fall. Day after day, and in her dream she saw the flowers fade and wither on the ohi’a. She wondered if this was a sign that the end was near… but then, in her dream, the sun rose one morning behind clouds, and as the sun raced invisibly across the sky, the clouds streamed rain upon the waiting trees below.

As the dream went on, she saw long dry periods and long wet periods, but they both came to an end, turning to rain if they’d been dry and to sun if they’d been rainy.

“Do not fear, little one,” she heard the tree sing as the dream drew to a close. “Do not fear.”

She woke to see the sun rising again, now at its normal pace, and the tree now silent in the still air of the morning. She shook herself awake, and saw that overnight the tree had produced a new set of blossoms – not many, but plenty for breakfast.

“Thank you, tree,” she said, though she wasn’t entirely sure she’d heard the tree singing or not. Still, it’s good to give thanks for breakfast.

“Thank you,” she said again. “I won’t fear.”

Good things and bad things come to us in life. The bad news is that the good things will come to end from time to time. The good news is that the bad things will come to an end, too. Do not fear, because the best news of all is that God’s love is the good thing that never ends.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories first, and then tell them from memory – well, memory and invention – which explains the differences between the text I prepared and the story I told.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Story: Beyond the Horizon

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

October 30, 2022

2 Thessalonians 1:1-4, 11-12
Luke 19:1-10

I don’t know how they became friends, or even how they met one another. When kolea make their journey to Hawai’i Island, they tend to find some space for themselves fairly close to the coastline. They like to look for worms and bugs and such in the grassy lawns that human beings maintain. They’re ground birds, rarely found on roofs or trees.

In contrast, the ‘apapane likes to be in trees, and in trees that grow further up the mountain. As I say, I’m not sure how a kolea and an ‘apapane ever met, let alone how they became friends. But year after year this kolea would make his way back to the Kohala peninsula and, after a good rest and a meal, take a shorter flight up the slopes of Kohala looking for a flash of red in the forest. Then the two of them would talk story until they’d caught up with the last several months.

This year the kolea found the ‘apapane looking… dreamy. After sharing the stories about nests and eggs and chicks, the ‘apapane sat and looked out over the mountain slope down to the sea and beyond. “I envy you,” she said. “You know what’s beyond the horizon.”

The kolea had told that story many times, so he just nodded. “That’s true,” he said. “Out in that direction is a very big ocean, and then there’s Alaska.”

“Do you ever wonder what’s beyond the horizon in other directions?” asked the ‘apapane.

“Not much,” said the kolea. “Except for those two big flights each year, I don’t stray far from the places I’ll find grubs to eat.”

“Well,” said the ‘apapane, turning to the northwest, “what do you suppose is over there?”

The two of them looked at a pile of clouds with a bit of bluish black in the middle. “I don’t know,” he said.

“I wonder,” sighed the ‘apapane.

“Shall I find out?” said the kolea. “I can take a flight to see what’s in the clouds.”

The ‘apapane accepted the offer, and the kolea headed off to the northwest, and was quickly lost to sight. It took nearly four hours before he was back again. He grabbed a snack at the base of the ‘apapane’s tree before joining her on the branch again.

“So what’s over there?” asked the ‘apapane.

“Maui,” said the kolea.

“What’s Maui?” asked the ‘apapane.

“It’s another island, smaller than this one, with a wide valley and a great big mountain on it. That’s the bluish black outline you can see. It’s not nearly as far as Alaska.”

The two birds were quiet for a while, and then the ‘apapane said, “It must be nice to always know what’s over the horizon.”

“But I don’t always know what’s over the horizon,” said the kolea. “I also don’t know what the next day will bring. I hope it will have a tasty worm or two, just the way you hope it will have ohi’a blossoms.”

“We both move into something mysterious, then,” said the ‘apapane, “which we hope will be a little familiar.”

“We both fly into tomorrow,” said the kolea, “with hope.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

The story was told from memory of this manuscript in the video recording above. And, well, embellished.

Photo of an ‘apapane in flight by Eric Anderson.

Story: The Hardest Thing

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

September 25, 2022

Jeremiah 32:1-3a, 6-15
Psalm 91:1-6, 14-16

They were an unusual collection of friends. They literally came from different parts of the world: from land, from sea, and from air, a mongoose, a honu, and a kolea. I don’t know how it first happened, but they’d developed the habit of taking a spot on a beach, with the honu pulled up in the sun, and the kolea looking for tidbits, and the mongoose taking a brief rest while the three talked story.

Today they were deciding what was the hardest thing.

“Rocks are the hardest thing,” shuddered the mongoose. “They hurt my paws sometimes, and a couple times when I wasn’t careful I knocked my head on one. Rocks are definitely the hardest thing.”

“Rocks are pretty hard,” agreed the honu, “but they also make nice shelter when the waves are high. You just nestle in behind them.”

“I fell into water once,” said the kolea. “I have to say it was pretty hard.”

“That’s right,” said the honu. “Water is the hardest thing. When the waves are crashing over me or the undercurrent is pulling me away from the beach, I’m grateful for the rocks. They don’t do that.”

“You haven’t tried the air,” said the kolea. “That’s a hard thing for sure. This last flight here to Hawai’i Island, I wasn’t sure I’d make it. We flew into winds that just blew us back and back and back. I can’t imagine anything harder than that.”

The three of them thought about this for a good long time, tossing in more examples of how rocks and water and air were hard things, when the honu said, “I’m hungry.” His two friends agreed.

They were about to split up to find dinner, when the mongoose said, “Wait just a moment. Wait just a moment and let’s think about this moment.

“Do either of you know that you’ll find food? I mean, absolutely know?”

The honu and the kolea admitted that they didn’t, although the kolea took a quick look around for a handy bug before saying so.

“In this moment, we’re all hungry, we all need food, right? And none of us are certain that we’ll find it.”

“Yes,” said the honu, “but we hope we’ll find it.”

“Right,” said the kolea, “we hope we’ll find it.”

“But isn’t this the hardest thing?” asked the mongoose. “We know what we need now and we don’t know if we can find it – not for certain. We hope we will… but doesn’t that make hope the hardest thing?”

That’s how a mongoose, a kolea, and a honu discovered that hope – that time we spend between realizing what we need and finding what we need – is, indeed, the hardest thing. Hope carries us from one to the other, but it may not be an easy journey, and it’s harder than high winds or strong waves or a solid rock.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

In the video above, the story was told from memory of this manuscript. Between gaps of memory and flashes of inspiration, the two are not the same.

Photo of a honu (before the arrival of a mongoose or a kolea) by Eric Anderson.

Go Buy a Field

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

“For thus says the LORD of hosts, the God of Israel: ‘Houses and fields and vineyards shall again be bought in this land.'” – Jeremiah 32:15

O, Jeremiah, what a run you’ve had.

God called you in your youth,
a prophet to the nations,
destroyer, overthrower,
whose words would bring the powerful down.

So to a people well assured
their safety and their righteousness
were beyond query, you announced
they’d changed their fountains for a leaky cistern.

You spoke your words to Baruch’s pen,
to read before the king and summon him
and all the nation to repent, reform, renew.
At king’s command your words were shriveled in the flame.

From summons to reform you turned to warning,
warning of disaster unavoidable,
while all this time the guilty prospered,
and the linen loincloth festered in the earth.

You languished in the stocks and raised your plaint
to God, whose flaming word would not relent
within you, making you a laughingstock
and grieving that you’d lived your life.

You watched your city fall, its leaders hauled
away and into exile, a monarch’s uncle crowned
as client king, and knew (as who would not)
that folly’s day of triumph still was yet to come.

And now, confined by royal order in
the palace guard, invading armies all
around the city walls, you hear the Divine Word:
Come, Jeremiah, buy a field.

Come, Jeremiah, buy a field,
because though armies yet will harrow
this beleaguered citadel, destroy its
ancient temple, spatter it with blood,

A day will come when land once more
will pass from family to family,
from ancestor to progeny,
and grain will ripen in the sun.

O Jeremiah, now I have to ask:
Of all the things you suffered
(cisterns, stocks, and ridicule),
was anything so challenging as hope?

A poem/prayer based on Jeremiah 32:1-3a, 6-15, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Proper 21 (26).

The image is Jeremiah Lamenting the Destruction of Jerusalem by Rembrandt (1630) – http://www.rijksmuseum.nl : Home : Info, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10720351.