learning

Story: Love Achieved

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment

October 4, 2026

Isaiah 5:1-7
Philippians 3:4b-14

The first thing a newly hatched baby bird does is to teach. Teach? Teach. A hatchling teaches its parents what it needs, what they’ll eat, what makes them comfortable. Even an experienced parent will learn new things from a new chick. A first time parent learns more than I can describe in a short story like this.

A parent – in this case a mother – learns a lot about parenting from their own parents, of course, and from other friends and family who know more about it. Our first time mother had eagerly sought her own mother’s advice, not just when she had eggs, but before that when she’d sought a husband.

“How will I know that I’m in love?” she’d asked her mother.

“Look for a bird who is kind, attentive, responsible, and lifts your spirits,” said her mother. “The bird will show you those things. That’s how you’ll know you’re in love.”

Mother’s advice had been pretty good. She’d found a kind, attentive, and responsible bird, and he had raised her spirits. They’d built their nest together harmoniously and they’d eagerly awaited the hatching of their three eggs.

Then they’d hatched, and the learning began.

The first thing she learned was that the three hatchlings were all very different. They sounded different. They were hungry at different times, except for when they were all hungry at the same time. One liked to cuddle near her head, another liked to be beneath her wings. And then they’d shift what they liked.

It was so confusing.

Most confusing of all was that her chicks didn’t show her the things that she’d looked for in finding a husband. None of the chicks showed much kindness to her or to each other, especially when they were hungry. None of them were really attentive. They were constantly looking off at different things. They certainly weren’t responsible, hopping out of the nest at random times before they were even close to having the ability to fly.

It was really frustrating. How was she supposed to love these little bundles of needs?

“How am I supposed to love my chicks?” she asked her mother, and launched into describing all the ways in which they weren’t like her husband, or like her friends, or like her parents or aunties or uncles.

Her mother, I’m afraid to say, laughed out loud. “Children aren’t like husbands,” she said. “You love them before they learn how to be kind, or attentive, or responsible. You love them by teaching them to be those things, and you love them when they try and fail to be those things. You love them by keeping them fed and warmed and comforted and safe. You love them by guiding them to become the kind of bird you want to be, and the kind of bird you would fall in love with.”

“This will change?” said her daughter.

“It can,” said her mother. “I won’t lie – there are ‘apapane who prefer to remain selfish and flighty and irresponsible. But it will change. You’ll be surprised at how fast it does.”

“Did I do the same thing when I was newly hatched?” asked her daughter.

“Of course you did,” said mother, “and so did I. But you grew into a bird I’m proud of and delighted to be with. Now if you could use some help with the chicks?”

“Oh, yes,” sighed her daughter. “They’re all hungry again, and I could use the help.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

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

Photo of an ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

Story: The Shallow Cormorant

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

August 30, 2026

Exodus 3:1-15
Matthew 16:21-28

Unusually, today’s story isn’t about a Hawaiian bird. It’s about a bird you’ll find along the coasts, lakes, and rivers of North America. You’ll find them way up north in Canada or Alaska in summer, and as far south as the shores of Mexico in winter. It’s called the double-crested cormorant, and I remember seeing these birds when I was a child in New England.

Like the noio or the koa’e kea of Hawai’i, the cormorant fishes for its food. Both the noio and the koa’e kea, however, fly over the sea and dive down to catch fish when they see them. The cormorant swims along the surface, then swims with its webbed feet down beneath the surface to catch fish. They’ll stay under up to half a minute, which is a long time to hold your breath, and they can swim quite deep.

Well. They can. There was one cormorant, however, who simply refused to dive deeper than a few feet. You know how it is. Some dives had gone badly for him, and he’d come up coughing and gasping for breath. “Try it again,” someone had said, without saying anything about how it could go better, and down he’d gone, got confused and frightened, and come up again gasping and coughing.

“No more of that,” he said. “It’s shallow dives for me.”

Other cormorants would swim 25 or 30 feet down in the ocean water, but not him. No more than five feet. Maybe six. He might dab his beak down a little farther to get a fish, but no more. Definitely no further.

One day he surfaced from a dive next to a friend. He’d already eaten the fish he’d caught four feet below the surface. His friend, however, was wrestling with a much bigger fish. It took some work and a couple tosses in the air to get it lined up right, but finally he ate it and looked really satisfied.

“You’re lucky,” said the shallow-diving cormorant. “I don’t see fish that big very often.”

His friend was surprised and a little puzzled. “I see them all the time,” he said. “They’re right down near the bottom.”

“Oh, the bottom,” said the shallow-diving cormorant. “You’re likely to find anything there.”

“You don’t go to the bottom?” said his friend. “I thought everybody did.”

“I dive as far as I need to,” said the shallow-diving cormorant. “I don’t need anything on the bottom.”

“But there’s these amazing fish down there,” said his friend. “Wait here; I’ll bring one up.”

He dove down, leaving the shallow cormorant alone on the surface… briefly. Because he came up quickly, carrying another of the big fish in his beak, and looking forward to sharing it with his friend. On the surface, though, he was alone. He saw a black speck heading for a perching rock. The shallow cormorant had flown away.

He asked his auntie about it later, who sighed. “Some birds are like that,” she said. “They’re content with what’s obvious, what’s on the surface, what’s easy. If you go deeper, you discover things, but they don’t want to know those things. They’re content with the surface.

“But if you go deeper, you find delights you otherwise would never have known.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

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

Photo of a double-crested cormorant by Eric Anderson.

Over Coffee

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A coffee cup

“Then the woman left her water jar and went back to the city. She said to the people…” – John 4:28

I can’t remember when
theology so stimulated me
I left my water jar behind
to tell my neighbors what I’d learned.

But then I cast my mind
upon these Monday mornings with a friend
when our thoughts range so far
and our hands clasp the coffee cups before us.

She left the water jar, while I
would finish the coffee first,
and savor wisdom new and sweet
and sharp and challenging.

A poem/prayer based on John 4:5-42, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Third Sunday in Lent.

Story: The Wisdom of Flight

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

January 4, 2026

Jeremiah 31:7-14
John 1:1-18

“What is wisdom?” wondered the ‘amakihi as he flew through the sky.

“What is wisdom?” wondered the ‘amakihi as he sipped on ohi’a nectar.

“What is wisdom?” wondered the ‘amakihi as he settled down to sleep at night.

“What is wisdom?” wondered the ‘amakihi as he woke in the morning.

“What is wisdom?” is, in fact, an extremely good question whether you’re an ‘amakihi or a human being. Wisdom, after all, tends to prevent a lot of foolishness. Foolishness, on the other hand, tends to happen in the absence of wisdom.

“What is wisdom?” wandered the ‘amakihi over the course of the day.

One of the features of wisdom is that when someone who is wise doesn’t know or doesn’t understand something, they do things to learn more about it. They look around at things. They measure and they think about what they’ve measured. If they’re human, they might read something, or a lot of somethings. They ask others to see what they know.

Whether you’re a human or an ‘amakihi, a good one to ask would be tutu.

“Tutu,” asked the ‘amakihi, “what is wisdom?”

Tutu was pleased. It was a wise question – if you don’t know something, wisdom says, “Ask.” He’d made a wise choice about who to ask – grandparents often know things. And he was asking about something important, wisdom itself.

She replied with a question of her own: “What is knowledge, grandson?”

“Knowledge?” he asked. “I hadn’t thought much about that… it seemed kind of obvious. If I know something that’s true, that’s been demonstrated to me, that’s knowledge. If I think I know something that isn’t true, or if I simply don’t know something, that’s not knowledge. Is that right?”

“That’s right,” said Tutu. “Now let me ask something else.”

“Are you going to answer my question?” asked her grandson, who was starting to worry that if he answered all her questions she wouldn’t get around to answering his.

“I am,” she said. “Now here’s my question: Can you fly with your wings closed?”

He opened his beak to reply, then stopped. It doesn’t make much sense, but he realized that sometimes while flying, he would close his wings. Not for long. Not all the time, obviously. But for a few moments in many flights, he would be flying with his wings closed.

“Yes,” he said carefully. “For a moment or two.”

“How do you know whether to close your wings in flight?”

“It’s complicated,” he said. “How high up am I? How much do I need to rest my wings for a moment? Will I need to make a quick turn or slow down to land? There isn’t a simple answer.”

“That’s right, there isn’t,” she told him. “Knowing that you can fold your wings in flight is knowledge. You know it’s something you can do. Choosing the right moment to do it – or the right moment not to do it – that’s wisdom.

“Wisdom is when you consider what you don’t know for certain, what might happen, or what might not happen if you do something, and then make a good choice. Wisdom looks at what you know, and asks whether you should.

“That, grandson, is wisdom.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory and inspiration on Sunday mornings. What you have just read does not precisely match how I told it.

Photo of an ‘amakihi in flight by Eric Anderson.

Story: Imitation

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

May 11, 2025

Acts 9:36-43
John 10:22-30

How is a young bird, or a young turtle, or a young person supposed to figure out how to be an adult bird, or an adult turtle, or an adult human being? People, at least, get some instructions from their elders. We get taught how to get dressed, and what things are good to eat (or at least good for you to eat; opinions differ on whether things that are good for you are tasty enough to eat), and especially important things like, “Don’t touch the boiling tea kettle on the hot stove!”

Birds probably don’t get quite that much teaching. Certainly they don’t get the years of it that we do as we’re growing up.

A young ‘akekeke was learning how to be an ‘akakeke. He’d already made one trip from Alaska to Hawai’i, just as the kolea do, and he’d been sleeping and eating and flying about ever since. But he was confused.

You see, there were creatures who did very different things than ‘akekeke did, and he wondered if their ways might be better.

Mind you, there were plenty of creatures who did very similar things. Kolea and hunakai and ‘akekeke all hunted through the grasses and tidepools and rocks for insects, snails, and so on. If he imitated them, things went pretty well. He tried to imitate the ae’o, but he didn’t have long pink legs to hold his body out of the water of the fishpond and he ended up gasping and spluttering as he flapped his miserable way to shore.

The least successful of all was when he tried to imitate a honu. He flopped into the water in a calm spot and lingered below the surface. Then he tried to eat some seaweed on the underwater rocks. He choked on the water, of course, and once more hauled his bedraggled self onto the beach.

He looked about and saw his mother.

She asked, “What are you up to, son?”

“I’m learning,” he said. “I’m learning to be an ‘akekeke.”

She looked around at the other ‘akakeke on the shore, none of whom were trying to feed like a honu. “How?”

“By imitating what I see,” he said.

“Are you learning anything?” she asked.

“I’m learning that some things don’t work,” he said, and coughed up a little more water.

“I’m not saying you can’t learn anything from a honu,” said his mother, “but for basic things like eating and flying, I don’t think there’s much they can teach you. I don’t think you can eat the way they do, and they certainly can’t fly the way you do.”

“I suppose not,” said the ‘akekeke, who was a little sad about not learning anything with his imitations that day.

“You have taught me something today, something I can imitate,” he said.

“What’s that, son?” asked his mother.

“You’ve taught me to be kind.”

Whether we wear feathers, shells, or rubbah slippahs on our running feet, let’s all imitate those who are kind.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory (plus improvisation) during worship. What you have just read is not necessarily how I told it.

Photo of an ‘akekeke (ruddy turnstone) by Eric Anderson. Not far away, grazing in a shallow pool, there was a honu (green sea turtle).

Story: Nene Students

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment
A photo of a nene, a wild Hawaiian goose, standing by a pond facing away.

January 15, 2025
(for a meeting of the Hawai’i Conference Committee on Ministry)

Nene School was in session. There was a new teacher that year, but he was getting help from a more experienced nene. She had been his teacher some years before. And because he was new, he had a relatively small class. Just three students.

Two of them were siblings, a brother and sister. The third was immediately interested in Food Identification part of the curriculum – Nene School basically consists of Flight and Food. The new teacher thought he’d be a good student, but mostly he was hungry. Time after time the teacher would have to rush over as the student reached out for yet another inedible item.

It kept him hopping.

He hoped that the brother and sister would be good flight students, since they’d already learned to fly together. His hopes were dashed, however, the first time they took off for basic formation flying. Honks of “You’re took close!” and “Get away from me!” resounded over the rocks and forest. He could barely be heard over them to try to coach them into position. Eventually there was a collision, and the two bruised siblings settled down to the ground to continue their recriminations.

The teacher could feel his teacher’s eyes on the back of his head, watching him as his class turned into a full-fledged disaster – that’s a disaster with feathers on. Or fluttering down from the sky because they didn’t stay on.

This went on for a week, and things didn’t get better. The hungry young nene never seemed to listen or retain what he’d been told. The siblings fought on the ground, climbing, cruising, descending, and on the ground again. The watching teacher said nothing. The young teacher got desperate.

As the class ended with more flying feathers, more angry honking, and a certain amount of vomit from an ill-considered berry, he burst out in fury: “You are the worst nene I’ve ever met! You’ll never learn! I’m sorry you were ever hatched!”

Shocked, the students flew away.

He turned to find his teacher standing right behind him. He couldn’t read the look in her eyes. “What?” he challenged.

“I’m disappointed,” she said.

“I’m disappointed in them, too,” he growled.

“I’m disappointed in you,” she said.

“What?”

“Haven’t you noticed that the siblings have been carefully listening to every word you’ve said about finding food? Haven’t you noticed that they never ask you twice about it? That they’ve learned so much in just a week?”

He hadn’t noticed.

“Haven’t you noticed that the third one sticks right by you in flight? He was awkward the first day, but he’s been right off your wingtip ever since. Haven’t you noticed?”

He hadn’t noticed.

“When they come back tomorrow, what are you going to say?” she asked, and then left him to consider.

The next morning, the three students stood anxiously before their teacher. They almost hadn’t come back. The older nene had persuaded them to come.

“I’m very sorry for what I said yesterday,” he said. “I had no business saying any of that. You’re here to learn, and I haven’t been teaching you very well.”

“Youngster,” he said to the hungry student, “I want you to keep an eye on the brother and sister here. They’ve done really well at learning what’s good to eat and what’s not. You can trust what they do.”

“And you two,” he said to the siblings, “can learn a lot from this youngster here. He’s been keeping good formation on me since the second day. Watch him. He’ll show you what to do.”

I won’t tell you that things went absolutely smoothly after that – there were still ruffled feathers and feelings, and the hungry student only gradually gave up whatever looked good at the time – but I will say that the students learned. All the students. One of whom was the teacher.

by Eric Anderson

I wrote this story as the opening devotional for a meeting of the Hawai’i Conference UCC Committee on Ministry Chairs.

Story: The Sweet Bug Mystery

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments
An 'apapane (a red bird with black wings) feeding at a red ohi'a flower.

January 5, 2025

Jeremiah 31:7-14
John 1:1-18

The ‘elepaio has the reputation for being the most curious bird of the forest, but once there was an ‘apapane who was as curious as nearly any ‘elepaio. He had questions about everything. Why were his feathers brown when he was younger, and why did they turn red? Why did some trees have blossoms and others didn’t? Why did the days grow shorter and longer again?

He found answers to some of his questions, and he didn’t find answers to others of his questions. He never gave up asking them, though, and he never gave up trying to find out.

One morning, while enjoying a late morning snack of bugs, it suddenly occurred to him: Why do bugs taste sweet?

I’m not sure that bugs would taste sweet to you or to me, but the bugs he was eating that day definitely tasted sweet to him. He hadn’t thought about it before, but why should a bug taste sweet? Shouldn’t they be salty, or tangy, or something like that? Why sweet?

He asked around to see if anyone else knew, but nobody did. They hadn’t thought about it, and they weren’t all that interested. “If they taste good, that’s all that matters,” said one of his friends, and didn’t help any further. So the ‘apapane decided to watch and see what sweet bugs ate.

What they ate, he discovered, was a lot of things that he also ate. Those bugs ate fruit. They ate ohi’a nectar. They even ate other bugs who were eating sweet fruit and nectar. The sweetness of what they ate was being carried along to make them at least somewhat sweet.

“That’s amazing!” he said to himself. “But now the question is: Why is fruit sweet? Why is nectar sweet?”

Again, he went to friends and family to ask, and again they didn’t know. “It tastes good; that’s all that matters,” said the same friend. So he began to watch the trees, to see what they did to produce sweet fruit and flowers.

I’m afraid that being an ‘apapane rather than a human being meant that he never did learn the answer to that. He could see that the trees spread their leaves to the sun, but he couldn’t see the way that the green of the leaves combined water from the roots with energy of the sun to make the sweetness that made the tree grow. He couldn’t see that sweet sap being concentrated in the flowers to make nectar, and later in the fruits to feed the seeds of later trees. People have microscopes and chemistry equipment and lots of years asking and answering these questions. He didn’t.

He had to admit that he wouldn’t answer the question of sweet nectar, at least until he learned something new. For him, sweet nectar would remain a sweet mystery.

It never stopped him from enjoying it, though.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. There will be differences between the story I’ve written and the story I told.

Photo of an ‘apapane feeding from an ohi’a blossom by Eric Anderson.

Story: Important Things

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments
A cattle egret in tall grass.

December 8, 2024


Philippians 1:3-11

Luke 3:1-6

The cattle egret is a relatively quiet bird. Most of the time it goes about its business of hunting insects and such without talking about it. When a cattle egret has something to say, it will say it. But if it doesn’t have something to say, it doesn’t say anything.

Unlike a lot of people you’ve met, I’m sure.

There was another bird who really wanted a cattle egret to say something. I don’t know why a saffron finch decided that he wanted wisdom from a cattle egret, but he did. Maybe it was their relative sizes (rather small to quite impressively tall). Not that size reliably indicates wisdom. Maybe it was the bright white feathers, but color doesn’t tell you much about wisdom, either. Maybe it was the silence.

Not saying anything until you have something to say could be a good sign of wisdom.

At any rate, it’s wiser than saying something when you don’t have anything to say.

The saffron finch landed on the ground near a cattle egret and the two of them fed side-by-side without speaking for a while. The cattle egret ate bugs. The saffron finch ate one or two spiders and a good amount of seeds. Neither of them chose to speak with their mouths full.

When he was feeling pretty satisfied, the saffron finch asked, “What’s the most important thing?”

The cattle egret looked around to see if there were any other birds the finch might have been talking to. She didn’t see any, but she also didn’t think that this was a question a complete stranger was likely to ask her, so she didn’t say anything.

“No, really,” said the saffron finch. “What the most important thing?”

The cattle egret looked carefully at the saffron finch. He was clearly asking her, though she didn’t know why. She took a couple more mouthfuls of insects to give her time to consider the question. Then she cleared her throat and said:

“Love.”

She looked around and didn’t see any more bugs, so she nodded to the saffron finch and took off to find another spot with more bugs. When she got there, she was surprised to find the saffron finch landing beside her.

“Could you say that again?” he asked.

“Love,” she said, and went on eating.

“Really?” he asked.

“Love,” she repeated for the third time.

“I’m not sure I know how to love,” he said sadly.

The cattle egret paused her hunting for a moment and looked carefully at the saffron finch.

“Ask,” she said.

“Really?” he said.

“Ask,” she said.

I’m still not sure I’d go first to a cattle egret for wisdom – which is mostly my problem for not understanding what a cattle egret might say – but I have to agree with this cattle egret. What’s the most important thing? Love.

And if you’re not sure how to love: Ask.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from a combination of memory and improvisation, so it won’t sound exactly like you’ve just read.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Story: ‘Apapane Leadership

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

July 21, 2024

Jeremiah 23:1-6
Mark 6:30-34, 53-56

After the eggs have hatched and the chicks have learned to fly, many of the birds of the ohi’a and koa forest will come together in mixed flocks of ‘apapane, ‘amakihi, ‘akepa, and ‘alawi. They stay together to find ohi’a and mamane trees in blossom, which would also have attracted some tasty bugs.

It was the custom of one flock on the slopes of Mauna Loa to select a leader each week to keep the flock together and organize a watch for dangerous or suspicious creatures like cats, ‘io, pueo, and, well, people. The leader would look around for trees bright with flowers and guide the hungry birds toward them, while making sure nobody got left behind. It wasn’t the easiest thing for a bird to do, but most of them handled it pretty well.

One ‘apapane had been eagerly awaiting his turn to be flock leader. He was no longer that young, having seen a few summers and winters. He was something of a silent critic of the weekly leaders, silently scoring them on his own checklist. That one didn’t spot the mamane tree in blossom as fast as he had. This other one had been slow to get the birds moving. And this other one hadn’t properly spotted the watcher birds for ‘io. They’d spotted the hawk in plenty of time anyway, but it hadn’t been right.

At last came the week when the birds in the flock chose him as their leader for the next week. He was proud. He was excited. He was also… going to do something fairly complicated for the first time, and he was absolutely convinced that he knew exactly what should happen.

The result, the next morning, was a lot of birds screeching at one another, with their purported leader screaming the most and the loudest. He screeched at the ones who were supposed to be watching when they perched on a branch other than the one he’d selected. He screeched when they were ready to head to a new set of trees, and screeched when one or two birds headed off in the wrong direction. He screeched when a bird remained behind, and nearly pecked his tail as he flew right behind him to get him to the rest of the flock. He screeched when it was time to nap. He screeched when it was time to settle down to sleep.

When he turned about, one of the older birds, an ‘apapane kupuna, was perched behind him. He opened his beak to screech at her, but shut it quickly. He knew better than to screech at her.

“What have you been doing?” she said, “and don’t screech at me.”

“I’ve been leading,” he said, “like I’m supposed to.”

“You haven’t been leading like you’re supposed to,” she said rather severely. “You’ve been driving like you’re not supposed to. You’ve had birds who know perfectly well what to do confused and upset. Some of them went hungry today. While you were chasing that one bird there were two others that set off in the wrong direction and I had to go get them.”

“They should have listened to me!” he said.

“How could they,” she asked, “when you didn’t give them a clear direction?”

He was silent for a moment.

“You’ll try it again tomorrow,” said the kupuna ‘apapane, “and tomorrow you’ll plan, and you’ll chirp softly, and you’ll listen to the birds who know what they’re doing, and you’ll keep an eye on things and let other birds know when there’s a problem that they can help you with.”

“Be wise,” she said, “and attentive, and assuring. That will keep the flock with you, and fed, and comforted, and safe.”

Oh, it took some work, I tell you. But she was nearby the next day whenever he opened his beak to screech, and only one or two screeches got out. The day after he didn’t screech at all. By the time his week as leader was over, they followed him gratefully and gladly. Because he learned from his mistakes, and he learned how to lead.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full and in advance, but I tell them from memory and from improvisation. What you hear in the recording is not what you read above it.

Photo of an ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

Teach Us, Jesus

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 6 Comments

“As he went ashore, he saw a great crowd, and he had compassion for them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd, and he began to teach them many things.” – Mark 6:34

Bring your compassion, Jesus,
for our shepherds howl like wolves.
They lay the rod of law with harshness
on the poor and spare the ones in power.

Teach us, Jesus.

Bring your compassion, Jesus,
for our shepherds carelessly use words
that others hear, and hearing ponder.
Pondering, they set themselves to violence.

Teach us, Jesus.

Bring your compassion, Jesus,
for the shepherds cannot find the way
that leads between our Scyllas and Charybdises,
and lost, we founder in moral morass.

Teach us, Jesus.

Bring your compassion, Jesus,
and teach us many things,
like how the shepherd cares first for the sheep,
whereas the predator consumes them.

Teach us, Jesus.

We are sheep without a shepherd.
Teach us many things.
And may we, by God’s grace,
learn.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 6:30-34, 53-56, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 11 (16).

The image is Christ Preaching Amongst a Crowd of People, pen and ink. Artist unknown. Found at WellcomeImages. https://wellcomeimages.org/indexplus/obf_images/a0/a1/69c69bd8f2f91424aa360aeb47d6.jpg
Gallery: https://wellcomeimages.org/indexplus/image/V0049499.html
Wellcome Collection gallery (2018-03-28): https://wellcomecollection.org/works/ycntxjvs
CC-BY-4.0, CC BY 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=36668704.