love

Story: The Molting ‘Apapane

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

May 25, 2025

Acts 16:9-15
John 14:23-29

He wasn’t the oldest among his siblings, cousins, and friends from nearby nests, but he was one of the first to molt from his young feathering to his adult colors. He’d had gray feathers on the chest and brown on his head and back, with black on his wings and tail. They all did. It made their games of hide-and-seek pretty difficult, because those colors melded into the shadows on the tree branches pretty well.

As I say, though, he was the first among them to start losing some of those brown and gray feathers, and start to gain the red feathers from head to tail. Frankly, it wasn’t going well. Loose feathers itched, and so did the new feathers as they grew in. They also didn’t fall out evenly. He found himself with a grayish belly blotched with the new red feathers.

“You look ridiculous,” said one of the young ‘apapane who played hide-and-seek with him, and, well, he felt ridiculous.

“Can’t you hide that?” asked another of the ‘apapane. He was a cousin, but he could be mean, even to a cousin. Our young ‘apapane couldn’t think of how.

“Go clean that up,” ordered one of the bossier young ‘apapane. She was one of those who thought she knew best for everybody else. But he still didn’t know how to take care of it, so he kept his perch and tried not to cry.

“Knock it off,” said the smallest of the young ‘apapane. All her feathers were still brown and gray, and she looked like she’d just been groomed by the finest feather-settlers of the forest. Everybody assumed that she was talking to the young bird with the splotchy red.

“Yeah, knock it off,” said the one who’d started this by calling him ridiculous in the first place.

“No, you knock it off,” said the smallest ‘apapane. “And you. And you. And all of you.”

She shook her wings and continued, “First of all, what can he do about it? You all know that our feathers will change from what we’re wearing to what our parents wear. Did you think that happened overnight? Didn’t you realize that it’s going to take time and that there are rough spots along the way?”

As it happened, none of them had thought about it.

“What are you going to do,” she demanded, “when this happens to you in a week or two? Are you going to make everybody going through this fly away, or are you going to help them when it itches and tell them it will be all right? What would you want for yourself?”

She asked that last question straight at the bird who’d ordered the molting ‘apapane to go clean that up. She didn’t say anything until it became clear that she had to answer.

“I’d want help,” she said.

“How about the rest of you?” demanded the smallest ‘apapane. They all admitted they’d want help.

“And that’s what you’ll get,” she said. “We’ll start with our friend here.”

“So how are you?” she asked. “Does it itch today?”

That’s how that generation of ‘apapane made it through their molt.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. What you have just read will not match the way I told it.

Photo of a juvenile ‘apapane in molt (at least that’s what I think it is) by Eric Anderson.

Story: Welcome

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

May 18, 2025

Acts 11:1-13
John 13:31-35

The young ‘amakihi was nervous. She had been busy growing up, which ‘amakihi do a lot quicker than human beings do, but there was a lot to pack into that time. There was eating, and learning what to eat. There was taking care of her feathers, which changed when she molted and the feather lengths changed. And of course there was flying.

Then she had to learn about eating again, because there were things she could get to with working wings that she couldn’t get to in a nest. She learned about new bugs, new fruits, and new flowers. She’d been too busy to be nervous.

She was nervous now, though, because her parents had announced that the family would join a flock for the summer. She wasn’t really used to other birds. She’d met an auntie or an uncle or two, and of course her tutu, but these would be strange ‘amakihi. Would they like her? Would they be mean to her?

It made her more nervous to realize that the flock wouldn’t include just ‘amakihi. It would include ‘akepa, ‘alawi, and scariest of all, ‘apapane. She knew there were a lot of ‘apapane around. She’d seen far more of them than she had ‘amakihi. She’d also seen them chase ‘amakihi through the forest, even her own father. “I got too close to their nest,” he’d explained, and that made sense because she’d seen him chase other birds away from her nest, but still. The ‘apapane made her nervous.

“It will be all right,” said her father. “It’s different when birds aren’t worried about nests and eggs.”

“It will be all right,” said her mother. “You’ll make it all right.”

The day came when she and her brother and her parents flew over to an ohi’a tree filled with other birds. There were other ‘amakihi, and she knew some of them because her tutu were there. There was ‘akepa and ‘alawi showing off their green and bright orange feathers. Mostly, though, there were ‘apapane. They hopped through the branches, singing their beautiful songs, and looking very sharp in their red and black feathers.

One of them, who was keeping rather quiet, hopped over to the branch where she was sitting, keeping very quiet and hoping nobody would notice her.

“Hi,” said the ‘apapane. “What kind of bird are you?”

“I’m an ‘amakihi,” she said. “And you’re an ‘apapane.”

“I am,” he said, and looking rather nervous, said, “I feel really dumb. I’ve never seen most of these birds before. Do you know any of them?”

“Well, I know my family,” she said, “and I’ve seen a couple of these other birds before,” – she didn’t mention that they’d been chasing her father away from their nest – “but most of these birds are as new to me as they are to you.”

“Oh, good,” said the ‘apapane. “I guess this is new to most of us youngsters?”

“I think it is,” said the ‘amakihi. “I’ve been worried that nobody would like me.”

“You’ve made me feel better,” said the ‘apapane. “I think most birds would like you for that.”

“And you’ve made me feel welcome,” said the ‘amakihi. “Thank you so much for that.”

Mother had known, after all. She had made it all right.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from a combination of memory and improvisation. As a result, what you’ve just read will not match what you hear.

Photo of an ‘amakihi 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).

Life Dreaming

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

“Peter put all of them outside, and then he knelt down and prayed. He turned to the body and said, ‘Tabitha, get up.’ Then she opened her eyes, and seeing Peter, she sat up.” – Acts of the Apostles 9:40

“To sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come?”
asked William via Hamlet in the play.
In Joppa Tabitha had ceased her work.

She lay upon the cot unmoving as
her friends displayed with streaming eyes the cloth
and clothing she had made with loving hands
for them, their families, and those in need.

She’d lived a life full well and full of grace,
and if she’d died, a life reborn would come,
so said the messengers who preached the Way,
the Jesus Way she’d taken as her own.

What dreams moved through her soul as she lay still?
What visions came to eyes of spirit now
that those below her brow saw naught? What sight
of welcome to a life eternally?

Somehow she heard the summons, “Tabitha,
get up.” The dreams collapsed as her lids raised,
to see an unfamiliar, anxious face,
perhaps a little bit surprised, above.

She rose. She met her friends once more. What did
she say? We’ll wonder, since the author left
that out, and failed to write as well, what dreams
she’d had, which we may have ourselves someday.

She rose, awoke to love and work, restored
to life ephemeral, a life to end
someday once more, a life she would lay down
again, and dream the interrupted dreams.

A poem/prayer based on Acts 9:36-43, the Revised Common Lectionary First Reading for Year C, Fourth Sunday of Easter.

The image is the Tomb of Tabitha, Jaffa, Palestine by William H. Rau (1903) – This image is available from the United States Library of Congress’s Prints and Photographs divisionunder the digital ID ppmsca.10664.This tag does not indicate the copyright status of the attached work. A normal copyright tag is still required. See Commons:Licensing., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=18866918.

This poem includes quotes from Hamlet by William Shakespeare (ca. 1599 and 1601) and “Awake, Awake to Love and Work” by Geoffrey Anketel Studdert Kennedy (1921).

Light in a Stable

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.” – John 1:9

The true light may now be at hand,
but the light is lit by flickering flame
and smoky wick. I watch that light
with anxious eye, for fear it spread
its burning oil on the straw below.

The light unsteady served to hide
the dark green sticky contents of
that first cloth barrier, wrapped
inexpertly by unaccustomed fingers round
the infant’s flailing hips,

But did not muffle his fierce cries
of outrage testifying that the light
has lungs! Re-swaddled, he subsides,
and sleeps re-laid into the feeding trough,
while grateful stable denizens rest, too.

The midwife gone, the man and I
trade naps, and watch, and wait
for his next cry. Will he be hungry?
Dirty? Lonely? Or just angry that
the borrowed cloth moves roughly on his skin?

“The light shines in the darkness,” they will write,
and I suppose it does. It murmurs sleepily,
then coos a moment, then subsides.
The crude light wavers at the breeze,
and shadows waver on incarnate light asleep.

I am too weary to compose a poem;
I ache in every muscle, every bone.
I cannot help but think that this poor babe,
in manger laid, could shine so bright
this stable would be taken for a star.

For now, the light is dimmed,
and in its dimness I, at least, can see
that lovelight shines most clearly here,
in common human form, and in
the dark.

A poem/prayer based on John 1:1-18, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year C, Second Sunday after Christmas Day.

The image is The Nativity, a section of the 13th century altar frontal of St. Mary of Avia Church in Bergueda, Catalonia, Spain, by an unknown artist. The frontal itself is in the National Art Museum of Catalonia in Barcelona. Photo by Enfo – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=21384531.

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.

Stripped Down

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A painting showing a man with a long white beard in a prison cell holding a book and quill and looking at a sheathed sword.

“And this is my prayer, that your love may overflow more and more with knowledge and full insight to help you to determine what really matters, so that in the day of Christ you may be pure and blameless, having produced the harvest of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ for the glory and praise of God.” – Philippians 1:9-11

I am stripped down. I wait my fate.
What will it be? Will it be gain?
Will it be Christ? I will not choose,
except, of course, that I have chosen
by the words I’ve spoken,
by the things I’ve done.

I am stripped down.

I have been stripped of agency.
Another will decide my course.
I’ve lived in faith that God has set
my way, but set my way through me.
A crueler hand now rests upon the tiller
of my time. Does it grow short?

I am stripped down.

I struggle to bring influence,
to speak good news, for few
may hear me now. Is it hubris to
believe that they who hold me in
this place consider what I’ve said
and turn their souls toward Christ?

I am stripped down.

Thank God Epaphroditus has
recovered, though for him, like me,
to die is gain. For Jesus and for me
he’ll carry word to those I love
that… well, that I love them from the heart.
I am stripped down. What more to say?

Just that I love.

A poem/prayer based on Philippians 1:3-11, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year C, Second Sunday of Advent.

The image is St. Paul in Prison by Rembrandt van Rijn (1627) – photo by anagoria, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=27638749.

Hearts Sprinkled Clean… for?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

“…Let us approach with a true heart in full assurance of faith, with our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed with pure water.” – Hebrews 10:22

There are mornings when I revel in the water
which cascades along my form and carries off
the aggravating dust and clinging grime.

In likewise do I cast my grateful soul
into refreshment of a loving God,
who takes away the grunge, the guilt, the shame.

And then I step upon the shower mat,
to towel off the residue of cleanliness,
prepare to wrap my form in clothing for the day.

In likewise does my soul release forgiveness’ bliss,
replenished to the work which lies ahead,
and clothed (we hope) in righteousness’ array:

Provoking those around to love, to acts
of doing good, to mercy shared, to meet and raise
the courage of those souls who’d do the same.

A poem/prayer based on Mark 12:38-44, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year B, Proper 27 (32).

Photo by Eric Anderson

Story: Close to Heaven

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments
Photo of a kolea (a Pacific Golden Plover), a bird with a thin straight beak, white, brown, and tan feathering, walking along a grassy area.

November 3, 2024

Ruth 1:1-18
Mark 12:28-34

It’s a funny thing. When you hear just part of a conversation, it can be misleading. I mean, you might think you know what folks are talking about, but it turns out you might not.

In this case, it was a kolea, a Pacific Golden Plover, who overheard some people talking about heaven. And yes, he got confused.

He heard enough to learn that the people talking about heaven believed it was a really nice place. He heard enough to learn that the people talking about heaven didn’t expect to go there for some time. He heard enough to learn that the people believed that other creatures could also go to heaven.

He didn’t hear anything about it being a new life and a very different kind of place. He didn’t hear anything about dying as a transition from one kind of life to another kind of life. They just didn’t mention that while he was listening.

But at the end of the conversation, as the people were walking away, one of them said something about heaven being beyond the clouds.

People tend to talk that way about heaven because even though we have telescopes and can look a long way into space, “beyond the clouds” is something most of us don’t know much about, and the life God intends for us beyond our lives here is also something we don’t know much about. But the kolea didn’t know that. He said to himself:

“Those people can’t fly beyond the clouds, but I can. I can get to heaven myself.”

And he launched himself into the sky.

A kolea migrating from Hawai’i to Alaska, or from Alaska to Hawai’i, can get very high indeed. He flew up over the low clouds that were raining on Hilo. Then he flew up over the middle clouds that were spotted about around the slopes of Mauna Kea. Then he flew up even above the high wispy clouds above Mauna Kea.

Each time, he looked about for signs of heaven.

Each time, he didn’t see them.

“I must be close to heaven,” he said.

What he found as he circled higher and higher was that it got colder and colder. He’d felt that before, but as he flew higher than he had before it got colder than he’d ever known. He didn’t like that. He also didn’t like that the air got thinner. Not only was it harder to breathe, he had to flap his wings harder to move enough air to keep flying. In fact, there came a point that he just couldn’t go higher. Gasping, he let himself fall, then circle, and glide back down to the ground.

He landed, still winded, on some grass near another kolea, who hopped over to see what was wrong. “I tried to fly up to heaven,” he said sadly, and told her the story. “I must have been close, but I couldn’t get there.”

“That’s too bad,” she said to him. “Here, take a bite or two. There’s some tasty things here. And you’ll find some good water to drink just over this way.” She led him over to the food, and water, and a safe place to rest.

He ate. He drank. He rested. His breathing settled. His wings regained their strength. He looked at his new friend.

“You know, I flew a long way up to get close to heaven,” he said, “but you’ve been kinder to me than I can remember anyone else being. It might just be that I’ve been closer to heaven here than I ever was up there in the sky.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, then tell them from memory during worship. The story you just read and the story as I told you will not be the same.

Photo of a kolea (a Pacific Golden Plover) by Eric Anderson.

First Commandment

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A brightly colored painting showing two women facing forward, both showing grief, with a third holding the shoulders of one from behind, face hidden. Two other women show signs of grief at right and to the rear.

“One of the scribes came near and heard them disputing with one another, and seeing that he answered them well he asked him, ‘Which commandment is the first of all?’ Jesus answered, ‘The first is, “Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one; you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.” The second is this, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” There is no other commandment greater than these.'” – Mark 12:28-31

The scribe approved your words, or so says Mark,
and silenced all the snare-deploying crowd.
Yet he might ask (and yes, in Luke he did)
“Who is my neighbor to receive my love?”

Then you, Redeemer, might have said
(though you did not, or so says Luke),
“Look to the Book of Ruth, to what is written there:
‘I will not leave you. Do not press me.

“‘Where you journey, I will go.
And where you stop, there I will take my rest.
Your people shall be mine, and more:
Your God shall be my God.'”

A poem/prayer based on Mark 12:28-34, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading, and Ruth 1:1-18, the First Reading, for Year B, Proper 26 (31).

The image is Whither Thou Goest: Naomi and Ruth by Rupert Bunny – http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/360/rupert-bunny-whither-thou-goest.jpg/4079790, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=56415654.