Clergy: What we can learn from the birds during Pride Month

Have you noticed the birds?

I don’t know how anyone could fail to notice them at this time of year, at least here in Happy Valley. The days begin and end with concertos. The trees seem alive with motion. Everywhere you go there is chirping and calling and fluttering and nesting and a holy ruckus filling the world.

I have a feeder for finches and another for cardinals and larger birds. I have one for hummingbirds, and one for orioles, too. And of course, I am also feeding others who visit: the mourning doves gather underneath to collect what falls to the ground, along with the squirrels and chipmunks, who help themselves, too. I recently had a woodpecker stop by, and it seems like every day brings a surprise guest.

One of the things that occurs to me as I watch the great crowd of winged friends just outside my door — the birds of my neighborhood — is that this is exactly what I believe in, which is to say that this is a perfect picture of grace. Grace being, in this case, the thing that is offered without price or qualification. What I mean to say is that the birds do not submit any applications to me before I allow them access to the feeder. I have no formal policy. I have not done any background checks to see whether or not they “deserve” the seed. I do not examine their work history or income statements. I don’t demand that they look alike or sing alike or behave alike, or make any demands at all, except perhaps to hope that they will stay long enough for me to appreciate their singular beauty. The gift is simply offered, which, theologically speaking, (and all of life is theology, really) is the definition of grace.

Another thing that I love so much about watching the birds is their variety. If the only birds who visited were the robins, whom I love, by the way, I would feel a bit sad and diminished. The bright yellow of a goldfinch looks so vibrant next to the deep red of the cardinal. The bold confidence of the blue jay is a contrast to the nervous darting of the song sparrow. Some arrive in groups, others as couples, and others come alone. Some hardly make a peep, while others seem to love the sound of their own voice (I am looking at you, mockingbird).

But my yard is the best when all of them show up, a sundry symphony of melodies and harmonies and collective gift (after all, what have I done to earn such an orchestra of joy?). I am thinking about this, because it is Pride Month, and Pride, at its heart, is a celebration of the simple truth that human diversity is not a problem to be solved, but a gift to be received. It is an affirmation that all people belong, exactly as we are. In my own faith tradition, we claim together the truth that all of us are made in the image of a Creator, who made us and called us “very good,” the way I make an exclamation of delight when I spot an Eastern Bluebird. Like us, the Creator seems to delight in variety (just look at the flowers and forests, sunsets and snowflakes); nature itself overflows with an abundance of difference. Why should we imagine that humanity is somehow different?

The birds are teaching us, as usual. They are singing to remind us that the world is richer because no two of us are exactly alike. They are greeting the rising sun with their tiny songs to proclaim that grace is new every morning, and that it looks like mercy, like love, like a full bird feeder, like an unexpected visitor. They are an ordinary orchestra, singing to us a song of gift and grace, if only we would have ears to hear.

The Rev. Greg Milinovich, St. Paul’s United Methodist Church and Wesley Foundation in State College.