Calling Birds

1 Samuel 26:20; John 7:53-8:11

David is having a hard time. He has fled from the palace of Saul where he had been a trusted servant, the only person capable of soothing the mad king’s troubled spirit—recall that God abandoned Saul, choosing David as the replacement, the focus of God’s anointing, causing Saul to descend into what we would diagnose as depression that led to psychotic breaks—one minute Saul was as rational as the most normal person, the next, raging murderously, trying to kill David with whatever was at hand. But David stayed with him, out of loyalty to God’s choice of Saul once—for David, once an anointed of God, always an anointed of God, ergo, always worthy of respect and love. He does not see his own ascent as something to be treasured, but rather as an inescapable tragedy for Saul. He sticks with Saul even in his madness, but his suffering is tangible and real. He ran away because to stay would be to die. He is in the mountains, hiding, seeking sanctuary. In our verse, he calls out to Abner and the army, seeking help and understanding. He sees himself as a calling bird, hunted, isolated, and afraid. He is nothing but a flea, a partridge—a little thing all on its own. 

Have you not ever felt like a calling bird? Have you never felt suddenly small in the face of existence as it is? 

Sometimes, that realization is a moment of ineffable wonder—driving across North Dakota at night, suddenly aware of the infinite depths of the cosmos, filled with billions on billions of stars, billions upon billions of galaxies, making our own little corner of the universe a mote in God’s eye, meaning we are but a quantum particle in the vastness of God’s handiwork—beneath all notice, beneath all observability. Awe fills us and overwhelms us, leading us to cry out with the Psalmist, “What art we that Thou art mindful of us?” (Ps. 8). It is a wondrous moment of miracle and seeing ourselves as part of that miracle.

But at other times, that same smallness feels like a curse over us. We are so overwhelmed by the enormity of it all that we are beyond hope—no one could care, no one could notice—why should they? We are less than nothing, and so we are lost. 

David calls himself a flea.

Yes, that is exactly what it feels like.

But I remind you of something scripture asserts again and again—when we feel farthest from God, God is nearest to us. 

One day Jesus was interrupted in his rumination by a flash mob, engaged in a truly horrible moment of performance art—they drag a woman caught in the very act of adultery (I always assume the man was too quick out the window for them to catch) and demand that Jesus utter judgment, rocks at the ready to begin the execution. 

I imagine the poor woman was lost in shock—you know how your mind will simply shut down when things get too chaotic, painful, or horrible to acknowledge? She was simply there, sure no one was really paying attention to her as anything but a target. Remarkably, this calling bird makes no sound. I have noticed that the doves in our backyard fall silent and still, huddling beneath the shrubs against the house when the hawks are hunting along the power line that crosses our property. They hope against hope not to be noticed. Flight is instant death—I have seen that, too—a poor sod of a dove panics, takes wing, and—BOOM—is lunch. So, the woman falls silent and still, hoping against hope that everyone will forget she is there. God must be a distant memory for her. Any thought that God is good and grace abounds is completely silenced. Any pondering that she is a unique act of God’s creative will is non-existent. 

Yet, take in fully where she is. She is at the feet of Jesus. The Son of God is closer to her at that moment than I am to the congregation arrayed before me—you would have to be up here in the pulpit with me to be that close. 

Take that in.

David seems to be able to keep that knowledge before him—maybe this indeed is why he is God’s anointed—he never knows God’s absence. God is sure and certain. David can cry out, complain, and weep before God, sure that God abides, hears him, meets him in compassion, and will somehow, some way redeem him. 

The woman eventually comes to the same recognition, but it takes Jesus ending the performance to make it so. Jesus directly intervenes with redeeming grace, first, dismissing the mob by revealing to them who and what they are; then, releasing the woman, but with the transforming admonition to alter the course of her life (i.e., repent), refocusing on a better path. 

We are somewhere in between the woman and David. Christ is not literally right in front of us, intervening; but I would gather that most of us perhaps envy the certainty and surety of David’s faith—we believe, but we constantly ask like the desperate father in another passage, “I believe, but help my unbelief!” Being in between can be a tricky place to be—once while traveling to Harrisonburg, VA, I got caught in between two semis on a three lane stretch of I-81—never has a mile or so of highway been as harrowing—well, trying to maintain our faith can hit similar stretches where we are not here, but not quite there, either. We feel squeezed, pressured, and isolated, once again becoming the calling birds I guess we are. 

But that is where we can help one another. David is unique which is why he is David; and the woman’s experience was also unique which is why it is scripture, but we can enter both experiences by walking with each other to help each other realize the truth of David’s belief, assuring one another that all shall be well in the presence of God, and also by reiterating Christ’s presence with the woman for those who are hurting, broken, or lost, refraining from piling on by judging, castigating, or simply wagging our heads at them. We can be the voice of Christ telling them they are loved, there is another chance, and that there can be redemption. In our welcome, we may even be the instrument of that redeeming grace as Christ works through us to make it so. 

So, yes, there will inevitably be times when we become the calling birds on a hillside. Life is like that. But we can also become the birds who hear the response of the Maker, issuing love, companionship, and help to bring us home. Take that with you this day. Share that with someone else. 

There are flocks of birds all around us, all the time.