The desk in my study at home faces a window, offering a beautiful view despite the slight inconvenience of opening it and drawing the curtains. From here, I observe the changing seasons—green grass fading to brown, full trees shedding their leaves to reveal bare branches, and Hummingbirds buzzing until the Cardinals, Chickadees, and Robins are the only birds left. I have spent considerable time watching from this window, a practice that reminds me that God’s timing, which transcends our simple clock time (chronos), is always present in our patience and waiting.
Today, as the gentle rain quietly fell, I was delighted to watch a female Cardinal hanging upside down from one of the few remaining Sunflowers in the yard. She seemed so graceful as she balanced herself on the fragile stalk, using her sturdy, cone-shaped beak to reach the black seed. With some effort, she tugged and pulled until she finally succeeded. I watched with fascination as she cracked open the shell and swallowed the soft inner kernel.
Being near her, I noticed she was missing some feathers. A quick search reveals that female cardinals usually shed feathers in late summer or early fall after breeding. Wet and eager for food, I hear her sing between pecks about change and growth. Molting may not be painful, but it can be quite exhausting for the bird. It leaves her more vulnerable to temperature changes, reduces the energy she needs for flight, and increases her risk of predation. She looks gnarly, but I suspect she knows to embrace the process. She makes me hopeful.
I often talk about Birds and Nature, which might seem repetitive. Yet, after hearing that an Anthropic researcher left over fears that AI might wipe out humanity within ten years, I feel more despair than ever. I’m not here to argue whether we should use AI—though I can share theological and pastoral perspectives—but I will say this: no AI-generated image has ever given me the same deep awareness as watching a molting female Cardinal in September. It may sound strange, but perhaps Jesus was right when he said, “Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?” The Divine, Eternal Love, God, the Universe – however we describe what is beyond us yet present among us – is here: in you, in me, in the dried Sunflower, and in the Cardinal. And the Cosmic They/Them loves you just as God the Father feeds the Birds and waters the Lilies.
I guess, beloved reader, that what I want to convey in this post is twofold. First, like the Cardinal, it’s okay to give yourself over to change; to let new life rise within and around you; and to let go of any beliefs, worlds, or thoughts that no longer lead to your True Self. Second, you are not alone in your exhaustion, and it does not define you. Despair is a normal response to the confusion and uncertainty of our current timeline. However, there’s wisdom in the Berry poem shared last week – the one about how the wild things do not tax their lives with forethought of grief.
Under a low gray sky, I looked out my window and saw a Cardinal amidst change. She wasn’t concerned about her feathers, nor did she mind my camera. As She ate and I watched Her, we shared a moment of connection – a quiet exchange of gratitude.
I hope you will join us Wednesday as we celebrate the Season of Creation with a Taize service.
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