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August 12, 2008
AN INFURIATING CORVID

"What did you do during your vacating?" Crawford the talking crow inquired.

"I told you before," I responded sharply, "that it's vacationing, not vacating."

The corvid flipped his tail (something I prefer to equate with the human shrugging of one's shoulder, rather than other possible human gestures). "So what did you do when you were not vacating?" he asked, rephrasing the question.

"Worked on our house, plus did lots of visiting with old friends."

Crawford cocked his head and stared at me with a single beady black eyeball. "Old friends, eh? Were they so gray and wrinkled and bald that they didn't recognize you?"

That did it. This crow, with his insults and insinuations, crossed the line once too often. I turned and stomped off.

Entering my office, I tried to settle down and concentrate on my work. Instead, I thought about a pioneer on a San Juan island (I forget which one--not because I'm old, you understand, but because there are so many of them) living in a log house and raising food in his garden. But the local crows kept stealing the seeds he planted. At last he managed to trap one of the offenders.

Frustrated beyond reason, he grabbed the crow, plucked out huge bunches of breast feathers, and turned loose the screeching tortured bird. After this, all the crows stopped robbing the man of his plantings!

The incident fascinated me. I imagined Crawford with a bald chest, squawking insults and leaving off pestering me. The image was somehow gratifying, for a moment at least. Then I remembered Jesus' words in his Sermon on the Mount, "But I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment…" (Matt. 5:22)

Crawford is certainly not my brother, I reasoned, so this teaching does not apply. But, I admitted, the passage is about anger, not about siblings. Some folk think Jesus was telling us to never get angry (as if we can filter out our emotions). But I took comfort in knowing that the verb in this passage denotes not a sudden, flaring anger, but rather a smoldering, long-term anger. So I abandoned my smoldering visual of a plucked crow and concentrated instead on other things.

Besides, we need old friends to help us grow old, and we need new friends to help us stay young. And that's one of the advantages of being active in a church, isn't it?

June 24, 2008
THE VACANT PASTOR

"So, I hear you are going to vacate," Crawford the talking crow said to me during a recent visit.

"No," I responded. "We had this same discussion two summers ago. I said I'm going on vacation, not that I'm going to vacate. There's a great difference."

He ruffled his feathers. "Really? For relaxation, you relax. For vacation, you vacate. It's as simple as that."

How do you explain English to a birdbrain who is a prime candidate for natural deselection?

"In simple terms, it means," I explained, "that from July 6 through August 6, you won't see me." (At least, I hoped that would be the case.)

"What does the congregate think about you taking that long of a vacate?" he asked.

Abandoning my effort at ESL instruction, I told him a story about a boy in one church who asked his mother why the minister gets a whole month's vacation in the summer? "Well, son," answered his mother, "if he's a good minister, he needs it. If he isn't, the congregation needs it!"

June 10, 2008
A CORVID (MIS)VIEW OF CREATION

I was surprised to discover that Crawford, the talking curmudgeon crow, wanted to read the Bible. Oh, I knew that he had learned--somewhere and somehow--to read, but his literary sources generally consist of bits of discarded newspapers and candy wrappers.

"Read me the first part of the Book of Genius," he requested.

It took me some effort to determine that he was referring to Genesis, the first book in the Bible.

"Why?" I demanded.

"Because," he explained, "it relates how the whole problem started."

"What problem?"

"Creation of humans."

I scowled. Crawford enjoys denigrating and denouncing us humans, and I had no interest in encouraging such disrespectful conduct.

"Remember," I cautioned, "that Genesis tells about God making birds, as well as people. So anything you say about Creation relates just as much to you as it does to me."

The bird stared at me for a moment. "God made humans last, didn't he?" Crawford asked.

"Yes, the crown of Creation," I declared.

"God made humans at the end of a long week's work, right?"

"I guess so. It was on the sixth day."

Crawford played me along. "And God rested on the seventh day?"

"Yes."

The crow nodded wisely and then looked me up and down. "I thought so. Birds were created while God was still full of energy, and so we fly. But humans were made while God was tired and eager to rest. That's why you can't run fast or walk far. Why, God was so tired as to even forget to give you feathers."

"Now listen, you pinfeather-headed--" I responded.

"But," Crawford interrupted, "the Creator did give you imagination to compensate for what you are not, and a sense of humor to console you for what you are."

I picked up a rock and acted as if I were going to stone the crow. "Murderer! Son of Cain! Help, help!" he screeched as he flew away. But I've given his words some thought, and Crawford is right, at least the part about imagination and humor. Without those qualities, we wouldn't be human at all, would we?

May 27, 2008
A CORVID MARRIAGE

"I haven't seen you for some time now," I exclaimed to Crawford, the curmudgeon talking crow. "I mean," I added, modulating my voice, "I've missed seeing you for some time now."

"Hummph!" he responded. "Been away, getting married."

"Married?" I was shocked. "You mean, married? You and Charisma, your 'significant bother,' got married?"

"I think so."

I stared at the corvid. "You think so? Don't you know whether or not you got married?"

"Not exactly. We ate some over-ripe melon slices behind this restaurant, and I guess we got a bit soused. Anyway, Charisma called all her family together and told them that we were going to get married. 'Doesn't the bride look stunning?' one of her cousins exclaimed. 'And doesn't the groom look stunned?' another cousin added.

"Anyway, we went to old Crankshiver, the crow judge, and asked him to marry us. He said he couldn't, because he's already married, and to marry another would be polly-go-me."

"I think that's polygamy," I corrected him.

"What's polygamy?" he asked.

"It's having one wife too many," I informed him.

"So's monogamy," Crawford quipped. "However, Charisma told Crankshiver that she wanted to marry me, not him. He looked at me and asked her, 'Will you love, honor, and obey him?' 'Obey him!' she squawked. 'Do you think I'm crazy?' Just then, a bit confused, I said, 'I do.' That's when Charisma bit me."

"Then what happened?" I asked.

"We had words--although I never got to use mine."

I've thought about this conversation since then. Christy and I have a wonderful marriage. Wherever she is, there is Eden. And I wish that every couple could enjoy each other's company as much. But some marriages are hurtful. May our church always be a fellowship where the "marital wounded" may find healing and hope and the marital blessed find affirmation.

May 6, 2008
A CROW'S TAKE ON ATONEMENT

Crawford the talking crow confronted me early this week. "I understand that you are going to teach a Sunday school class on Christian doctors," he said.

"That's doctrines, not doctors," I corrected. "And yes, it's already started. The first was about the scriptures. Then we will look at such doctrines as the divinity of Christ, the Trinity, and the Atonement."

"I know a parable about atonement," Crawford announced proudly.

"Oh?" I responded skeptically. I realize that this bird-brain has some knowledge of the Bible, but what he has usually gets all mangled. Nonetheless, I reluctantly said, "Tell me this parable."

"Two men went up to the temple to pray," he began, "one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector."

"I've heard this one," I grumbled, "and it has nothing to do with atonement."

"The Pharisee," Crawford continued, completely ignoring my comment, "standing by himself, was praying thus, 'God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, preachers, or even like this tax collector." [The "preachers" Crawford threw in just to irritate me.] "I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.' And the Lord said to him, 'Well done, good and faithful servant.'" "Wait a minute!" I exclaimed, "That's not the way it goes--"

"But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even look up to heaven, but was beating his breast and saying, 'God, be merciful to me, a sinner!'

"And God replied, 'Well, here's the deal. I really can't be merciful and gracious to you now. Wait until after my Son is crucified and his blood shed, then come to me with your prayer of confession, and then I can forgive you.'"

I shook my head sadly, but Crawford continued to butcher the parable.

"The tax collector looked puzzled. 'How will the death of your Son change things?' he asked.

"And the Lord answered, 'Wait a few centuries for Christian theologians to invent several conflicting explanations. Until then, try sacrificing some cats instead of just praying.'" [Crawford hates cats.]

Crawford looked pleased with himself. In a single parable he had managed to lay one on theologians, me, and housecats. Nonetheless, I thanked him--for not being in my class.

April 8, 2008
CROWING OLD

When I entered seminary, we lived in a small community that included Old Crow distillery. Now I live in a large community that includes one cantankerous old crow.

"How old are you?" I asked Crawford the talking crow last week.

"Old enough to know not to answer that question," he replied.

"No, really, how old are you?"

"Just say that I'm a tough old bird."

"Come on, tell me."

"It doesn't matter how old I am. I expect to live forever, or else die trying." Saying that, he flipped his tail at me and flew off.

"Growing old is mandatory," I called out to him, "but growing up is optional." However, he was too far away by then to hear and benefit from my profound remark.

So that conversation really didn't go anywhere, but afterwards I thought awhile about aging. Growing old is one of life's most unexpected surprises. But what does aging do to a person's, well, personality?

Someone else has said, "You don't actually change as you grow older. You become the person you always were. Only more so."

Another wit added, "They tell you that you'll lose your mind when you grow older. What they don't tell you is that you won't miss it much."

Mostly I thought about our congregation. We have a lot of grandparent-age folk, and our own invented holiday, Grandkid's Day, has become very popular.

On the other hand, some folk despair over the median age of our church family. But I see it as an asset, not a liability. In our mobile society, many children live far away from their biological grandparents. Yet every child needs older, caring people who think she or he is just about perfect.

Our congregation can provide that essential relationship, providing we help young parents realize just what a great thing an aging congregation can be!

The poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge said it well: "I have often thought what a melancholy world this would be without children--and what an inhuman world, without the aged." Just substitute the word "church" in place of "world."

March 25, 2008
A CONGREGATION OF CROWS

"I saw a murder of crows yesterday," I informed my friend Crawford, the talking crow.

"SKEEECH!" he screamed, "who killed a crow, of all things? What whiteguard?"

"No, no, no," I interjected. "A 'murder' of crows indicates a group of crows. No blood spilled. And I think you mean blackguard, not whiteguard."

The corvid stared at me. "Your language is ridiculous. You have a congregation of worshipers, but a 'murder' of crows. Why not a congregation of crows and a murder of parishioners?"

I understood his objection. "OK, let me begin again. Yesterday I saw many crows--"

"I read about that in another church’s worship bulletin," Crawford interjected. "It told people to sing, 'Crown Him with Many Crows.' Very appropriate."

I didn't have the heart to tell him that it was a typo. "Well," I said, "you know the saying, 'birds of a feather flock together.'"

The crow gave a snort. "How could we flock apart?" he demanded.

"It's just a maxim," I insisted. "You know, like, 'There's no fool like an old fool."

"Yeah, you just can't beat experience." Crawford was looking intently at me when he voiced that witticism. "Your maxims are faulty," he continued. "For example, 'Ignorance is bliss.' If that's true, why aren't there more happy people? Or, 'No one is too old to learn.' If so, why do so many people keep putting it off?"

I've thought about his comments since then. Maybe we do depend too much on maxims that short-change the truth. Like those who quote the Bible as saying, "money is the root of all evil," when it actually says, "the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil."

And as for not being too old to learn, what about those who regard baptism as a spiritual graduation ceremony, when in it's meant to be a spiritual birth announcement?

Just wondering…

March 12, 2008
"ORIGINAL SIN"

"Since you are a pastor and you know all about sin," began Crawford the talking crow one day last week, "I want to ask about original sin. I've been reading the newspapers lately, and--"

"Yes," I interrupted, "the papers are proof that humans continue to sin. As for 'original sin,' the ancient theologians maintained that because Adam sinned, and we are descendants of Adam, we are born guilty. It's in our spiritual DNA, so to speak. All humans are born in sin."

Crawford nodded. "I suspected as much."

"But our Jewish friends disagree. They say that we sin as Adam sinned, but not because Adam sinned."

"Yeah, that sure makes a huge difference," the corvid observed. "Either way, you're guilty and rotten to the core. But if all humans sin, then what's this about Jesus not sinning?"

I paused, trying to think how to explain all this to a bird brain. "Those who believe in original sin maintain that it didn't affect Jesus."

"Why? How?"

"Because of the immaculate conception of Mary, Jesus' mother. She was born free of the guilt of original sin."

"Oh, yeah," Crawford exclaimed. "I read all about it. A cookie came out of the oven in the shape of the Virgin Mary. But I thought it was called 'the immaculate confection.'"

I shook my head. Try to explain theology to this feathered twit and the discussion inevitably turns to food. "Anyway, about original sin--"

"That's the trouble with humans," Crawford exclaimed. "There's not enough original sin. All your sinning is uncreative, repetitious, stale. You need some novelty, some original sinning, instead of this copycat stuff. What you need to do," he added in a lecturing tone of voice, "is swear off all sinning until you come up with a wrong that's truly original."

December 18, 2007
CORVID GRUMBLINGS

I regret to report that Crawford, the curmudgeon talking crow, is not doing so well. He suffers from a severe case of the doldrums. I suppose it has something to do with the snow and rain and long hours of darkness, contrasted with the expectations that everything is supposed to be merry and light during this season.

Or maybe not. Maybe it's just a matter that Charisma, Crawford's "significant bother," threw him out of the nest again.

Either way, I thought I might warn you that it's best to avoid this corvid for the time being.

I last saw him pacing up and down a pine branch, muttering to himself, "Charisma, bah, humbug!"

Against my better judgment, I approached the bird and offered a sympathetic ear (after all, it is the Christmas season). "So," I said, "your true love finally gave you the boot?"

Crawford glared at me.

"So, why this time? Why'd she trash you?"

"She insisted that we fly up on the ridge, sit in a tree, and admire the snow and the lights. I was cold and miserable. So afterwards I told her that I'd had a wonderful evening."

"And that got her angry at you? Why?"

"Well, actually what I said was, 'I've had a wonderful evening, but this wasn't it.'"

"I see. Just a bowl of holiday cheer, aren't you?"

"I thought she'd find my remark humorous," he protested. "But I guess she just isn't smart enough to recognize good sarcasm. So I told her that when her IQ rises to 28, sell. She didn't appreciate that, either." He sighed. "I need to remember that half the ones I know are below average." Then he looked at me critically.

"Well," I replied, "you can play the Christmas Grinch if you want to, but I'm going to enjoy the season. Lights, carols, friends, good things to eat, and the birth of the Messiah to celebrate."

No cranky crow is going to shatter the peace of this season. Especially not after I sped a well-aimed snowball his way…

November 6, 2007
NAME CALLING

Sometimes Crawford, the scruffy talking crow, tells me stories about other corvids. This week, as I stood shivering in the cold, he related the recent escapades of a certain rogue crow named Clopsquirt.

"Every crow is a thief," Crawford admitted with a hint of pride in his voice, "but Clopsquirt is a robber. He thinks up sneaky ways of obtaining lunch from unwilling benefactors. Yesterday I watched him follow a woman carrying a bag of groceries while walking her dog on a leash."

I knew that crows and dogs were natural enemies, so I engaged in a little more listening and a little less shivering.

"He waited until the dog reached a telephone pole and began to raise its hind leg. At that precise moment Clopsquirt swooped down, right in front of the dog's nose, and flew circles around the woman and the pole. The dog chased after Clopsquirt, around and around, until the leash bound both the woman and the dog tightly together with the pole.

"Naturally she dropped her grocery bag, and while she yelled and the dog barked, Clopsquirt sorted through various morsels that were spread across the sidewalk."

"Humph!" I said, voicing my objection to such devious larceny. "And what did you do in response to this mugging-by-one's-mutt?" I asked, hoping for a report of some rescue attempt.

"Why, I helped pick up things and clean up the sidewalk," he said. "Which brings me to a question. One of the items was labeled 'Quaker Oats.' How come there are Quakers oats, but not Disciples donuts or Christians corn flakes?"

"The Quakers," I explained, "sued the Quaker Oats company for using that name. But the court ruled in favor of the company. Said that the Quakers didn't call themselves that. They referred to themselves as 'Friends' while others derisively called them Quakers. Like the way others called the early followers of Jesus 'Christians.'"

"Is 'Christian' a derogatory term?" asked Crawford.

I paused for a moment, thinking of "Christians" in recent years who have embarrassed the rest of us, to the point that many church members will not let coworkers and friends know that they are "Christians." "Maybe it's time to change our church's name," I said. "Just call ourselves Disciples of Christ."

October 30, 2007
A BIRD'S EYE VIEW OF HALLOWEEN

I parked my pickup under the shade of the pine trees on the south side of the parking lot. “Oooooo.” That’s what I heard as I stepped out, a deep and passionate cry, beginning loud and high and then falling to a deep whisper.

Had I run over someone? I looked under the front wheels, half expecting to see someone’s body extremities protruding from under the chassis. The sound was repeated, but this time I realized it came from a tree branch above me.

“Crawford,” I barked at my crow friend, “why all the moaning and groaning? Did Charisma peck out some of your feathers again?”

“I’m practicing sounds for Hell-o-ween,” the talking crow informed me. “This year, I want to be like Clickspitter.”

“Who’s Clickspitter and what did he do?” I asked, against my better judgment.

“Last Hell-o-ween he decided to steal some Trick or Sneak candy from children,” Crawford explained. “He figured he could scare them and they would drop their bags of goodies and run.”

“Did it work?” I asked.

“There were all sorts of scary kids out that night,” Crawford related, getting into his story-telling mode. “There they were, goblions and switches and ghosts, all with sacks of candy.

Clickspitter swooped down on them, crying ‘Nevermore! Nevermore!’ and landed at their feet. Well, the kids panicked all right, but one young switch dropped her tall black switch’s hat, right on top of Clickspitter. He did not know what was covering him, and he started running around. You should have seen it, this black peaked hat scooting around blindly across the lawn and moaning.

“Well, the children ran away, but not before one of them turned loose his pet dogs, who chased after the hat and bit it.”

“What happened to Clickspitter?” I asked.

“He can’t moan any more. He just squeaks. He had a good idea, but it went to the dogs. I can do better.”

I’ve thought about this conversation since then as I watch ads for horror movies. What is it that makes children (and some adults) want to be scared? We don’t need to invent goblins and witches and ghosts in order to send shivers up our spines. There’s already enough reality out there to scare us.

I for one am content to let dead ghosts lie and witches go fly, and rejoice in good friends and a confident faith. After all, doesn’t the Bible promise us that “perfect love casts out fear”?

October 9, 2007
CONVERSATIONS WITH CRAWFORD

As I parked my pickup under the shade of a pine tree, I heard a "thump" on the roof. I looked up at the sunroof, and I saw an unnerving sight: a feathered black head staring down at me with one beady black eyeball.

The Bible says that some have entertained angles unaware. Yeah, but they didn't look like crows. Not at all.

"I understand that Bush is president because God made him so," Crawford informed me as I got out of the vehicle.

I had not seen Crawford the talking crow for three weeks now. Three blessed weeks! Yet against all wisdom, I responded to this politically barbed comment. I just couldn't help myself.

"And what makes you say that?" I countered.

Crawford threw out his chest. "I went to a Bible study," he bragged. "And," he added, rather unnecessarily, "it wasn't taught by you."

"So at this Bible study, they said God elected George W. Bush?"

"Yup. Said God elects each president."

"So sometimes God is a Republican, and sometimes a Democrat?" I countered.

The bird looked confused. He preened his feathers for a moment, and then responded. "Well, Jesus spent time with Republicans and sinners, so I guess God is a Republican."

"I think you mean 'publican,'" I said. "Not Republican. But why did the teacher say that God chooses our presidents? I thought it was done by voting."

"Nope. Said God chooses all the government authors."

Well, it took some time (wasted time, I might add) to determine that Crawford was referring to a statement by the Apostle Paul in Romans 13:1, which reads, "Let every person be subject to the governing authorities; for there is no authority except from God, and those authorities that exist have been instituted by God."

It took even longer (also wasted time, I suspect) to explain to this bird-brain that the good Apostle was talking about governing authorities in general, not specific individuals. "If Paul meant particular persons," I told him, "then God would have been the one to bestow power on Nero, who ordered Paul's execution, or even Hitler, who masterminded the murder of seven million Jews. No, God may institute the idea of government, but who exactly gets the job is--"

But Crawford had pulled one of his nasty little habits, of flying off just when I'm becoming especially informative.

I think next time I'll paste a "keep off" sign across the roof of my pickup.

September 11, 2007
HURRICANE CRAWFORD

“Who is Katrina, and why did they name a storm after her?” asked Crawford, the talking crow.

I shook my head. “No one in particular. They just give names to severe storms. It’s a way of reporting hurricanes.”

“So, if they are her-a-canes, they are female,” reasoned the corvid. “Makes sense.”

“No, no. Used to be that hurricanes were given only feminine names. But now names of both genders are used.”

“Any storm named Charisma?” he inquired, referring to his “significant bother.”

“No, not to my recollection anyway.”

The crow sighed (a sound similar to the last air escaping from a blown-up toy balloon). “An inexcusable oversight,” he declared. “At least there must a typhoon named after her.”

I assumed a pastoral tone of voice. “I take it you and Charisma are having some sort of conflict?”

Instead of answering my question, Crawford turned away from me and lifted his bottom. I thought at first that he was making some sort of rude gesture, but then I noticed a number of missing and broken feathers on his derriere and several red wounds.

“Kicked me out of the nest,” Crawford complained. “Or, more accurately, pecked me out of the nest.”

“And what dumb thing did you do to aggravate her?” I inquired gently.

Crawford glared at me. “And why do you think it was my fault?” he demanded. “I’m the one who got hurt. I’m the victim. Why should it be assumed that I am the problem?”

I admitted that Crawford was right. I was assuming things. I had made an assumption and acted like a “blame dropper.” So I started to apologize. But it was a waste of breath. The bird had already taken to the air and flown away.

September 4, 2007
BRAS AND CROWS

Crawford, the large and scruffy talking crow, landed on the cab of my old pickup. "Well," he said.

I looked at him. "Well, well," I replied.

"I notice that you have not written anything about me lately," he added, in an accusatory and wounded tone of voice.

(How does he know about what I write for the church newsletter? I thought to myself.) Out loud, I responded, "Well, I haven't seen you for some weeks, now, have I?"

The corvid paced back and forth, his claws making clicking noises against the metal roof. "You human males are soooo lucky," he declared.

Against my better judgment, I asked him what he meant. "Your females nurse your young. Unlike crows, you human males don't have to search for dead meat and then drop it into your infants' open mouths."

When he put it that way, being a mammal is a great advantage. At least being a male mammal is. We don't have to nurse babies. And we don't have to wear bras.

Which reminded me of a surprising find on the Web. "I was doing a vanity search recently," I told Crawford.

"A what search?"

"Where I search the Internet for sites that include my name," I explained. "You know, book stores, discussion groups, essays, that sort of thing."

The crow looked confused, but I continued my tale.

"Anyway, I ran across this web site about bras. Lots and lots of articles, just about bras. Except one of the selections on that site turns out to be reprints of all my conversations with you from the past three years."

"What are bras?" he asked.

There are moments when I become, ah, at a loss for words. I don't feel comfortable, talking about, well, you know what I mean. Female anatomy, that sort of thing.

"What are bras?" he insisted.

"Sweater girl underwear," I responded. But I was so uncomfortable that I decided to do the preacherly thing and quote scripture.

"A woman in the crowd raised her voice and said to Jesus," I recited, 'Blessed is the womb that bore you and the breasts that nursed you!' But he said, 'Blessed rather are those who hear the word of God and obey it!'"

Maybe this made me feel more at ease. Maybe it helped Crawford, too. I couldn't be sure, because he flew away during my recital.

June 26, 2007
A TIME TO VACATE

I had not seen Crawford the talking crow for some weeks now. I assumed that he and Charisma, his "significant bother," were nest building and starting another family. I admit, however, that it is difficult imaging Crawford as a dependable father type.

Anyway, I was making my way from the church building to my pickup, left in the shade across the parking lot, and thinking about a variety of pastoral concerns, when a voice spoke from one of the pine trees.

"Gates are down," the voice said, "the lights are flashing, but the train isn't coming."

I looked upward and spotted a black head between the branches. "Huh?"

"You. Gates down, lights flashing. But--"

"Oh, hello Crawford. Sorry. I just got lost in thought."

The crow shook his head. "No wonder. It was unfamiliar territory. But why are you here? Haven't you started to vacate?"

I stared at the corvid. "Vacate?" I asked.

He flipped his tail feathers (a sign of irritation and, well, a sign). "Yes, vacate. You are taking a vacation, aren't you? Vacation, noun. Vacate, verb. You know, English language, spoken by some."

I really don't know what made Crawford so testy that day, but I did remember that he and I had the same communication confusion last summer. So I just explained that my vacation begins on the 26th (already begun, by the time you read this). I added that I was gratefully looking forward to the time away, but that "vacate" implied something more. However, my words were wasted, because at this point my feathered friend had already "vacated" the tree and flown off in his own version of the pursuit of happiness.

May 22, 2007
MORE OF CRAWFORD'S LAWS

If you found my previous list of "Crawford's Laws" of interest, I offer several more of his religious and church "laws" (re-worded and made personal):

The more ridiculous a belief system, the more likely it is to attract adherents.

In any congregation, the "older members" are always fifteen years older than I am.

Any unexpected and generous donation will be accompanied by an unexpected expense of the same amount.

The world is more complicated than most of our theologies make it out to be.

A belief may be wrong, right, both, or neither. Most beliefs are partly right and partly wrong.

Established theology tends to persist in spite of new theologies.

If you think religious education is difficult -- try ignorance.

If you don't already have a support group, it will be impossible to create one just when you most need it.

Clearly worded sermons will consistently produce multiple interpretations.

If the assumptions are wrong, beliefs based on them aren't likely to be very helpful.

If communion grape juice spills, it will invariably land on the least stain-resistant surface.

The parts of the Bible we don't understand are not nearly as disturbing as the parts we do.

May 15, 2007
CRAWFORD'S LAWS

I have not spoken recently with Crawford, the talking crow. However, for my own amusement I made a list of declarations that curmudgeon corvid has made relating to church life and ministry.

I call the list "Crawford's Laws." You might find something there worth pondering (or, maybe not):

No church program will be attempted if all possible objections must first be overcome.

Any belief is feasible if you don't know what you're talking about.

Complex theological issues have simple, easy to understand wrong answers.

Clothes make the preacher. Naked pastors have little or no influence on society.

Never attribute to demonic forces that which is adequately explained by stupidity.

Any theology that can be put "in a nutshell" belongs there.

If a pastor preaches a sermon with a certain member in mind, that same member will be absent from worship on that particular Sunday.

You can lead a horse to water, but you can't baptize him.

May 2, 2007
SIMPLE ANSWERS TO COMPLEX QUESTIONS

Crawford the talking crow believes that it is his duty to offer a simple answer to every complex question. “It balances things out,” he explains.

For example, there’s the complex question, “What do we do about global warming?” Crawford’s answer: “Move the equator further south.”

Or, “How can we increase the educational level of our youth?” His reply: “We can’t. No matter what we do, half of them will still be below average.”

Or, “What can we do to combat terrorism?” The crow’s solution: “Scare the terrorists half to death—twice.”

What really blew me away was his answer to the question, “What’s the role of religion today?”

“To get people to quit making God in their own image,” he said.

“Wait, wait!” I urged. “The Bible says that we humans are made in God’s image, not the other way around!”

“Phooey,” he responded. Or at least I think that’s what he said. It sounded more like the squirting of a can of compressed whipped cream in an echo chamber.

“What do you mean, ‘phooey’?” I asked.

“People are always making God into their own image. Strict parents imagine God as a strict lawgiver. Permissive parents picture God as an indulgent grandparent. Soldiers regard God as a stern general. Scientists suppose God is an engineer. Abusers believe God demanded that his Son should suffer. Social workers—“

“OK, OK, I get the idea,” I said, hoping to interrupt him before he got to preachers and teachers.

But the corvid stomped his foot. “People imagine God as anything other than he is!”

Against my better judgment, I asked, “And what is God like?”

“He’s not a human. He’s a bird.”

I stared at the crow, unable to find words in reply.

“And you call yourself a preacher! What’s the symbol of the Holy Spirit? A bird! And think of all the Psalms that talk about God’s wings: ‘Guard me as the apple of the eye; hide me in the shadow of your wings,’ ‘All people may take refuge in the shadow of your wings,’ ‘in the shadow of your wings I will take refuge,’ ‘Let me find refuge under the shelter of—‘”

I held up my hand. “All right, all right!” I insisted. “But the Bible also talks about God’s right hand.”

“Obviously a meat-a-phor,” Crawford declared, flying off.

April 24, 2007
DUST BUNNY ON BROADWAY

"My wife and I attended the Spokane Symphony last Saturday," I informed Crawford the curmudgeon talking crow. I did so in order to change the subject of our conversation away from his favorite topic, the inadequacies of human beings.

"Oh yes," he responded. "Dust Bunny on Broadway."

"No, no, that's Bugs Bunny on Broadway," I corrected.

"Insects, hmm. Bunny, hmm. Must be talking about fleas."

I informed this bird-brain that Bugs Bunny was a cartoon character, an imaginary talking animal figure that made people laugh. (I restrained myself from making any unflattering but obvious comparisons between Bugs and a certain corvid.)

Then I added that the whole performance was very amusing. Not just the cartoons, but the conductor himself prompted lots of belly-laughs. "For example, he pointed out how much Elmer Fudd resembles Dick Cheney. And I remembered our VP's incident with a shotgun--"

"But why," he interrupted in a serious tone of voice, "is it important to laugh?"

I stared at the crow. What a ridiculous question! Or was it? Mark Twain used say that humans are the only animals that blush--or need to. But laugh?

Then I recalled how Conrad Hyers, the reigning guru of religious humor, once said, "Laughter is not the opposite of seriousness. Laughter is the opposite of despair."

So maybe, just maybe, faith and laughter are soul mates.

April 17, 2007
STUCK!

I had not seen Crawford the talking crow for over a week. Fearing that the recent wet weather had left him cold and hungry, I went out into the church patio area and placed a cookie on the rim of the fire pit.

Then I sat down and waited.

And waited.

Crawford did not appear. So I decided to find out if he were within hearing distance. "Wow, what a delicious cookie!" I exclaimed, casting my eyes toward the church roof.

Nothing happened, so I spoke louder. "This is really one of the best cookies I have ever seen. It is worth flying down and landing on the fire pit for . . .” Still no response. So I added with even greater volume, "THIS COOKIE IS JUST ABOUT TO GET UP AND WALK AWAY!"

I heard a slight shuffling behind me. I turned. Two small children stood there, staring at me. When I looked at them, they spun around and ran off across the lawn as fast as they could go.

"I don’t want a cookie," came a pitiful voice from a nearby pine tree, as soon as the children had disappeared.

I could not believe my ears. Crawford, the empty pit with wings, was actually refusing one of his favorite things to eat? I contemplated this strange behavior in silence.

After a brief time, the crow landed with an awkward thump onto the fire pit. He looked as if he had been sucked into a vacuum cleaner, tail first. A number of his feathers were bent and some were missing.

It took me some time to coax him into explaining his disheveled condition. "I got into one of those enclosed bird feeders," he related, "one that would offer both shelter and nourishment. Only it was made for small, ornery little birds. Once in, I could not turn around. I was trapped."

At this point Crawford's voice became that of a storyteller concluding a very sad saga in which the noble hero battles Merciless Fate. "Only with great effort did I push my way out, struggling backwards. And some sparrows pecked at my behind the whole time. Just like the great prophet Jeremiah!" he sighed.

"I assume you are comparing yourself, not the sparrows, to Jeremiah," I said. "But your story is symbolic of our tendency to get ourselves into things we shouldn't: unwise commitments, addictions, debts, moods, ways of thinking--the list goes on.”

I continued moralizing about his recent predicament. One of the really marvelous traditions of our faith, I told him, is repentance. We can change our minds and actions. We can say "I quit," and, with God's help, become free to make different choices (better ones this time, we hope).

"Crawford," I concluded, "as with you in the bird feeder, we may suffer some roughing up and backbiting in the process, but we are given freedom to change, to--"

I suddenly realized that the crow was no longer listening to my wise musing. In fact, he had disappeared.

And so, I noted, had my cookie.

April 3, 2007
ELVIS AND JESUS

"Some member of your church is a litterbug," Crawford told me one day. "He or she dropped a copy of your church's newsletter outside your office last week."

I smiled knowingly. Although Crawford will not tell me how he learned to read, he does take enormous personal pride in having acquired that skill. So sometimes I humor him by leaving things under a tree or just outside my office, stuff that he can read and critique.

"It's not as interesting as the National Enquirer," he announced. My smile vanished. "Crawford," I growled, "How can you appreciate the National Enquirer! How can you!?" At this point I began to sputter. "Look," I said, "those kind of supermarket rags print absolutely ridiculous stories, all about aliens coming to earth from outer space, astrologers predicting cataclysmic events, Elvis Presley returning to life, the face of Satan appearing in the clouds!" (At least, those were the stories I recalled reading in times past, while waiting to buy groceries.)

Crawford cocked his head. "Yeah, yeah, sounds like the Bible to me."

I stared at him, shocked.

"Consider the similarities," he explained. "The scriptures tell about angels coming to earth, and about future events, and about the devil doing things. Besides, Elvis and Jesus have a lot in common."

I sat down, speechless. "Both of them drew large crowds," Crawford continued lecturing. "Both were outrageously different. Jesus called his enemies a brood of vipers, and Elvis called them hound dogs. And both Jesus and Elvis are said to have died and yet still be alive."

I spent some time explaining to that bird about historical and textual criticism of the New Testament and what we can determine really happened with Jesus of Nazareth. After finishing all of that, I'm still not sure whether Crawford was serious or was just egging me on.

Hitler claimed that the bigger the lie, the more people will believe it. Maybe we Christians need to be more like the apostle Thomas, who dared to doubt.

At Caesarea Philippi, Peter reported what he believed about Jesus, but he did not state how he came by his belief. It all just sort of popped out of Peter's mouth. Jesus declared that God had revealed it all to Peter.

But not so for the apostle Thomas! Thomas was very intentional in his faith. He demanded the right to examine the evidence for himself, first, and then, after being convinced, he believed boldly.

Maybe we Christians, more than ever, need a rational, honest understanding upon which to build our own faith.

Maybe Crawford needs something like that, too.

March 20, 2007
JEALOUSY

Crawford the crow was talking gibberish. He paced back and forth on a tree limb, slapped his wings against the pine needles, sputtered, hopped to another limb, and recycled his behavior all over again.

I decided to approach him in an empathetic and caring manner. "You're acting crazy," I said. "What's wrong with you, anyway? Spring fever?"

"Clickspit!" he snapped.

"Same to you," I countered. (No dumb corvid is going to get by with insulting me, I resolved.)

Crawford stared at me. "Clickspit," he announced in a tone reserved for addressing brainless fungi, "Clickspit is a crow, an arrogant, self-centered, despicable bird."

Hmmm, I thought to myself, and just who does that remind me of? Out loud I replied, "Another crow?"

"Yes, but a scourge on our kind. He is sleek and neat and slender. He is soft-talking and cultured. And he is sweet-talking Charisma!"

I considered Crawford, a scruffy, somewhat overweight and uncouth bird. Obviously just the opposite of this Clickspit fellow. "So he has eyes on your 'significant bother'?" I asked. "And he's a handsome, articulate corvid?"

Crawford glared at me. "Humph. Yes, he's articulate. He can compress the most words into the smallest ideas! He is so appealing that he has no enemies; his friends, on the other hand, intensely dislike him. He has no faults that reincarnation wouldn't cure."

"And you're jealous?" I added.

"Me? Jealous? Of Clickspit? Never!"

At this point, I recalled a passage in the Song of Solomon, which in the King James Version reads: "Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame."

But I did not quote it. Instead, I just suggested to Crawford that a little competition for Charisma's affections might be a good thing. Crawford told me in no uncertain terms what he thought of my suggestion. But I noticed that as he flew off he began rehearsing love poems.

March 13, 2007
EASTER AGAIN?

Some persons tell me that they have seen Crawford, the talking crow. I always respond by warning them not to get into a theological discussion with this curmudgeon corvid.

For example, this past week I was accosted by the bird with these words: "You are going to have Easter again! You did it just last year. Don't you remember?"

"Crawford, Easter is an annual occurrence," I explained. "It's not a once-in-awhile event. It's celebrated every year."

"Why?" the crow demanded.

"Why? It is the supreme Christian holy day, the celebration of the greatest of the mighty acts of God, that's why. If you weren't such a bird brain, you'd know that."

He rustled his feathers and growled. "Yeah, right. A real Christian holy day, that just happens to be named after a pagan goddess of fertilizer."

"That's fertility, not fertilizer," I corrected.

"Depends on how you look at it. In fact, the whole week before Easter depends on how you look at it."

Against my better judgment, I rose to the bait. "What do you mean, 'how you look at it'?" I inquired.

He lifted his head back and spoke in a pontifical voice. "Easter comes on a Sunday, right? And the Friday before that Sunday, you Christians commemorate the crucifixion of Jesus. Right?"

I nodded.

"And crucifixion is a particularly nasty way you humans devised of dispatching someone from this life in the most painful manner possible. Right?"

Reluctantly, I nodded again.

"Yet you Christians refer to the day when Jesus was crucified as 'GOOD Friday'?"

"Well," I began, preparing to launch into a lecture on various theories of the atoning death of Christ. But Crawford cut me off. "And besides that," he accused, "you believe the impossible on Easter."

"Now just a minute," I responded. "The resurrection of Jesus may seem impossible, but it is supported by careful historical evidence, and--"

"Who said anything about resurrection?" Crawford asked. "When I say 'the impossible,' I'm referring to the belief that rabbits lay eggs!"

March 6, 2007
ON BEING THE EARLY WORM

Early one bright and cold morning last week I arrived at the church and hurried across the parking lot toward my office.

"Hurry, hurry, hurry!" came a command from above. It was not from God, but from a certain curmudgeon talking crow.

I really didn't want to converse (read, argue) with Crawford just then. There is an adage that says, "the early bird gets the worm," and early morning encounters with this corvid make me feel like the early worm.

"I don't want to talk with you," I declared.

Crawford landed on the eave over the doors of the church building, cocked his head, stared at me with his beady black eyeball, and asked, "Why?"

"Because I've developed an allergy to crow feathers," I lied. "It's unhealthy for me to be around you."

"That just confirms my judgment," the crow announced. "You humans can't stand nature."

"What do you mean by that?" I asked, then bit my lip.

"You have fulfilled two commandments from God and then some.

You've overdone it. God told you to subdue the earth, and you are subduing it to the point of destroying it."

"Crawford, we need to use the earth's resources for our survival. We need to cut down forests to build houses, and run engines to transport us and our foodstuff, and--"

"And the second commandment, 'multiply and fill the earth'--you've really done that one beyond all reason. That's why you are using up the earth's resources, trying to maintain an overpopulation that--"

I got that early-worm feeling again. "We are doing our best to preserve the natural order," I protested.

"Yeah, yeah. Save the whales. Collect the whole set."

"We are using science to determine our best way of…" But I quit speaking, because Crawford was already flying away at breakneck speed. His departure reminded me of the saying, "Light travels faster than sound. That's why some appear bright until you hear them speak." But Crawford did have a point. We need to be serious about our human impact on our home, the earth. It's not just a matter of stewardship. It's a matter of life and death.

February 20, 2007
THE BIBLE DOESN'T SAY . . .

“So, last Tuesday you told your University class that they’re going to hell,” Crawford the crow remarked one foggy day last week.

Before I relate the rest of that conversation, I need to explain two things about this crow. First, he has discovered the room where I teach at Gonzaga University, and sometimes he settles on a windowsill and listens to my lectures. (I suppose I should be flattered by this; however, what I say and what he hears are often worlds apart.)

Second, although I do not know how Crawford became literate, I do know he reads various things he finds. One day, while gathering various disgusting things to eat behind some motel, Crawford heard a voice say, “We can’t keep doing this with that in here!” At that moment a Bible came flying out from an open window. So the crow read a few pages of the discarded holy book and thereby assumed the role of a biblical scholar.

(For example, I once asked Crawford what he had learned from reading Genesis. His answer: “That God created animals before humans, thereby proving that birds are superior to people; moreover, although Adam could have chosen a crow, he chose a woman instead. And look where that got him!”)

Anyway, this week Crawford accused me of saying that my students were destined for Gehenna. “I said no such thing, you dimwit,” I declared. Then I gently suggested to this crow that he had an intellect rivaled only by garden tools.

“You did too,” he countered. “You said they were not going to Heaven. Therefore, the only alternative—“

“Hold it!” I demanded. “What I said was that the Bible never ever uses the phrase, ‘going to Heaven.’ When it comes to describing the afterlife for us mortals, the Bible uses other language, such as ‘the age to come,’ ‘paradise,’ ‘in the bosom of Abraham.’ Jesus often described it as a great wedding feast--”

Crawford cut me off in mid-lecture. “But I overheard a couple of women who go door to door say that they will be among 144,000 who go to Heaven.”

“The Book of Revelation,” I said, “does tell of that number of faithful who gather before the Lamb, but every one of those 144,000 are Israelites, male, and virgins. I doubt those women would qualify.”

Crawford laughed (a sound similar to that of a dull knife cutting through Styrofoam.) Then he turned very serious. “You think you can change people’s religion thinking by simply pointing out what the Bible does not say? You might as well hope that humans could learn to fly.”

With that, he flapped his wings and took to the air (with all the grace of a Bible flying out of a motel window, I thought to myself). Then I remembered that grace is a biblical term for mercy, not for smoothness of motion. Hmmm.

February 13, 2007
MARRIAGE

I was crossing the parking lot and thinking about Valentine's Day. Suddenly a riotous noise arose above me, a corvid cacophony emanating from a number of crows sitting in the pine trees.

"Crawford!" I yelled, hoping that my friend was among them. (A neighbor woman and child, hearing me yelling at a tree, changed the direction of their walk in order to avoid me.)

"What do you want?" responded a raspy, irritated voice above the din.

"I want some peace and quiet," I demanded. "What's the reason for all this uproar, anyway?"

Crawford stomped about for a moment. "I'll have you know that we are practicing our love songs for spring. 'Uproar' he says! When's the last time someone asked you to sing a solo?"

(I hate it when this bird's criticisms hit home.) "Love songs! I didn't know you male crows wooed the females."

Crawford glared at me. "I'm not even going to ask how you imagine we crows initiate mating. Listen, don't you know that each year we seek out some good looking chicks and build nest, raise young, and then kick them out on their own at the right time? It’s you humans who don’t have the alarm bells set on your biological clocks."

"Well," I replied, "we get married for companionship. That's why God made us male and female, because God saw that it was not good for man to be alone. Having children is optional, and we stay together even after the children leave home." (I also recalled the current debates regarding gays and marriage, but I decided not to confuse the poor bird with that issue.)

"That's a pile of fertilizer, if ever I heard one," Crawford retorted. "Half of your marriages don't last, many younger humans are choosing not to get married, and lots of your older humans cheat on their mates. We crows have a much better system. We find new partners every spring, fill the nest, empty the nest, and then party all winter."

I had to admit that it sounded sort of appealing, at least the way Crawford put it. "But we have different needs, ones that can be fully met only by choosing life-long companionship. That’s the ideal, anyway."

Then it hit me. This curmudgeon was pulling my leg. Crows normally mate for life. "New partners every spring my foot," I said. "You and Charisma have had your troubles, but I don't see you going out looking for some replacement sweetheart."

He cocked his head and stared at me with one eye. "And just what's wrong with finding a new mate each spring," he demanded, "who just happens to be the same mate one had the previous year?"

Maybe Crawford does understand something about Valentine's Day, after all.

January 30, 2007
NOT SO QUIET DOG DAYS

I forgot to tell you about an incident related to Martin Luther King Day. I was just settling down at my desk to read my mail. It included a magazine article about the rise in racial prejudice, a financial appeal for aid to refugees in Darfur, and a summary of the hatred between Sunni and Shiite Muslims.

Perhaps "settling down" is the wrong wording, given the disturbing nature of this reading material.

Moreover, any attempt at settling down was short lived, because the quiet was suddenly shattered by frantic yelping outside my office window.

I ran to the hallway, threw open the outside door, and beheld a small brown canine screaming in terror as he sped aimlessly over the church lawn. Crawford was riding on the dog's back.

As this curious sight circled closer to me, I noticed that the crow was digging his claws into the poor animal's skin, flapping his wings, and loudly singing, "Yippy ki-yi-yi, get along little doggies. It's your misfortune and none of my own."

"Crawford!" I shouted.

The crow flew off his steed and landed near my feet. "What's the matter?" he demanded. "Don't you like Western music?"

The issue, I informed him, was not my taste in music. It was his own actions, which--to put it bluntly--constituted cruelty to animals.

"Don't dignify that egg-sucking hound with the noble title 'animal'," he instructed.

"He sucks eggs?" I asked.

"Of course he sucks eggs. He's a dog, isn't he? All dogs suck eggs."

As a boy I had lived on a farm. I knew that some dogs do suck eggs. I knew also that some dogs don't. "How do you know that this dog sucks eggs?" I persisted.

The crow flew up to a tree branch and looked down at me with one eye. "And you call yourself a lodger," he said, confusing his words. "The logic is this: dogs suck eggs; he is a dog; therefore, he sucks eggs. Even you should understand that!"

There was no persuading Crawford to take a more objective view. His mind was like concrete: thoroughly mixed and permanently set.

So I returned to my office, to read more about ethnic and religious prejudice.

It was disheartening. Prejudice and bigotry--why, those attitudes are no better than the thinking of a crow!

Then I realized how unfair that judgment was toward Crawford. He was being cruel toward the dog, yes, but dogs and crows are natural enemies. Racial prejudice and religious bigotry, however, constitute human cruelty toward other humans!

What is it they say about evolution, and the development of higher life forms?

Maybe the most penetrating question found in the Bible was that of the lawyer who asked Jesus, "And just who is my 'neighbor'?"

January 16, 2007
A RAPTURED CROW

You may wonder how Crawford the talking crow can survive below zero temperatures? You might even get more personal and ask what I, Crawford's "friend," am doing to make life more tolerable for this miserable little feathered curmudgeon?

Well, the answer is simply this: nothing.

It's not that I am cold-hearted. It's that I tried to provide him warmth and shelter and, well, let me describe what happened.

I saw Crawford hunkered down on a snow-laden pine tree branch. My heart went out to him, and I invited him into the church building. He eagerly accepted my offer and flew into the hallway, landing on the wooden pew sitting there serving as an informal something-or-other.

Then I realized that it was a bit presumptuous of me to allow wildlife into the building. So I invited him to come into that space I have been given providence over: my office.

Only then did I consider that messy tendency birds have of leaving their "calling cards" in conspicuous places (such as on desks and floors).

Even as I contemplated this unsanitary possibility, Crawford flapped his wings and landed on my desktop. He began to sort out papers and magazines, scattering those that did not interest him, when he came face-to-face with my desktop crow.

You may remember it, if you've been in my office. It's a life-size statue of a crow (well, maybe a raven), accurate in all details, sitting on one corner of my desktop. It was given to me by a man whom I mentored as he attended seminary and prepared for pastoral ministry.

"Who's that?!" Crawford demanded, staring at the black statue.

I thought about swiftly grabbing Crawford and tossing him out into the snow, but my compassionate concern prevailed. After all, he does have a sharp beak.

So I decided to get rid of him in a less direct manner: by creating an intimidating and threatening story. "That's Crankshaft," I answered, gesturing toward the statue. "He was magically turned to stone when he stayed too long in my office."

Then I reached up to another gift I had acquired, a feathered mechanical crow. I pressed a button and it flapped its wings and cried, "Beware! Beware! The end is near! Ha-ha-ha-ha!"

Crawford looked at the mechanical doomsday bird, then at the unmoving and silent statue, then back at the flapping corvid prophet. All this was too much for him. Crawford leaped off my desk and flew out the door and down the hall, screeching, "The end is near! The end is near! Flee, flee, or rigor mortis will get you!"

I heard shrieks, the sound of scampering feet, and outer doors flung open. It was then I remembered that some individuals had made an appointment with me to ask if they could place a Left Behind series book display in our church building.

While this incident might not explain why, according to a recent survey, 25% of Americans believe Jesus is likely to return in 2007, it does explain why Crawford the talking crow is banished to the winter snows. It also explains why I have been wondering about the ethics of trying to scare people into a religious commitment.

January 9, 2007
STUFF MEMBERS

"So, you have additional stuffing," Crawford the talking crow remarked to me, during one cloudy day this past week.

I looked at my waist line. "Yes, I suppose I do need more exercise," I admitted, in an apologetic manner. Then I grew just a little bit testy. I mean, just who is this bird, anyway, to criticize? He's no winner in any handsomeness contest. He’s always got that disheveled, scruffy look about him.

"I mean," the corvid stated in a tone usually reserved for half-witted barn mice, "that you have a new stuff person, an ad man straighter."

“That’s staff, not stuff,” I corrected in a firm voice. "And it's administrator, not ad man straighter."

Crawford flapped his wings and hissed at me. (That’s the crow version of shrugging one’s shoulders.)

"And I understand that Sue is a great administrator," I added, hoping to calm the bird.

"But you already have stuff members," the crow pointed out for my benefit. "You've got a secret-teller, and a choir chief."

I felt compelled to gently correct the corvid one more time. "I think, Birdbrain, that you mean secretary and choir director."

Once more Crawford flapped his wings and hissed. "Both Calli and Ron are a great help," I added, still hoping to calm the bird. "She's very effective, and the choir sounds good."

"You mean you're not in the choir?" Crawford asked.

"No. Only time I was in a church choir was as a teenager. I dropped out after a couple of weeks. When I did, someone thought the organ had been repaired."

Crawford nodded. “Sounds like you have stuff members who work more,” he remarked as he took to the air, “than the one day a week you work.”

That feathered twit knows (better than most church members) how much is involved in pastoral ministry, so his little dig was uncalled for. But I do love doing the things that pastors are expected to do: attending meetings...calling on the sick, prospective members, homebound...preparation for teaching, preaching and leading in worship...counseling...administration...coordinating with staff members...besides various degrees of involvement in regional and community efforts. And I do appreciate fine qualities and willing spirits among our "stuff members."

December 19, 2006
CRAWFORD AND CHRISTMAS COLORS

"I saw a manager scene yesterday," announced Crawford the talking curmudgeon crow.

"That's manger," I corrected. "A creche, a nativity scene, a manger."

The corvid cocked his head. "Anyway, this store manager was making a scene about Christmas sales, berating some employee."

"Oh. I thought you were referring to a creche."

"No, it was in the parking lot. The crash was further down the street."

"You mean a crash, an automobile accident?"

Crawford nodded. "Seen a lot of them lately. Car makers promote that sort of thing."

Now it was time for me to shake my head. "Car makers promote accidents?"

"Sure. Why else would they paint so many cars the same color as street pavement? If they're gray, it's more likely other drivers will not to see them. Blend in, so to speak. Then BANG! Sell more cars that way."

"Crawford, that's ridiculous."

He stared at me with a beady black eye. "No more ridiculous than the way God did it. Sent Jesus into the world, didn't he? But Jesus came as one who blended in. A baby. A carpenter's son. A flesh and blood human. So he crashed with those who looked for a more colorful savior."

"More colorful?" I repeated. "Like how?"

Crawford mused for a moment. "Maybe Jesus should have worn red, and come riding in a sleigh pulled by flying animals. Or better yet, he could have come, not as a lowly human, but as a great Raven."

I could see where this conversation was going. So I excused myself and walked away. But I couldn't stop thinking about Crawford's remark. Jesus "blended in" too much. No red suit. Not even a halo (despite artists' fancies).

He blended in. Yet he could say, "Whoever has seen me has seen the Father." God's image, blended in with others made in God's image. The difference between Jesus and others was--what?

And the difference between us as his followers and others is--what?

December 12, 2006
CROWS, CANNIBALISM, AND PEACE

" I understand that crows are hard to categorize," I mentioned to Crawford, the curmudgeon talking crow. "Are crows really 'songbirds,' as the Feds say?"

"Sure. Have any requests?"

I wisely chose not to accept that offer. I figure that if there is one individual who has a worse singing voice than mine, it must surely be this croaky corvid. "But, are crows scavengers or predators?" I persisted. "Do you eat dead meat or live?"

"Yeech! You mean, eat something that is still moving?"

That was not exactly what I had in mind. But before I could explain, Crawford interjected a thought of his own. "You want peace?" he began. "You want an end to wars? You want people to stop killing people? Then promote cannibalism."

I stared at the crow, absolutely speechless. Then I shook my head. "Did I hear you right? Cannibalism? Do you know what that word means?"

"Sure. It means eating fresh meat, in this case meat composed of one's own kind."

I agreed that he had the definition, well, fairly right. "But what's that to do with peace?" I asked.

"Simple," he responded (describing the question or the questioner, I'm not sure which). "Make it an ironbound law that you have to eat anyone you kill. That would eliminate all kinds of genocide, terrorism, and mass murders. Too much to eat. Right?"

I pondered this ludicrous suggestion. I recalled how Jesus wept over Jerusalem. "If even now you knew the way of peace," he lamented. I don't think he was suggesting cannibalism. But Crawford's feather-brained idea did get me thinking. Why, if Jesus offers us a way of peace, don't we look for it among his teachings? Why don't we study peacemaking? Why don't history courses emphasize periods of peace instead of various wars?

Just as I was considering these deep questions, Crawford's "significant bother" Charisma appeared. Evidently she had been overhearing our conversation, because when she landed she said, "Crawford can say that because he has no enemies. On the other hand,” she added, “he is intensely disliked by his friends."

December 5, 2006
ORNERY EVANGELISM

Maybe it fell out of my jacket as I closed the driver's side door and walked to the church building. Anyway, my cell phone was missing.

I searched my pockets for it. I looked around my office for it. I tried to remember leaving it at home. I decided I must have left it in my car, so I bundled up and started across the snow in the parking lot.

"If you don't go to church, then YOU'LL GO TO HELL!"

Those are the words that reached my ears even before I saw a large black crow standing beside my auto. Another crow was perched on the car roof, looking down at the one on the ground, saying things like, "That's the way! Tell 'em like it is!"

"Crawford," I yelled, "just what are you doing?"

The crow in the snow looked up at me. "Evangelism," he answered. "I'm getting people to go to church."

By now I was close enough to see my cell phone lying on its back in front of Crawford, the lighted screen announcing that a call was in progress. "Who are you calling?" I demanded.

"A sinner."

"How do you know it's a sinner?"

"It's human," the corvid answered in a tone of voice reserved for lecturing to mushrooms, "therefore, it's a sinner."

I looked at the crow atop my car. "And you, Charisma, you're helping him make these theologically offensive calls?"

She shook her head. "Nope. I'm just egging him on. Entertainment value, you know."

Meanwhile, Crawford was poking the phone buttons with his beak. Then I heard him say, "Hello. The Rapture is happening. I'm going up in the air. Where are you going?"

I heard a heavy intake of breath from the phone and then the words, "But I voted for conservative values. Surely I will be raptured!"

Charisma looked down at Crawford and shook her head again, sadly this time. "He truly has a magnanimous spirit. I mean, he loves nature in spite of what it did to him."

This incident did remind me of a story about a woman who approached a street evangelist and said, "I don't like your way of doing evangelism!"

"Well," he responded, "I'm always open for improvement. How do you do evangelism?"

She hesitated. "Well, I don't, not really."

"In that case, Madam," he said, "I'd prefer my way of doing it than your way of not doing it."

Well, what are we doing about sharing the value of faith and the message of God's Messiah?

November 28, 2006
THE TROUBLE WITH HUMANS

Recently I was visiting with Crawford, the talking curmudgeon crow. He asked about upcoming plans for the church program, and I told him about a workshop on protecting children from sexual abuse and a guest lecturer on Islam.

The corvid shook his head and made some sounds suspiciously like "tsk tsk."

"What do you mean, 'tsk tsk,'" I asked.

"Humans are such a pitiful lot," he observed. Then he raised his head and fluffed his feathers. "We crows are so superior. We don't have any sexual abuse of young crows. We don't have any sexual predators at all--except that Charisma gets carried away every so often."

"Tsk tsk," I said.

"And we crows don't have different religions," he continued, ignoring my response. "We have only one doctrine."

I was interested by this statement. "One doctrine? And which doctrine is that?" I asked.

"And you call yourself a preacher," he scolded. "It's the doctrine that Jesus said: 'look at the birds of the air, they neither toil nor spit.' That's our doctrine and our religion, resisting the temptation to work or spit."

"First of all, that's spin, not spit. And how can not working be a religion?"

"And you call yourself a preacher," he repeated. "Think of the Christian hermits. They didn't have nine to five jobs now, did they?"

I decided not to pursue this imagined workless approach to holiness. "So, you are down on humans because of sexual wrongs and differing religions?"

"That's two faults," he said. "The third is much, much greater."

"And what is that?" I asked.

"Having a national holiday where the main course consists of a large black bird!" he snapped.

November 7, 2006
SOME FEATHERS MISSING

I saw Crawford, the talking crow, sitting directly above me on a high branch, hunkered down against the cold rain. I heard a sort of rattling, growling sound coming from this miserable corvid.

"Crawford!" I shouted. "Come down here."

He looked down at me, then deliberately shook his wings and tail, along with the branch beneath him, showering me with drops of chilling water.

"Hey, stop that!" I demanded. "What's wrong with you, anyway?"

"Charisma," he growled, referring to his female "significant bother."

My heart went out to this creature, although I am not sure why. "Come, my feathered friend, fly down and tell me all about it," I urged.

He leaped from his branch, once again spraying me with cold drops, and landed on a limb just above my head, sending yet another shower of winter's wettest down upon me.

"Not so feathered as usual," he remarked as I wiped the water from my face and arms. Then the crow displayed his rear end. I saw a bald spot, located just below his tail feathers and to the left. Some feathers were indeed missing.

"What happened?" I asked. "Sit down on a pile of glue?"

Crawford growled. "Plucked. Painfully plucked. Charisma. Going to get even with her."

I was taken back by this resolve for revenge. So I thought about appealing to Crawford's better nature. Then I remembered that he did not have any better nature.

"Crawford," I began, in a persuasive voice, "Revenge only begets revenge. Don't go there."

The bird eyed me coolly. "And you call yourself a preacher! Doesn't the Good Book say, nay insist, 'eye for eye, tooth for tooth, feather for feather'?"

I didn't remember the feather for feather part, but I got his drift. "Yeah, but that kind of thinking leads only to blindness. Besides, you don't have any teeth. Since all you have is a bare bottom, the scripture you need is the one about turning the other cheek."

Needless to say, Crawford left me at that point. But I did ponder this whole matter of revenge. Revenge among humans, at least, can become a vicious--and ever more vicious--cycle.

Then the wise words of Eleanor Roosevelt came to mind: "When will our consciences grow so tender that we will act to prevent human misery rather than avenge it?" When indeed?

October 31, 2006
AN EDUCATED BIRD

I was visiting with Charisma, Crawford the talking crow's "significant bother."

"I haven't seen Crawford for over a week," I mentioned casually.

"He's not around much," she replied.

"Oh? You don't see him very often?"

She nodded. "I feel so miserable without him. It's almost as bad as having him here."

I decided to re-direct the conversation. "Where's he been?" I asked.

She threw back her head and wiggled her tail (in body language, a corvid equivalent to our belly laugh). "He's attending college! He hangs around the classroom widows, hoping to gain knowledge."

"Well," I said, "that sounds commendable. What's he studying?"

Suddenly I was startled by a flapping sound and the sudden sight of Crawford landing on a branch next to Charisma. "Medicine, for one thing," he announced proudly. Then he strutted with his head held high, rather suggesting a parade of one.

"OK, I challenge you to a quiz,” I responded. “A medical quiz. First question: What happens to a boy when he reaches puberty?"

"He changes from childhood to adultery."

"Hmmm. Name a major disease associated with cigarettes."

"Cig-retrets are associated with a serious disease known as premature death."

"What is the fibula?"

Crawford began to twitch his feathers nervously. "A small lie?" he suggested.

"What does "varicose" mean?"

"Nearby?"

"What does the word 'benign' mean?"

"Benign," he declared, "is what you will be after you be eight."

Charisma laughed (akin to the sound of pebbles falling on galvanized metal roofing). "Some drink from the fountain of knowledge," she stated, "but Crawford only gargles."

Education is, of course, very important. That's why we offer Sunday school classes and mid-week classes and mid-winter lectures and VBS--because some folk's knowledge of Christianity is about on par with Crawford's grasp of medical science. We are "Disciples of Christ," learners, on a journey of discovery. It's a journey we need to invite lots of others to share with us.

Who have you invited lately?

October 24, 2006
PRIDE AND POLITICS

Every once in a while, I like to tease Crawford, the talking crow, about being a crow. The other day, for example, I was reciting the various words for groups of animals. "A pride of lions, a gaggle of geese, and," I added with a smirk, "a murder of crows."

"Are lions proud?" Crawford asked, avoiding the term "murder" as it applies to crows.

"I don't know. Are crows murderous?"

The corvid cocked his head in a meditative manner. "Are you proud to be a Christian?" he asked.

I was taken back by the question. Proud? To be a Christian? "No," I responded. "Being a follower of Jesus is a privilege, provided by grace and mercy on the part of God. I can't take pride in something I did not earn or even deserve."

"But you did earn and deserve being an American," he declared.

"What do you mean? I was born an American. I did not earn it or even choose to live in this great country. It was an accident of birth."

"Then why," insisted Crawford, "do people sport bumper stickers that say they are proud to be Americans?"

How do you explain to a birdbrain about our loss of national security and confidence when terrorists flew airplanes into towers in New York City? How can you talk to a feathered idiot about that?

Yet his question did remind me of the wise words of the late William Sloane Coffin, "There are three kinds of patriots, two bad, one good. The bad ones are the uncritical lovers and the loveless critics. Good patriots carry on a lover's quarrel with their country, a reflection of God's lover's quarrel with the world."

May your vote this fall reflect both gratitude for our great country and your part in a good patriot's lover's quarrel.

October 10, 2006
A GURU WITH FEATHERS

Every once in a while, while enduring bouts of temporary insanity, I ask Crawford the talking crow about corvids in general.

"Why," I foolishly inquired, "do crows always fly up to the very tops of trees and perch there? Have trouble navigating lower branches?"

Crawford offered me his best profile and lifted his head. "Because," he answered.

"What kind of answer is that?" I said. "Just 'because'?"

"Why does a guru go to the mountaintop?" he countered.

"Oh, so you crows are all gurus, sitting on the treetops?" I asked, unable to remove the tone of sarcasm from my voice.

"I am."

"You are what?"

"I am a guru. And a philosopher."

"Really? What advice do you give, as a guru and a philosopher?" I demanded.

"I don't give advice," he informed me with a hint of snobbery. "I impart wisdom."

"So," I said, "if I come to you with a question, you will impart wisdom? OK, here's a question: What is the meaning of life?"

"If you have to ask, you're not entitled to know."

"What kind of answer is that?" I demanded.

"If you don't like the answer, you should not have asked the question."

"Oh, I see. You're one of the philosophers who work on the premise that finding the solution to a problem is always easier if you first know the answer. Where's the wisdom in that?"

The crow stared at me with a black and beady eye. "The wisdom," he informed me, "lies in knowing that there is a problem in the first place."

However, I have since concluded that there is indeed some value in Crawford's "wisdom," in that there are a lot of people--politicians and preachers included--who begin with an answer and invent the question. Or begin with a solution and invent the problem. Or just sit on the highest branch and tell the rest of us what to think.

Maybe that's what I like most about Crawford: he's a very helpful bad example. After all, everyone needs to be needed.

September 26, 2006
PAMPERING THE RED CONVERT

"I watch people," Crawford the talking crow told me last week. "I watch people, because you humans are so amusing."

Thanks, you feathered twit, I thought to myself.

"Yesterday I saw a man washing his carpet."

"Well, whatever turns you on," I responded.

"And then I watched him drive it away."

"Drive what away?" I asked.

The corvid stared at me as if to say, if you were any more stupid, you'd have to be watered twice a week. "The carpet. He drove off in his carpet. You know, a convert."

I, in turn, stared at the crow. I wondered about his intelligence and perception. I decided to speak in metaphor. "Wheel is turning, but the hamster is dead," I said, still looking him in the eye.

"You nuts or something?" he inquired. "All four wheels were turning on the carpet. And I didn't see anyone stirring a ham."

As you have already suspected, our communication skills were not at their best. After some wasted time, I found out what this bird had really seen: a man who owned a red convertible sports car lovingly buffing the bright finish, much the way a pet owner would lovingly comb his or her dog's coat. Witnessing the focused devotion this man seemed to lavish on his auto, Crawford assumed that the recipient of this owner's attention was his "car-pet."

Well, I've always thought that if you paid this crow a penny for his thoughts, you should get back some change. But the more I considered his mistaken notion that the car was this man's "pet," the more I wondered if maybe I had sold Crawford short. Maybe his insights are worth a whole penny.

September 19, 2006
THE PHANTOM OF THE LIBRARY

"Sometimes I listen to your quotes," Crawford the talking crow informed me yesterday. I assumed that he was referring to my practice of reading quotes to the congregation before each worship service, quotes that relate to the theme of the day. I'm not sure just where this bird positions himself to be able to hear what is said in the sanctuary on Sunday morning, but he does have his ways.

"I especially like it when you quote Saint Anonymous," he added.

I grunted, silently wondering where he came up with this "Saint" business.

"I assume that you get these quotes from the church library," the corvid continued. "While the phantom is not looking."

"Phantom," I responded. "What phantom?"

"The anonymous one who writes about your church library in your church newsletter," he answered, as if addressing an inattentive moron pretending to be a mushroom.

"Oh, that phantom," I said. "The one who writes anonymous notes about the church library for the church newsletter. I understand."

Crawford shook his head sadly. "The difference between stupidity and genius," the crow announced, eyeing me coolly, "is that genius has its limits."

"Ha! You can't pretend to be original in saying that," I stated. "You're quoting Albert Einstein." I'll show Crawford who's the smart one here.

But the crow simply shook his head again and flew off.

So, I guess that the moral of this story is, if you want to get rid of a pest, become well-read. (And, the church library is a good source of reading.)

September 12, 2006
MEMORABLE GARDENS AND PLAGUES

"I overheard some of your church members talking," Crawford the crow remarked last week. "They said something about making a garden memorable."

"Get the feathers out of your ears," I said. "You probably heard them saying something about making our own memorial garden, not a garden memorabilia."

"Now who's not hearing very well?" he snapped. "Anyway, they said that the wall would be covered with plagues."

I tirelessly corrected the corvid a second time. "That's plaques, not plagues."

"Don't be silly," he responded. "Plaques are what you build up on your teeth. And," he added, "you humans have teeth because you're not fortunate enough to have beaks."

Saying that, Crawford flew off.

Our conversation did remind me that crows are not the only ones who make mistakes in words, even words relating to death. Although there's nothing inspiring or relevant in any of them, just for fun I would like to share some church bulletin bloopers (not our own church's bloopers, by the way).

On one Memorial Day Sunday appeal, the following instructions were printed in the bulletin: "Please place your donation in the envelope along with the deceased person(s) you want remembered."

A church newsletter reprinted a note from one of their members that began with the words, "Thank you dead friends..."

Another newsletter carried the following reminder: "Don't forget that elections for Head Deacon and Dead Deaconess will be held at next month's business meeting."

Plus there was this well-intended but awkward notice: "On behalf of Mary Jones, our sincere thanks to all those sending cards and flowers and contributing to the death of her husband."

But I suppose that the best blooper ever made regarding this grim subject is found in the King James Translation regarding the failed attempt of the Assyrian army to destroy Jerusalem:

"And it came to pass that night, that the angel of the LORD went out, and smote in the camp of the Assyrians an hundred fourscore and five thousand: and when they arose early in the morning, behold, they were all dead corpses." (II Kings 19:35)

August 22, 2006
CANDIDATES AND VALUES

"What were all those people doing here yesterday?" Carwford the talking crow demanded in his usually surly manner. "Were they here for that 'meet the canned idiots' event?"

I frowned. "That's 'Meet the Candidates,'" I corrected. "Not the canned idiots."

"Perhaps."

"It's democracy in process," I explained. "People meet with those who are seeking office, which makes for a better informed electorate."

"Informed in what way?" he corvid inquired, somewhat skeptically.

"About the candidates' priorities, plans, values," I answered.

"Hmmm. Well, I attended a political lecture recently," my bird-brained friend announced proudly, "and I learned about politicians and people's values."

Against my better judgement, I asked him what he had learned.

"OK, here's one candidate who associates with wart healers and consults with astrologists. He's had two mistresses. He chain smokes and drinks up to 10 martinis a day."

I frowned.

"Then there's this second candidate," Crawford continued. "He was kicked out of office twice, sleeps until noon, used opium in college and drinks a quart of brandy every evening."

I shook my head.

"The third candidate is a decorated war hero. He's a vegetarian, doesn't smoke, drinks an occasional beer and hasn't had any illicit affairs--in fact, he married his mistress and made an honest woman of her.

"So which of these candidates would you favor?" Crawford demanded.

But I was wise to the crow's strategy. "The first candidate is Franklin D. Roosevelt," I said, "the second is Winston Churchhill and the third is Adolph Hitler."

Crawford was disappointed. But I do give the bird credit. What values we base our votes on is really, really important.

June 27, 2006
VACATION

"So , you're going to vacate," remarked my friend Crawford, the talking crow.

"What do you mean by that?" I demanded sharply.

"Calm down, easy there, now, now," urged the corvid. "I thought you liked to vacate."

I breathed deeply. It was a busy time, and I had responded to him in the midst of hurriedness and frustration.

"Sorry," I said. "I just don't know what you mean by my vacating. You expecting me to clear out my office or something like that?"

He stared at me with a beady black eyeball. "I expect you to clear out of your office. Isn't that what you do during vacation?"

Ah, so that's what he means. Vacation.

I decided to teach him a little about the English language. (After all, our congregation is well- known for its ESL school, so shouldn't I gently be tutoring this crow in the use of our fair tongue?)

"Look, you bird-brain," I declared, "'vacate' is not at all the same as 'vacation.'"

He ruffled his feathers. "And why not? For relaxation, you relax. For vacation, you vacate. It's as simple as that."

Crawford never opens his mouth without subtracting from the sum of human knowledge. But in spite of that, his confusion of words does carry some wisdom. To have a vacation, one must get away from daily routine, workload, and concerns. One must "vacate" the normal schedule and try something different for awhile.

I told the crow that I would be in the pulpit on July 2 and back on July 30. In between those dates there are a few events I don't want to "vacate"--a Christian education for children meeting, a CAP meeting, a farewell event for Jack Sullivan, and a special wedding. But other times, well, barring emergencies, consider me "vacated."

June 13, 2006
SUMMERTIME

Sometimes I use Crawford the talking crow as a listening post. He's not as good as a real post, you understand. With great effort he can remain as still as a post, and sometimes he has about the same mentality of that of a post. However, a real post doesn't make suggestions.

For example, I was voicing a concern over lower worship attendance during the summer months, and Crawford listened intently. Then he offered a suggestion.

"People are on the go during summer," he stated. "Businesses know how to attract people who are on the go. They have drive-ins. Banks have drive-ins. Restaurants have drive-ins. So why don't you have drive-in worship?"

"You mean with people remaining in their cars during worship?" I asked.

"Sure. That way, they could get through worship a lot faster. No greeting time, no joys and concerns time, no responsive reading time. And you could abbreviate the rest of the service. For example, instead of having folk recite the statement of faith, they could just blink their headlights. And their theme song could be, 'Honk Three Times on the Car Horn if You Need Him.'"

So much for having a live and talking listening post.

"If you wanted something more personal," he continued, "you could create a drive in confessional. Maybe even call it, 'Toot 'n Tell, or go to hell!'"

Despairing of Crawford's ridiculous ideas, I turned to the latest copy of DisciplesWorld, where Kaye Edwards writes about "Raising spiritual children in a secular world." She advises adults to give time to caring for their own spiritual selves, and to do so in a way that children can share. She names five practical suggestions, some of which, I believe, work well even during the summer:

Set up and use a simple worship center at home.
Provide quiet times of reflection and discussion.
Be good stewards of God's gifts to us.
Decide, as a family, what God is calling us to do in the wider world.
Commit to regular worship attendance.

How many of these recommended practices reflect your own summer spiritual priorities?

May 23, 2006
ADVICE TO A LOVE-SICK CROW

As soon as I returned from the Regional Assembly this week, I heard a knocking on my office window. It was Charisma, whom Crawford the talking crow refers to as his "significant bother."

She wanted my advice on getting Crawford to be more romantic. Feeling entirely inadequate for this task, I remembered how Bass Mitchell, a pastor in Virginia, summarized Naomi's advice to her daughter-in-law Ruth on how to catch a man.

"OK, Charisma," I began, opening a Bible to the third chapter of Ruth, "maybe this will work for crows. First, take a bath."

I looked up. Charisma nodded.

"Second," I said, returning to the scriptures, "dab on some perfume." (Wonder what it was? Rev. Mitchell had thought. Barley Brew for Babes? Threshing Floor Madness? Naomi's Love Potion #9? Mystique for Moabite Maidens? Gleanings Guys Can't Resist?)

"Third," I continued, "put on your best clothes. Oops, that won't do for birds."

"Fourth, go to the threshing floor and wait until he's had his fill of meat and ale--or in Crawford's case, crumbs dropped from cookies or hamburger buns.

"Fifth, when he's finished and lays down for the night, go and uncover his feet, lie down and he'll take it from there."

Well, by then Charisma and I had both realized that the scriptures do not apply to every situation. Then I recalled that Rev. Mitchell had bought a book written for women on getting Mr. Right. Some of the chapter titles were:

Don't Talk To a Man First
Don't Stare at Men or Talk Too Much
Don't Go Dutch on a Date
Always End Phone Calls First
How to Act on Dates 1,2,3
Be Honest But Mysterious
Don't Date a Married Man
Don't Expect a Man to Change or Try to Change

I didn't think any of these would help Charisma, either. So, I gave her my own impromptu words of wisdom: "God has placed within us a deep desire for love and romance," I told her. "However, it is not something that you can just jump-start in someone else. The woman in Song of Solomon says, 'I am black and beautiful.' Start there, by being aware that you are already valuable and lovely, with or without a lover. Then, give it time. Let it happen. As the same book in the Bible advises, 'do not stir up or awaken love until it is ready!' Let the season be sufficient unto itself. As Robin Williams puts it, 'Spring is nature's way of saying, "Let's party!"' OK?"

The crow cocked her head, looked at me, and then flew off, calling out another line from the Song of Solomon, "Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away; for now the winter is past, the rain is over and gone...."

So much for trying to give good advice.

May 9, 2006
THE POWER OF BABEL

I have not seen Crawford, the talking crow, for some days now. I suspect that he is taking advantage of the good weather to build a nest somewhere with Charisma, his "significant bother." If so, I suspect I will soon be hearing from one of them or the other about their marriage difficulties.

In the meantime, I have enjoyed going back over my notes from previous conversations with this curmudgeon corvid. I have especially appreciated his habit of telling me about unusual messages he's seen on church signs and of bringing me worship bulletins and newsletters with typos.

One such church sign, for example, encouraged its readers with this promise: "Don't let worry kill you--let the church help."

A worship bulletin included the wording to the Lord's prayer, ending with the petition, "...and deliver us some evil."

Another church's worship bulletin included in its heading this message: "The service will begin with a prayer of silent confusion."

And one congregation's newsletter announced that, "There will be a meeting of the men's group next Tuesday. We hope the men will try to be pleasant."

Yet another newsletter included this rather unfortunate wording: "Ladies, don't forget the rummage sale. It is a good chance to get rid of those things not worth keeping around the house. Bring your husbands."

Churches aren't the only source of bloopers. Consider these ill-worded newspaper headlines:

GRANDMOTHER OF EIGHT MAKES HOLE IN ONE
POLICE BEGIN CAMPAIGN TO RUN DOWN JAYWALKERS
SQUAD HELPS DOG BITE VICTIM
LAWMEN FROM MEXICO BARBECUE GUESTS
MINERS REFUSE TO WORK AFTER DEATH
TWO SISTERS REUNITE AFTER 18 YEARS AT CHECKOUT COUNTER
SOMETHING WENT WRONG IN JET CRASH, EXPERTS SAY

Communication is difficult, even in the best of circumstances. But let us never stop communicating the gospel. Proclaim the good news of Christ! If necessary, use words.

May 2, 2006
GETTING WISER

During a coffee break Crawford the talking crow and I were engaged in a friendly debate over the theory of evolution. "Look," I insisted, "it's obvious that we humans are the most intelligent life forms on earth."

"Just how old are you?" he demanded.

"Scientists have found the fossils of humanoids who lived several million years ago," I stated with a certain sense of pride.

"No," the crow said after a moment of pacing back and forth on the church ramp, "I mean you personally. You're not even half that old," he added, eyeing me carefully.

"What's my age got to do with anything?"

"Among crows, the wisest ones are the oldest. They have lived longer, and therefore have had more baths."

I stared at my corvid friend in utter bewilderment. "What has--?" I began.

"Age got to do with it? I thought you'd wonder about that, since you humans seem to honor youthfulness instead of age. Think of that explorer, Pounce-a-day Leo, looking all over creation for the mountain of youth."

"Crawford, I think--"

"Human employers are more apt to hire younger rather than older people, and--"

"Crawford, I--"

"--and your TV sitcoms and advertisements make fun of old people."

"Crawford--"

"And you--"

"CRAWFORD!" I shouted.

The crow snapped his beak shut, closed his eyes, rolled over on his back, and stuck his legs up in the air.

"Crawford, what I don't understand," I stated as patiently as possible, "is why more baths would make a crow wiser?"

"It's obvious," he told me, flipping himself upright and standing on his feet. "Taking a bath means cleaning out the old. Getting refreshed and renewed. Can't be wise if you aren't getting fresh thoughts and renewed insights."

Well, Paul did urge his readers to be renewed in their minds. Crawford, on the other hand, is no apostle.

April 25, 2006
USING CROWS TO FORETELL THE FUTURE

A group of crows is called a "murder" of crows. I don't know why they are not called a flock, or a gaggle, or something similar. But I do know that folk used to count the number of birds in a murder of crows and use that number to predict the future.

I wonder if it works. I have my doubts about this or any other sort of superstition, but you can test it out for yourself. Next time you see one or more crows, remember the number and see if it augurs your future. Here's the formula:

1 crow, sorrow;
2 crows, joy;
3 crows, a letter;
4 crows, a boy;
5 crows, silver;
6 crows, gold;
7 crows, a story never to be told.

Go ahead and try it, but I don't think the system will prove very accurate.

Nonetheless, I know a number of people who think they can get a glimpse of the future from the Bible. In fact, some authors have grossed millions of dollars doing this sort of thing--even though all their predictions eventually have proven inaccurate.

The whole matter reminds me of a friend in Seattle, George Mooney, who relates how his girl friend gave him a copy of the Bible (King James Version). He joined the Navy during the Korean Conflict, and he was shipping out that next morning. Fear of never returning to America, of being killed in battle, absorbed his attention. So he took this gift of Holy Writ, opened it randomly and stuck his finger on a page. Then he read the verse, confident that he would foretell his future. Here's what he found:

"Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him; but weep sore for him that goeth away: for he shall return no more, nor see his native country." (Jeremiah 22:10)

Crows or Bibles, neither one will accurately foretell our days ahead. But the scriptures will tell us how to act, whom to trust, how to live. One person said it well: "I do not know what the future holds, but I do know Who holds the future."

April 18, 2006
FOOD FOR THE JOURNEY

I found Crawford sitting in a pine tree, hunkered over in the rain, looking bedraggled and miserable. "And I suppose you had a good Easter?" he asked. The words themselves were gracious, but his tone of voice was damp and gloomy.

"Yes, we had a good Easter," I answered. "Well over a hundred in all, which is great for this congregation."

"Over a hundred what?" he asked, shaking excess moisture off his back. I hesitated. What was wrong with this dumb crow?

"People," I answered. "Over a hundred people."

He stopped flipping his feathers and stared at me. "You eat people?" he demanded. "Is that what you do at that altar?"

Then he started yelling. Really loud.

Young mothers, who were bringing their children to the preschool in the church building, stopped and stared as they heard shrieks of "Human sacrifice! Human sacrifice!"

"Stop it, Crawford!" I growled, softly enough, however, not to be heard by the women.

But Crawford would not quit. "Human sacrifice! Human sacri--kkk!" I grabbed at the branch he was on and shook it violently, showering my arm with water and dislodging Crawford. He fell to a lower limb and clung on, upside down. "Help, help! A crow eater!" he yelled. "Save me!"

I insisted that the bird hush up and just listen for a change. Then I began to explain about Christ's death and the meaning of communion. The women moved off, casting glances at me as they left.

Finally, when I was finished, Crawford stomped his foot. "When I asked if you had a good Easter," he stated, "I meant in terms of food. One measure's a day's worth," the crow explained, as to a dense child, "by the nourishment it provides."

Although my feathered friend was referring to foodstuff, he unconsciously touched a great truth. Real spiritual growth happens when people take in spiritual nourishment. What some folk really mean when they speak of being "filled" at a church service is getting an emotional high. But feelings, like a sugar-based energy surge, just don't last. Instead, real, lasting spiritual nourishment consists of increased understanding, persistent encouragement, genuine love, and deepening faith in God and in self. So at least in that sense Crawford was right. A good church is where people get fed!

April 11, 2006
MISQUOTING JESUS

I just finished reading a delightful book by Bart Ehrman, entitled Misquoting Jesus. In it Ehrman reviews the history of what scholars call textual criticism, the study of the ways copyists altered (accidentally or deliberately) the New Testament texts.

I have always been fascinated by discrepancies in ancient New Testament manuscripts: a word or verse dropped here, a phrase added there. The good news is that scholars have done a great job in reconstructing the original wording within the New Testament.

But that doesn't stop crows from misquoting scripture (or stop people from doing the same thing). I have in mind one particular bird, Crawford the curmudgeon talking crow.

He will not tell me how and when he learned to talk. But I do know that, regardless of his ability to speak, he does a lot of misquoting.

For example, I have known him to shorten or change adages. He says things like, "a penny saved is a penny," "a fool and his money are soon invited places," and "letting the cat out of the bag is a really big mistake" (Crawford hates cats). He also adds his own assumed interpretations of scriptures. For example, Luke 12:24 reads, "Consider the ravens: they neither sow nor reap, they have neither storehouse nor barn, and yet God feeds them. Of how much more value are you than the birds!" Well, Crawford misquotes that passage this way: "Consider the crows. God feeds them. Go thou and do likewise."

However, I have noticed that people often do the same sort of thing with scriptures. I'm not talking about ancient copyists. I mean ordinary people, such as those who assert that the adage "God helps those who help themselves" is found somewhere in Holy Writ. Or those who quote Paul as saying "money is the root of all evil," even though the passage really says, "For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil . . ." (I Timothy 6:10, emphasis added).

I'm not saying we should refrain from quoting scripture for fear of making a mistake. I just think we ought to be as knowledgeable and careful as possible, always keeping this warning from Susan B. Anthony in mind:

"I distrust those people who know so well what God wants them to do, because I notice it always coincides with their own desires."

April 5, 2006
GREETING CARDS

"I understand that your wife had a hatch-day recently," Crawford the talking crow remarked to me.

"That's birthday, not hatch-day," I corrected. "We humans are born, not hatched."

The corvid looked at me first with one shiny black eyeball, then the other. "Strange," is all that he could say (at least for the moment). "Did you send her a deck?" he then asked me.

"A deck?"

"Yeah. Don't you humans send cards to people on their birthdays?"

"Oh," I replied, "you're talking about greeting cards, not playing cards."

"Whatever."

"Yes, I gave her a card. It showed four chocolate rabbits. Three of them had their ears bitten off. The other one was wearing a crash helmet."

Crawford looked me over carefully, as if trying to determine--well, something. "I didn't know they made chocolate rabbis. Do they make chocolate ministers, too? And why a crass helmet?" he asked.

"That's crash, not crass," I explained, "and rabbits, not rabbis. Inside the card it read, 'Can't beat experience. Happy Birthday.'"

Well, Crawford was not amused, mainly because he didn't understand. When it comes to humor, the crow is sorely lacking. Crawford reminds me of someone described by Samuel Johnson: "He is not only dull himself, he is the cause of dullness in others." But then the crow flapped his wings and said, " I'd like to send a card to Charisma" (his "significant bother"). "She's visiting her mother," he added.

"And what would your card say?" I asked, against my better judgment.

"I feel so miserable without you," he answered, "that it's almost like having you here."

Well, I don't think that Hallmark is ready to hire Crawford as a greeting card writer. But this conversation did get me thinking about written messages. They are no substitute for personal communication, but they do help.

It didn't come in a card, but in a book, but here's my favorite message: "Lo, I am with you always, to the end of the age." It's signed by the risen Christ.

Happy Easter!

March 28, 2006
MARRIAGE SUCCESS?

Crawford the curmudgeon crow is absolutely the worst marriage partner imaginable. Or at least that's what Charisma, his "significant bother," tells me. She says that Crawford is insensitive, arrogant, and stupid. "Other than that, I guess he's OK," she admitted to me.

The occasion for this negative assessment was Charisma's discovery that my wife and I just celebrated 40 years of marriage. "Forty years!" Charisma exclaimed. "Is that more than five?"

I read somewhere that crows can count up to five. On a good day, they might make it to six. But not forty. "Yes, it's a little more than five," I told her.

Charisma sighed. "Crawford and I were happy for three years," she recalled. "Then we met."

Later Crawford told me, "I love being married to Charisma. Before, when I was single, I got so tired of finishing my own sentences."

Well, these two crows got me thinking about successful marriages. I have been blessed with four decades of marriage to a wonderful woman. "Forty years is a long time," one of my students remarked. "Yes," I admitted, "but it would have been a lot longer without her."

What makes for a happy marriage? I ponder that each time I officiate at a wedding. Perhaps some of the most crucial elements of a good marriage are expressed in the vows that one couple wrote for their wedding. What do you think?

I, _______________, choose you, ___________________,
in the presence of our family and friends,
to be my wife/husband from this day forward,
to love you,
to be a comfort and safe haven in your life,
to hold you close,
to listen deeply when you are sad or angry,
to nourish you with my gentleness,
to uphold you with my strength,
to entertain you with my wit.

I promise to weigh the effects
of the words I speak and of the things I do,
to never take you for granted,
but always give thanks for your presence.

As we start our new life together,
I promise to be faithful always,
to express myself openly and honestly
and work with you, not against you,
as we do what life calls us to do,
both as individuals and in our relationship.

March 14, 2006
CRAWFORD, THE SEMINARY PROFESSOR

"I'm going to set up my own cemetery," Crawford the talking crow told me last week.

"Whose body are you intending to bury?" I asked cautiously.

"Bury? Who said anything about burying a body? I'm talking about educating preachers."

"Oh," I responded. "You mean seminary, not cemetery."

"Whatever. Anyway, I've been reading about diplomacy mills, and I've decided to start one of my own."

"I think you mean diploma mills," I suggested.

"Whatever. I will instruct those who want to become ministers."

"And," I asked (against my better judgment), "what will you teach them? In fact, just how do you know so much about the ministry?"

"I will tell them to watch you."

"Me?"

"Yes. That will help them know what not to do."

"I see. I'm to serve as a bad example."

"And I will teach them the fundamental fact about preaching."

"Which is?" I asked.

"Good men finish fast. And I will tell them about how clothes make the man or the woman. I mean, nobody listens to a naked preacher."

"So you think that clothing is important?" I asked, hoping to trick him into admitting that feathers are not the only proper covering.

"Of course. I mean, if God had intended for you humans to be naked, he would have made you that way."

I've been thinking about that conversation. I've been thinking about how a certain corvid would look if he had all his feathers plucked. And I've been thinking about how all of us are called to be ministers for Christ. We don't need diplomas to do that. But we do need the willingness to act on the core values of Jesus' ministry.

March 7, 2006
CROW EGO

"Cannibals! Murderers! Monsters!" Crawford screeched as he landed on the edge of the church roof. I ran outside to see what was disturbing my friend so much.

"Monsters! Murderers! Cannibals!" he cried again, this time in reverse order.

It took me awhile to calm him down. At last I learned that he had overheard someone saying that she would have to eat crow. Quite understandably, this phrase disturbed Crawford.

I explained to him that we humans have a number of strange expressions, and this one refers to the distaste of having to take back one's words.

"And just what is so distasteful about crow meat?" demanded Crawford.

There is really no satisfying that bird.

Two days after that, Crawford really irritated me (the reason for my ire at that moment is irrelevant at this point). So I chose that day to read a quotation my friend, Art Morgan, had e-mailed to Crawford by way of my computer.

"Listen," I told Crawford. "This is from Elegant Sayings of the Lamas (The World Bible, Viking Press, p. 159):

"'He who is ever ready to take the credit for any
action when it hath proved successful
And is equally ready to throw the blame on others
when it goeth wrong in the least,
And who is ever looking for faults in those who are
learned and righteous,
Possesseth the nature of a crow.'"

My feathered audience listened carefully. After I finished, he remained silent for a moment. Then he asked, "So what's wrong with that?"

I was shocked. "Crawford," I said, "to claim credit for something good someone else has done, or to blame someone else for your own errors--well, that's just, just not done." (I wanted to explain why doing these things is wrong, but I could not put it into words.)

"Humans do it all the time. Helps their egos."

That's all that Crawford would say. He refused to explain himself. (Well, actually I did not encourage him to do so. I suspected he was ready to recall some example that involved me.)

I think that Crawford was simply slow to realize that the quotation was an insult toward crows. Then, being embarrassed by his denseness, he proceeded to project the insult onto humans.

After all, the quotation was about birds, wasn't it?

February 28, 2006
ESL FOR CROWS

There are times when I wish I could enroll Crawford the talking crow in our congregation's English as a Second Language school. His corvid accent makes it very difficult to understand him. Worse, he analyzes English and comes up with his own understanding of our very complex tongue.

For example, he recently told me that our name indicates we do not sigh, nor do we pull.

When I asked him to explain, he began with the prefix "dis---". "That means 'not,' as in dis-grace, and dis- approve."

I nodded.

"Well?" he demanded.

"Well what?" I asked.

"You are a dis-sigh-pull of Jesus. So, you neither sigh nor pull. Probably because you don't care and you're lazy," he added in a speculative tone of voice.

0 I decided to gently offer this bird some helpful vocabulary assistance. "Crawford, you have the brain of a mushroom," I said. "A disciple is a learner. The word is related to discipline--as in a study of some subject or other."

The crow cocked his head. "So, you have to learn how to sigh and pull."

I sighed. "Being a disciple of Jesus means learning from him and putting into practice what he teaches. That's what our congregation's purpose statement says, that we are to continue the ministry that Jesus began."

"Did he sigh?"

"Yes, sometimes he sighed in exasperation. But each one of us is called to be his follower. He called Andrew and Peter, James and John, Matthew and the rest of the twelve. He called 70 or so to extend his ministry into all the towns and villages. And he calls us, too, as his disciples--Russ and Lynn and K and Merri and Helen and--"

"Who?"

"I'm listing the names from our membership book."

"Did Jesus sigh about them, too?"

"No," I growled, "he sighed about birds of the air whose brains neither spin nor toil!"

For some reason, Crawford flew away.

February 21, 2006
SUBMISSIVE WIVES?

"So, how is the bean book coming along?" asked Crawford, the talking crow. "Is your wife getting submissive?"

I am quoting this bird as an example of the great difficulty inherent in human-corvid communication.

The problem is that Crawford's vocabulary, while remarkable, is sometimes confused by synonyms and sound-alike words. In the above example, when I pressed this crow about his choice of words, I discovered that he said "bean" when he meant, more specifically, "lentil." Moreover, he was referring to a Lenten book (not a lentil book) that Christy has been compiling.

This Lenten book, a spiritual resource for all of us, is composed of prayers, thoughts, and quotes that people have submitted to Christy. So, she is getting submissions, not submissive!

But crows aren't the only ones who confuse synonyms (or at least ignore their important differences). That truth came home to me recently when I was asked, on a clergy email list, to explain my research involving the words used in Ephesians 5:23, "For the husband is head of the wife . . . "

The distinction between two synonyms relating to this passage led to my writing my first book, on what the apostle Paul said about women. I noticed that one common Greek word, meaning "boss," also meant origin. It would have been a perfect word to use, in order to say that the husband is the boss of his mate (and, man--Adam--is the origin of woman--Eve; a nice allusion to the creation story in Genesis).

But the word "head" is translation of a different Greek word, one that did not denote "boss." It was a military term, used to indicate the point man in a group (phalanx) of soldiers. The first one into battle, the one whose life depends on the cooperation of his comrades.

This meaning is reinforced by the word translated "be subject to" in the next sentence in Ephesians: "Wives, be subject to your husbands." This word is also a military term, meaning to stay in formation with.

So, the wording in Ephesians 5 depicts a husband and wife fighting the same battles, obeying the same general orders, and as comrades depending on each other. A far cry from the husband being "boss" and the wife being "submissive"!

Perhaps our translators have done this passage an injustice. But then, maybe there's a little bit of crow in all of us.

February 14, 2006
A PRAYER FOR "ONE OF THOSE KIND OF DAYS"

"Great sermon you preached last Sunday!" Crawford the talking crow exclaimed.

"The youth group did the service," I growled. "I did not preach a sermon."

"That's exactly what made it so great," he declared. "And," Crawford added, "those youth said more in their 'When the Church Does It Backwards' than you do when you preach."

Since then I have given some thought to Crawford's snide comment. "There are two kinds of sermons people won't listen to," Fred Craddock, one of the most noted preachers of our age, told a group of us. "First," he stated, "people will not listen to bad preaching. They just won't listen to bad preaching. And, second," he added, "they won't listen to good preaching."

Maybe that is why Jesus so often taught in parables, because of that little unexpected twist at the end of each one that catches us off guard and makes us look at things differently. Maybe we need to present the faith in new, unusual, even unexpected ways.

The youth group did that on Sunday. They made us look at worship and daily faithfulness to Christ in new ways.

Perhaps it is that same quality of the unexpected that causes me to cherish a "Morning Prayer" that a friend copied from Tek Retiree News and gave to me:

So far today, God, I've done all right.
I haven't gossiped, haven't lost my temper,
I haven't been greedy, grumpy, nasty, or
over-indulgent. I am very thankful for that.

But in a few minutes, God,
I'm going to get out of bed,
And from then on I'm going to need
All the help You can give me.

Amen.

February 7, 2006
"I AM . . . YOU ARE . . . "

"I'm thinking about writing a devotional for our Lenten book," I told Crawford, the talking crow. "Everyone is invited to contribute some thoughts, reflections, inspiring words. Any ideas?"

"Lots."

"I mean useful ideas. I'm considering writing about John 6:41-51, in which Jesus declares, 'I am the bread that comes down from heaven."

Crawford twisted his head and cast a hopeful eye toward the sky. "Whole wheat or sourdough?" he asked.

"Don't be so literal."

"What if you asked readers," Crawford suggested thoughtfully, "to complete 'I am' statements about themselves?"

"You try it," I urged.

He thought for a moment. "I am a crow; you're not. I am feathered; you're naked and bald. I am able to fly; you're ground-bound. I--"

"CRAWFORD!"

"OK, I'll name similarities. For instance, I have four things in common with John the Baptist."

I thought of three. Crawford the crow, like John the Baptist, eats insects, lives out of doors, and loudly denounces the failings of others. But a fourth?

"It's simple," the corvid explained. "He and I share the same middle name." With that, he flew off.

"I am the bread that came down from heaven," Jesus said. Then he explained how that benefited his followers, adding, "the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh."

What if each of us made a list of personal "I am" statements followed by "therefore--" statements?

"I am a parent; therefore, I will . . . "

"I am a follower of Christ; therefore, I will . . ."

"I am a child of God; therefore, I am . . ."

Try making such a list about yourself. The results might be very enlightening!

January 31, 2006
THE CROSS-DRESSING PREACHER

"You are not colorful enough."

"And a good day to you, too, Crawford," I said, responding to a voice coming from behind a clump of needles in a pine tree near the church office. "And, I might add, as one who is all-black, including feet and bill, I don't think you have any room to criticize."

My friend the talking crow fluttered down to a lower branch, where the tree limbs were more separated from one another. "There, now I can see you better--not that it's worth the effort," he announced.

"OK," I said, resigning myself to another round of corvid disapproval. "Just what do you mean, I am not colorful enough?"

"I went to a different church last Sunday," Crawford announced. He paused, as if waiting for some expression of disapproval or regret on my part. Hearing none, he continued. "The preacher there did a great job of cross-dressing."

"WHAT?" I demanded.

"Oh, yeah. This guy wore a really colorful dress."

"You mean robe," I corrected.

"Whatever. And the scarf he wore was even better."

"Perhaps you mean stole."

Crawford eyed me thoughtfully. "Really? Filched it, did he? Well, well. And he was wearing a large necklace with a cross hanging on it. Do you think he stole that, too?"

"Crawford, I---"

But my friend interrupted me. "So there he was, wearing this colorful dress and scarf and necklace, looking like a real knock-out, only his purse was on fire!"

"Crawford, that was a censer," I explained.

The crow rubbed his beak on the branch, then eyed me once again. "Censor, eh? I'm glad you can explain all this to me. So in reality," Crawford reflected, "this cross-dressing preacher was actually a thief, but he was also one who decides what people can and cannot read. Well, that does explain why everyone at that church went inside, picked up identical copies of a little book, and read out loud together."

It took me some time to explain to Crawford the difference between censer and censor, the difference between the noun stole and the verb stole, and the difference between liturgical and non-liturgical worship. His attention lapsed sometime before I finished, so he entertained himself by preening his feathers.

However, Crawford's report did remind me of the variety of worship customs that have developed during the centuries, and how odd they must appear to those outside their own traditions.

An older translation of I Peter 2:9 described us Christians as "a peculiar people." Perhaps one of our tasks is to make sure that what we do is meaningful, and not just peculiar.

January 24, 2006
THE FOX, THE CROW, AND THE KINGDOM OF GOD

"Jesus was either extremely naive or else insane," Crawford the talking crow declared to me one day, when we were discussing theology. "He said that the kingdom of God had arrived, and he somehow expected that just proclaiming that would make everyone decide to do things God's way."

I responded with a gentle rebuke. "How dare you say that, you bird brain? Jesus was the Messiah. Just who are you to criticize his methods?"

The corvid drew himself back, lifted his head, and asked, "I don't know what a messy-iah is, but if Jesus expected to change human nature, he sure didn't understand humans!"

I paused, lost for words. Some of our Jewish friends ask the same sort of question. If Jesus were the Messiah, where is the promised messianic age of peace and faith? If Jesus were the world's Redeemer, why doesn't the world look very redeemed? What happened to Jesus' promise of a coming reign of God?

Sensing my helplessness, Crawford himself offered an answer. "It's like this," he said, in his best lecture-tone-of-voice, "once a fox looked up into a tree and saw a crow sitting on the topmost branch."

(I've noticed that crows prefer to be in the tops of trees.)

"The fox was hungry, and he thought about how good crow meat would taste. So he tried to persuade the crow to come down, but the wise bird only leered contemptuously at him."

(I didn't know Crawford knew such long words.)

"'Foolish crow!' the fox said. 'Believe me, you have no reason to fear me. Don't you know that the birds and beasts will never have to fight again? Haven't you heard that the Messiah has come? If you read the Bible, you would know the prophet Isaiah described the age of the Messiah, how the lion and the lamb will lie down together, with the fox and the crow, and there shall be peace forevermore.'

"Just then both the crow and the fox heard the barking of dogs, coming closer and closer. The fox began to tremble with fright.

"'Foolish fox!' the crow said. 'Since you have read the Bible, you know what the prophet Isaiah has said. All animals will live together in harmony and peace.'

"'True, I know what the prophet Isaiah said,' whimpered the fox as he slunk off into the bushes, 'but the trouble is, the dogs don't.'

"And there ends the parable," announced Crawford proudly. "The message of Jesus has been preached by religious hucksters like the fox, and ignored by obliviates like the dogs. If more Christians lived out the teachings of Jesus and taught others to do so, well then--maybe there would be some changes. Maybe."

So saying, the crow leered contemptuously at me....

January 17, 2006
SINS AND REGRETS

"What was that you buried under the trees last Sunday?" asked Crawford the talking crow during a rare sun-break. "A house cat, I hope." (Crawford hates cats because they hunt birds, including baby crows.)

"No," I responded. "We buried our regrets and resentments."

"Which regrets? A regret that you weren't burying a house cat?"

"Regrets for our sins, mostly," I said.

"For your sins? In that small of a container?" The corvid shook his head. "You humans have a heap lot more sins than that!"

Yes, I knew that Crawford was just trying to bait me, in his usual manner of denigrating humans in general (and, whenever possible, this human in particular). So I decided to cut short his criticisms by agreeing with him, or at least tossing out some Bible verses that seemed to agree with him:

"You're right," I said. "As the apostle Paul wrote, 'All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.'"

Crawford just hates to have his denunciation speeches cut short. So he glared at me with a beady eye and then flipped his tail (a corvid gesture that, well, had best not be translated). "Doesn't take a rocket surgeon to discover that!" he declared. "You humans falls short of a lot more than just the glory of God! You've been sinning ever since Atom and Eden in the Garden of Eve."

Brushing his mispronunciation of names aside, I tossed him this zinger: "By saying that 'all' have sinned, surely the good Apostle included birds as well as humans, don't you think?"

Crawford nodded. "Probably so. We crows sin, too. Only difference between you and us is, the sins we commit we don't in the least regret."

January 10, 2006
CROWS AND OTHER CRITTERS

I started across the wooded area of our church property, intending to make a shortcut to Country Homes Boulevard and repair some damage to one of our new signs. Suddenly a pine cone hit my left shoulder. Then another one sharply struck my bald head.

"Fie, fie, on the Human Aggressor!" came a voice from overhead.

I looked up just in time to dodge a falling twig. Two black crows were circling about. One of them swooped down to the ground, snatched up some decorative bark shreds in its claws, rose swiftly, and deposited the ground cover all over me.

"Down with the Tyrant, down with the Oppressor!" the other crow screeched.

"Crawford! Charisma! Stop this immediately!" I demanded of my friend (?), the talking crow and his "significant bother" girlfriend. They did not heed my words, at least not until I returned to the church building, found a cookie, and divided it for them.

As it turned out, they had both heard a radio preacher speaking on the verse in Genesis about how God created humans to "have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the air...," and these two corvids were not about to put up with that kind of theology!

Their reaction got me to thinking about animals in general. Sometimes we religious folk tend to forget the other millions of species who inhabit this earth with us. (I recall hearing of one pastor who began