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June 16, 2009
THE PICKLE JUICE INCIDENT

It had been some time since I last saw Crawford, the scruffy talking curmudgeon crow. But yesterday I smelled Crawford even before I saw him.

As I approached my pickup in the church parking lot, I was assailed by the strong smell of garlic and vinegar. I peered into my vehicle's bed, searching for the source of the pungent odor, and I almost missed seeing the crow, hunched down in a corner and blending in with the black plastic liner.

"Crawford, you stink!" I said, by way of greeting.

"Shhhh! Don't let on that I'm here," he urged. "Just drive off. Get me away from the murder of crows that hang out here."

Please remember that Crawford's diction is almost as bad as his cynicism. So I thought I heard him plea for me to get him away because he had murdered a crow and he was going to hang for it. Then I remembered that a flock of crows is called "a murder," and I pieced together what he had just said.

But that did not explain why they wanted to hang him, or the way he smelled.

"Get in and drive!" the corvid insisted again.

"Not until you explain the smell," I stated.

He deeply sighed (making a sound similar to air escaping from a toy balloon). "Me and Crunchspot, Clipperfoot, and Catspirt, were checking out this picnic table. As soon as the family left the table to go to the river, we swooped down and helped ourselves. Clipperfoot grabbed an open bag of potato chips, and Catspirt began eating a huge wiener. But Crunchspot was curious about the jar of mustard. He tried to land on its rim and tipped the bottle over. He hopped down into the spilled yellow puddle and tasted it. Meanwhile the mustard bottle rolled down the table, heading right toward Catspirt. He jumped up and flapped his wings. But he was still holding the wiener, and this put him off balance so that his wing beat against the spilled mustard and splattered me and Crunchspot with globs of yellow goo. Clipperfoot panicked and bolted, knocking a pickle jar over the edge of a cooler and showering me in pickle juice!"

There's not much more to report. I took Crawford to our house and let him clean off in our birdbath. But this incident did remind me of a critic of Christianity who described some believers "looking as if they had been baptized in pickle juice." I've known such people--you know the kind, always scowling, grouchy, and complaining. I just wish that this critic (and maybe Crawford, too) could be around the Country Homes folk and hear our frequent laughter and joyous appreciation for others!

April 7, 2009
CORVID PHILOSOPHY

Lately I have been logging bits of philosophy expressed by Crawford, the scruffy talking crow. My efforts began several weeks ago when, after voicing a long list of worries, he remarked, "I have a new philosophy: I will dread one day at a time."

Most of this crow's insights center on human foibles. For example, he maintains that if God had intended people to smoke, he would have set them on fire. And he claims that his philosophy is objective--that is, he objects to just about everything.

He also critiques religious affirmations. One warm summer Sunday he listened to a sermon in a local church. When the minister intoned, "All things are possible for those who have faith," Crawford yelled through an open window, "So try skiing through a revolving door!"

At a different church, this bird interrupted yet another sermon. The preacher stated, "Remember, money can't buy happiness," and Crawford shouted, "So you'll just have to rent it."

I dread the time when this curmudgeon crow finds some way to speak up during my own sermons! But his example does remind me of the value of a personal philosophy. Without a thoughtful search for meaning and purpose, all we can do is shrug our shoulders and say, "Life is just one of those things."

Jesus said that he offers his followers a new and different way. "I came," he declared, "that they may have life, and have it abundantly." Indeed, life in Christ is far, far more than "just one of those things."

March 24, 2009
ON DIETING

It had been two weeks since I visited with my friend (?) Crawford, the talking crow. When I did encounter him, he was not sitting on a pine tree branch. Instead, he was on the ground, walking very slowly and dragging his wingtips in a dejected and listless manner.

"Crawford, what happened?" I exclaimed.

"Weak, weak, I'm weak from hunger," he whispered. "Charisma [Crawford's 'significant bother'] put me on a diet for two weeks."

I eyed his feathered mid-drift. "How much did you lose?" I asked.

"I've lost two weeks," he reported. "Two whole weeks. Life is just one 'eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we diet.'"

The crow continued in this vein for some time-- reminding me of Charisma's comment that Crawford learned to speak because of his deep need to complain.

"I got so hungry," he added, "that I actually flew through the doors into a grocery store."

This caught my interest. "What did you find?" I asked.

The bird shook his head. "I found that I needed water. For the powdered milk. You just add water and you get milk. Then I found powdered orange juice. Just add water and you get orange juice. And then I found baby powder and I thought, no wonder there are so many humans!"

This conversation reminded me that the first commandment given by God to humans, according to Genesis, was "be fruitful and multiply." Well, we've done that. It's the one commandment from God that we've fulfilled and more so.

Maybe, I thought to myself, we might consider being just as equally attentive to some of God's other instructions.

Just a thought.

March 17, 2009
THE BATTLE OF THE SEXES

You may recall that Crawford the talking crow has a "friend" (he refers to her as his "significant bother") named Charisma, and that the two of them have to fight like cats and dogs just to stay together. Much of their fighting takes the form of put-downs.

For example, Crawford informed me the other day that Charisma is a non-believer. "She says she's an atheist," he stated. Then, turning to her, he demanded, "Is it true, that you believe in nothing?"

"Yes," she replied. "I can believe only in something that I understand."

"Ah," responded Crawford, "that certainly explains why you believe in nothing."

She ruffled her feathers at him. "And I suppose you believe all those misogynist stories in the Bible! Like when it says that God made man before he made woman."

"Certainly," replied Crawford, "God created woman second, and he did so because he didn't want any advice on how to make a man."

I've been thinking about the "battle of the sexes" among humans (and crows?). It started, the Bible says, clear back in Eden, when Adam blamed Eve for tempting him (and blamed God, for giving him Eve).

The outcome of that "battle" was disastrous: Adam would rule over Eve, Eve would seek to manipulate Adam (the meaning of the word translated "desire"), and the serpent would never need to wear pants.

But at Country Homes, the "battle of the sexes" leads to something good: food for the hungry (as well as a lot of laughter). But there may be a broader truth here, that sometimes things which divides us can help us work together. I hope and pray that unity of effort can arise from our diversity--political, religious, social, generational, and economic.

February 24, 2009
A CRAZY CROW

"I think you'd better have a look at Crawford," said Charisma, whom Crawford, the talking crow, refers to as his "significant bother."

"I think he's lost his mind," she added, "after the assault."

"What assault?" I asked, surprised.

"Some kids threw a snowball at him. The way he describes it, 'I wondered why the snowball got bigger, and then it hit me.' Ever since then, he's not been right in the head." She touched her own head with a claw, for emphasis.

I asked Charisma (the only other talking crow I know besides Crawford) to lead me to him. He was standing on a tree branch, hunched over.

When I called to him, he shook all over, sputtered, and said something like "Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like an apricot." He twitched his wings and stared at me. "Why did the chicken cross the road?" he asked. "He wanted to be poultry in motion." Then he began to sing, country western style, "She was just a bootlegger, but I truly loved her still."

I tried to be sympathetic with his obviously damaged mind. "Crawford," I said, "you're nuts."

"Ah, the religious guru," he said. Turning to the other crow, he cautioned her, "Charisma, don't join dangerous cults: practice safe sects!"

Hearing that, she let out a yelp and flew off. Crawford watched her go and then turned to me. "Whew! Finally got rid of her! She thinks I'm cuckoo and at last she's gone!"

I've been thinking about this crow's pretending to be crazy. I also thought about how people assumed that Jesus was "out of his mind" (Mark 3:21, John 10:20). And no wonder folks questioned Jesus' mental stability when he said things like "love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you" and "whoever loves father or mother (or son or daughter) more than me is not worthy of me"!

Jesus must have shocked his original hearers. Some of them left, shaking their heads. But some stayed.

Which would we have done?

January 27, 2009
A CROW'S VERSION OF THE BIBLE

Last week I was visited by Crawford, the talking crow. He greeted me with a cheerful, "It's been a long time since I haven't seen you."

I mumbled something about how it hadn't been long enough, and then I asked him, in a voice loud enough for him to hear, how he was coping with the cold weather.

"One day I really made a wrong mistake," he related. "It was so cold that I followed a maid into a warm motel room. She didn't see me when she left and closed the door. So I was trapped."

"What did you do?" I asked.

"I found a Bible that belonged to someone named Gideon. I read it with my own eyes, not having anyone else's handy."

This peaked my interest. "Well, what did you learn from the Bible?" I asked.

"I concluded that it was God's autobiography, written by someone else. It began when God made birds superior to humans."

"How do you figure that?" I demanded.

The corvid cocked his head and stared at me. "He made birds first, before making Adam. Therefore birds are more important." I pointed out that God made trees before he made birds, so obviously a stump was more valuable than a crow. Crawford shook his head. "Nope. No report in the Bible of birds sinning. It took humans to do that. God put them in a garden where the hand of man had never set foot. But that wasn't good enough for Eve. She had to be tempted by the civil serpent.

"In fact, humans were so bad that God sent a flood. The flood was so deep they had to evaporate all the cities. But God saved Noah, so that Noah could release a crow from the ark."

"Crawford," I responded, "you have an interesting way of interpreting the scriptures to glorify crows."

"Well, it's my virgin of what happened," the bird insisted.

I thought about this conversation for some time. Most people do interpret the scriptures in ways that fit their assumptions and egos. It takes a humble and discerning spirit to let the text speak for itself. But when it happens, the insights enrich us immensely!

December 30, 2008
STOREHOUSES OF SNOW

I had not seen Crawford the talking crow for weeks, not since some time before the Great Snowfall began. I assumed that somewhere he had found a warm and dry place in which to wait out the storms.

But as I left the church building, stepping carefully in order not to slip on the sidewalk, I heard a pitiful cry: "Shudder! Shudder!"

As I approached the trees beyond the parking lot I heard the voice more distinctly. It wasn't saying "Shudder," but "Shut the door! Shut the door!"

Risking freezing my kneecaps, to say nothing of my ankles, I crossed over (through?) the pile left by the snowplow and entered the woods. Sure enough, there was a black shape huddled on a lower branch.

"What door?" I demanded. "There's no door out here, just trees."

"And you call yourself a Bible ridder," he mumbled. "Have you never read the Book of Job?" (He pronounced it Jahb, as if a synonym for employment.)

"Yes," I said, "I have read the book of Jo-oh-b," I responded. "In fact, I once played the part of God in "JB," a dramatic form of Job. Type casting, don't you think?"

But Crawford's receptivity to humor was at an all-time low.

"In the Book of Jahb," he replied in a lecturing tone of voice, "God says, 'Have you entered the storehouses of the snow, or have you seen the storehouses of the hail, which I have reserved for the time of trouble, for the day of battle and war?'"

"How did you learn that passage?" I asked, marveling at this corvid's expanse of knowledge.

"From a preacher in ANOTHER church, a church that lets cold birds inside. He repeated that scripture over and over, saying that the Bible says snow is sent by God for the day of battle and war, and therefore the End of the World is just a few more snowflakes away."

"Yeah, just a few flakes away," I responded sarcastically. "So what's this about shutting some door? Did they shut you up in that church building?"

"No, no. I want to shut the door on the storehouse of snow, to keep it from spilling down on us. I want to prevent the day of battle and war! I want to stop the End of the World from happening! I want to save the world. And I want a cookie for my troubles."

I explained how snowfall could be God's way of halting a battle, not starting one, that no one could possibly predict the end of the world, and that "storehouses of snow" was just a figure of speech. But Crawford wasn't having any of this. Not until I went back to the church, found a cookie, and brought it to him.

"Maybe," he admitted, holding the morsel in one claw and munching away, "maybe the world is not about to end, after all."

And I thought of the homeless and the hungry and the cold unfortunates in our city, and how I wish the gift of a cookie or two could give them renewed hope for the future…

November 11, 2008
MESSY RELIGIOUS LANGUAGE

"What does your church teach in your essel school?" Crawford the talking crow asked me recently.

"That's ESL school," I corrected. "The letters are abbreviations. They stand for English as a Second Language."

"Hummph! Should stand for Extra Sensory Language. After all, English is not logical. And if it can't be figured out, it can't be taught."

I asked him what he meant, that English is not logical.

He threw back his head. "OK, how logical is it to teach that you make plurals by adding an s, yet you say mice rather than mouses and geese rather than gooses, but not meese instead of mooses? Why is a 'fat chance' the same as a 'slim chance'? Why don't 'overlook' and 'oversee' mean the same thing? And why does 'slow down' mean the same as 'slow up'?

"And there there's spelling," he continued. "If a word is misspelled in a dictionary, how would you ever know? And why isn't ‘phonetic’ spelled the way it sounds? No, English is not logical; therefore, it cannot be teached."

I've thought about this bird's criticism of our Native Tongue. But the problem runs deeper than our quirky language. Our vocabulary of faith has been severely hampered by misunderstandings and inadequate translations.

Maybe we need a BSL school to provide us a "Bible as a Second Language" education. If we did, then we would discover that in the scriptures "faith" is more a verb than a noun, "salvation" includes a whole lot more than life after death, and "love" is an action that may not have anything to do with one's feelings.

But just as I turned to share my thoughts with Crawford, he "flewed" away.

November 4, 2008
RULES TO LIVE BY

Crawford the talking crow believes he has an answer for everything. For example, I once asked him why the chicken crossed the road. "I don't know," he said, "but when it does, it's poultry in motion."

This past week, I attempted to get know-it-all Crawford off of some rant by asking him to summarize his philosophy of life.

He ticked off his three rules to live by: "Don't ever generalize. Be more or less specific. Keep off the grass."

"Why 'keep off the grass'?" I asked.

The crow sadly shook his head. "Because smoking pot makes you crazy," he stated. "And then you can't really live life fully."

Now, just how would Crawford know about marijuana? Not wanting to sound accusatory, I asked, "OK, birdbrain, give me a general example of a more or less specific unfulfilled life."

The crow obliged me. "There was this man," he began, "who told his wife, 'I never want to live in a vegetative state, dependent on some machine and fluids from a bottle. If that ever happens, just pull the plug.' So his wife got up, unplugged the TV and threw out all of his beer."

I considered that story. Unfulfilled life? Jesus once said, "The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly." (John 10:10) What is the thief that ruins life? What robs us of life abundant? Addiction, yes, and perhaps there are more covert thieves: jealousy, striving for wealth, fears, anxiousness--many things that leave us unfulfilled and captive.

So I turned to Crawford, and began to explain that Jesus offers us the best chance at a fulfilled life, but the bird had already flown.

October 7, 2008
A CURMUDGEON'S VIEW OF PREACHING

"I understand," I said to Crawford the talking crow, "that corvids, including crows, are regarded by the Federal Government as 'song birds.'"

I'm not sure why Crawford took offense at this remark. Perhaps it was the spasms of laughter that I tried to suppress afterwards. But offended he was.

"My singing is no more irritating than your preaching," he snapped back.

That remark stung. How could he criticize my homiletical endeavors when he has seldom if ever heard me speak from the pulpit. "Poof!" I said. And I meant every syllable. "You don't know what you're talking about. My sermons, according to some folk at least, are stimulating."

"Right. So they have coffee hour right after the sermon, so as to wake worshipers up. When's the last time you had someone talk back to you while you're speaking? You'd do better to preach more about hellfire and rimstone."

His remark reminded me of a statement by Billy Graham, "If we had more hell in the pulpit, we would have less hell in the pew."

"Look, birdbrain," I said politely, "I'm not sure how valuable preaching really is, but it is expected of me and I'll do it the best way I know how."

The crow shook his head slowly. "I've always thought the role of the preacher in church was like that of a corpse at a funeral. You can’t hold the event without one, but nobody expects you to say very much."

Crawford's curmudgeon attitude did not bother me (not much, any way), but afterwards I gave some thought to my preaching. I finally concluded that, when all is said and done, St. Francis de Sales said it best: "The test of a preacher is that his [or her] congregation goes away saying not 'What a lovely sermon!' but 'I will do something.'"

September 23, 2008
WHICH KIND OF CHRISTIAN AM I?

"How do you classy-fie yourself?" Crawford the talking crow asked me one day last week.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Are you a progressive or a regressive Christian?"

"Crawford," I responded in a tone of voice reserved for classroom lectures. I was preparing to educate this corvid on current American Christianity. But then I halted, hesitated and asked, "What do you mean?"

"You're repeating yourself," he scolded.

"What do you mean," I asked again, "by 'regressive Christian'?"

"I mean, are you a libel or a conservative, a progressive or a fund-am-mental-list?"

I thought to myself that this crow may not be able to pronounce religious terms very accurately, but he's right on with the question. The day before, I had visited with a couple who are turned off by some churches' condemnation of homosexuality. That morning I received a call from a "medical ethics" religious group that is opposed to doctor-assisted suicide. I had just received word from a chaplain about Focus on the Family's proposed 40-day-long demonstrate against the Planned Parenthood office here in Spokane.

Then I recalled a provocative comment by one of my Gonzaga students, who stated, "Jesus would never be accepted by either [American] political party because he was a social liberal and a moral conservative."

Which kind of Christian am I? The question is not a fair one. If Jesus did not fit any one category, how can we, his followers, fit comfortably into one box? That's why I work best by reflecting on the "core values" in Jesus' ministry, because they give me something solid on which to base ethical, social, political decisions.

So I replied to Crawford, "Don't hedge me in with labels. Just help me follow the Savior's footprints, even if they lead through areas of crossfire and chaos."

September 16, 2008
ENGLISH AS SHE IS TALKED

"I would like to be a tutor in the ESL school."

Those words would ordinarily thrill me, because our English as a second language school does such a valuable service for foreign-born folk. The life stories of some of the ESL students are dramatic and engaging and our tutoring is invaluable.

But this time I was not thrilled at all, because the voice came from a pine tree. The actual words, to be precise, were: "I would like to be a Tudor in the easel school."

"Crawford," I replied to my friend the talking crow, hidden from sight behind the branches, "Tudor is the name of a royal family in England."

"I could like being royalty."

"And it's ESL, not easel."

There was a moment of silence. "You're a poor speller. You wouldn't make a good Tudor."

So I dutifully explained the meaning of ESL.

"I can do that," the corvid replied eagerly, sticking his head out from his hidden perch.

"Do what?"

"Teach them how English is talked."

I shook my head. "Just how would you go about it?"

Crawford thought for a moment. "I'd start with a small word, the word 'set.' I'd tell them that in the dictionary there are 464 definitions of 'set,' and that they have to learn them all. Then I'd have them go on to a second English word, and when they finish with that one--"

My conversation with this ambitious crow got me thinking about words, particularly words of faith. The term "God" can never communicate all the wondrous aspects of the Deity. In the Bible, "salvation" means much more than "going to Heaven someday." "Faith" is not just a list of beliefs (again, words), but a lived-out trust in the promises of God. We need words, but they cannot even begin to substitute for the real thing, especially in matters of the spirit.

August 26, 2008
CHURCH FOUR-WHEELERS

Crawford, the talking crow, was asking me about our congregation. "Do you have a lot of four-wheelers?" he asked.

I thought about vehicles in the parking lot on a typical day. Not really that many four wheel drives. But then I realized the corvid did not know much about automobiles. So I asked, "what sort of 'four-wheelers' do you mean?"

"Those who come only in a stroller for their baby dedication, taxi for their wedding and hearse for their funeral."

This got to thinking about church attendance. Several years ago I read a book about why people attend church. The author (whose name I have now forgotten) identified four reasons people come to church: (1) to understand, (2) to be understood, (3) to belong, and (4) to hope. In other words (my words, at least), regular attendance is meant to enrich a person spiritually and relationally.

The author forgot, however, a fifth reason: to do what Christ asks of us. Many of Christ's commands simply cannot be fulfilled by individuals. We need to work together to accomplish great things for God.

The Christian Century (May 6, 2008) illustrated this fact by reporting how Ted Turner, who once called Christianity "a religion for losers," has launched "a joint initiative with Lutherans and United Methodists in the U. S. to raise $200 million to fight malaria in Africa. The CNN founder made the announcement at the United Nations headquarters in New York City, flanked by Methodist and Lutheran leaders. Turner said he had become more tolerant of religion and regretted anything negative he has said in the past. “I'm sure God, wherever he is, wants to see us get along with one another and love one another,” he said. And doing that, I might add, takes organization.

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 a children's sermon with the words, "I'm thinking of something that is brown, has a bushy tail, and every fall gathers acorns to store. What am I thinking of?" After a long silence, a young child piped up: "I'm sure the right answer is Jesus, but it sure sounds like a squirrel to me.")

My favorite thought about animals comes from The Outermost House, by Henry Beston. He writes: "We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals. Remote from universal nature, and living by complicated artifice, man in civilization surveys the creature through the glass of his knowledge and sees thereby a feather magnified and the whole image in distortion. We patronize them for their incompleteness, for their tragic fate of having taken form so far below ourselves. And therein we err, and greatly err. For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendor and travail of the earth."

As I said last Sunday, the world translated "dominion" does not mean we have the right to deface or destroy the earth and its inhabitants. It means that we are stewards, managers, of this planet.

On the other hand, a couple of fricasseed crows might make the world a bit better . . .

January 3, 2006
THE HUMAN ANIMAL

My friendship with Crawford, the talking curmudgeon crow, has led me to wonder about the differences between animals and humans--if there are any, that is.

Some religious folk believe that humans are made in the image of God. After all, doesn't the Genesis account of creation say just that? On the other hand, think about the last time you read a newspaper. Could you imagine anyone worshiping the Almighty, if God behaved the way humans do?

Some philosophers point out that we are capable of abstract thinking. However, we make far more mistakes than most animals. Maybe we are smarter and dumber, all at the same time. (As Crawford said of a certain handsome politician, "Body by Fisher, brain by Mattel.")

Some engineers have said that humans use tools. But I have watched seagulls carry clams up high and drop them onto rocks to break the shells. (And Crawford claims that a seagull's IQ is 2, and it takes an IQ of 3 just to sneeze.)

Some linguists claim that only humans can communicate, but any pet owner knows better than that.

So what does distinguish us from the rest of God's critters? The ability to love? Hardly. A sense of gratitude? No way. Altruism? Some animals have shown a great amount of self-giving.

Mark Twain said that a human is the only creature who blushes--or has reason to. But I have seen animals who felt shame or embarrassment, haven't you?

I asked Crawford what remarkable ability distinguishes humans from animals, and he informed me that only humans are unafraid of vacuum cleaners.

Perhaps the greatest difference, however, is our freedom. We can survive in all sorts of climate. We can travel by land, on or under the sea, through the air, and even into space. We can engage in "ethnic cleansing" or humanitarian aid. We can cheat, steal, or kill, or we can demonstrate deep compassion and heroic bravery.

The story of Adam and Eve is somehow true for every one of us: we can choose which fruit to eat.

December 20, 2005
GINGERBREAD HOUSES

I needed a break from all the normal activities in and around the church office. I strolled outside, on the off chance that I might find Crawford, the talking crow, and engage in some helpful conversation.

How naive can I be?

Oh, I did find the corvid. And I did engage him in conversation. But helpful?

"What would you like for Christmas?" I asked him (not as an offer, you understand, but as a communication starter). I expected him to respond with a request for the elimination of all house cats, or something cosmic like that.

"A gingerloaf house," he declared.

"A what?"

"A GINGERLOAF HOUSE!" he shouted, apparently assuming that I was hard of hearing.

"I think you mean gingerbread house," I corrected. "Brown, with icing for trim and candy roofing--that sort of thing?"

"Yeah, a gingerbread house, where one can loaf all day," he said, shaking his wing and tail feathers in a contented manner.

"Wait a minute," I interrupted, "you mean a gingerbread house for you to live in?"

Crawford peered at me with a beady black eyeball. "Of course it would have to be big enough for Charisma and myself, both."

"But, but why a gingerbird, I mean gingerbread house?"

"So Charisma can say of me, 'He ate us out of house and home.'"

Well, maybe the crow has something there. It is the Christmas season, when we appreciate beautiful and tasty things. And we also think of the hungry, and the homeless. It's a time to express love of family and friends--and love of neighbors and strangers as well.

May the Spirit of Christ fill this season (and our hearts) with all blessings!

December 13, 2005
REUNION

I walked outside the church building, looking for Crawford, the talking crow. Last week he told me that Charisma, his "significant bother," had left him, and I was worried that he might be depressed.

"Crawford!" I called to the pine trees.

"Go 'way," one of them answered.

"Crawford, I can't see you in those branches."

"Go 'way."

"Look, Crawford, I know you're disappointed that Charisma left you, but you need to get over it. After all, Christmas is coming!"

"So?"

"Well, I mean, after all, Christmas is one of those times to be cheery and all that." I suddenly remembered that Christmas can be the worst holiday of the year for those who have lost a loved one. So I decided to change the subject.

"Crawford, have you thought about why Charisma left you?" I asked hesitatingly.

"I know why she left me. She went off with Chatmutter, the newly-elected King Crow. Hard to imagine her taking up with a politician! They had a tornado romance."

"Uh, I think you mean whirlwind romance."

"Whatever. I'm told it was the kind of romance you'd want to make into a movie. Probably call it, 'Gone With the Windbag.'"

For a moment, I thought I heard a "tee hee" from the tree. "Crawford, are you alone? Or have you found some little tornado of your own?"

"Go 'way. As the Bible says, 'Where two or three are gathered together, the third one's a crowd.'"

I moved around for a different view. I discovered not one but two crows on the branch--a large scruffy one, and a smaller long-legged one. "Charisma, you're back!" I exclaimed. "How did it happen?"

She rubbed her beak through Crawford's chest feathers. "He told me he needed me," she explained.

Since then I've thought about her words, and about the Christmas story. Jesus came because we needed him, of course. We need grace and hope and faith, yes. But we also need to be needed. When we read the gospels, we may marvel at the character and deeds of Jesus. But it is when he turns around and looks at us, the readers, and even says to us, "Come, follow me," that the Good News becomes just that. We are then not just "saved," but also needed.

December 6, 2005
FEATHERED IGNORANCE

During my last conversation with Crawford, the talking crow, I (silently) threatened to eat that bird during Thanksgiving dinner. I did not carry through with my impulse. He is still alive and fully feathered. But there is Christmas dinner to consider . . .

However, Crawford does demonstrate a certain amount of charm--if you can call it that--in his own curmudgeon manner. Moreover, he fascinates me in the way he demonstrates a great amount of knowledge in some areas and flat-out ignorance in others.

Consider Christmas, for example. He described it to me as a season centered around "gold, frank incest, and mirth." When I began to explain about the gifts brought to the Christ child, he became indignant. "I know all about those mangy people from the east," he declared in a huffy manner.

"That's magi, not mangy," I insisted. "They were wise men, not diseases."

"Whatever," he snapped. Crawford does not like to be corrected.

"You ought to enroll in a Bible study," I suggested (knowing full well that Crawford would balk at revealing his unusual mental abilities, let alone commit to any form of disciplined study).

"Not in your church," he stated flatly. "You don't take education seriously."

I bristled at this accusation. I countered with a recital of our Sunday school program and those other classes offered at various times during the year.

"School, shmool," the bird said. "Your 'classes' meet only one hour a week. Your teachers do not require housework." (I think Crawford meant homework.) "They do not give proficiency tests. They do not provide make-up materials for those who are absent--and many children are absent far more often than they attend. If the public schools taught math or reading that way, parents would start a protest movement."

I don't know why I listen to that bird. We have really dedicated, caring church school teachers, but how do you communicate that fact to a crow? Or, for that matter, to parents and children who do not recognize the great value of religious education?

On the other hand, our Christmas dinner menu is still flexible. One more meat course might be comforting as well as nutritious.

November 29, 2005
HOW CRAWFORD RUINED THANKSGIVING

"Explain to me again about Thanksgiving," demanded my friend Crawford, the talking crow.

Well, I do like to teach, so I began to explain about the ancient Hebrew harvest festival, Sukkoth. I anticipated moving on to the story of the Pilgrims, and--

"Sukkoth, smukkoth," Crawford snorted. "Save the lectures for those who need their sleep. All I want to know is what you gave thanks for."

"Well, for the food we eat, for one thing," I answered, "and our health, and--"

"So you thanked the cook and the grocer and the truck driver and the farmer?"

"Well, no. We thanked God."

The crow stared at me. "None of the people who grew and harvested and delivered the food you ate?"

I was silent. I mean, how would you explain these spiritual matters to a birdbrain?

"And you thanked God for your health?" he asked. I nodded, glad to be off the subject of labor.

The crow stared at me for so long that I began to get irritated. Finally he spoke. "Several years ago I flew down to a farming area to visit my cousin Clinkpratter," he said, "and I saw a lot of workers in the fields. Some of them were provided decent housing, while others are kept in stinky, crowded shacks, unfit even for a cat." (Crawford hates house cats.)

"Crawford, I did not come here to talk about labor issues."

"Labor, smabor. I'm talking about health. What happens if these workers get really sick and spread Germans to everyone else?"

"That's germs," I corrected, "not Germans!" But I knew that Crawford had a very good point. Unsanitary conditions and lack of medical services have destroyed populations before.

I thought also about the difficulty of giving thanks this season for food that might have been harvested by those who have little reason to give thanks. I thought about all these things.

Boy, has Crawford ruined my post-Thanksgiving holiday! Nonetheless, I did resolve to do something. Next year I will boycott food on Thanksgiving. Instead of the usual veggies and fruits, I will eat only pumpkin pie.

And instead of turkey, well, I wonder how a different kind of black-feathered bird might taste?

November 22, 2005
CROWS AND CHRISTIANS

Crows get a bad rap. Naturalists refer to a flock of these corvids as "a murder of crows," a curious phrase that evokes scenes from Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds." Our language includes such pejorative phrases as "thieving crows" and "eat crow."

(By the way, Tony Angell, who, in partnership with University of Washington science professor John Narzluff, authored a book entitled In the Company of Crows and Ravens, offers a recipe for those who wish to take the last phrase literally: Sautee a crow breast in olive oil, garlic and red-pepper sauce; fry; serve. Has the advantage of not tasting like chicken. When I related this culinary instruction to Crawford, the talking crow, he flew off, calling me a few choice names.)

On the other hand, crows are smart and resourceful. They craft spears and hooks to dig insects out of crevices, they pull on untended ice-fishing lines to steal the catch of the day, they drop walnuts in streets and wait for cars to crush the shells, they recognize individuals and can tell a difference between a man carrying a stick and one carrying a gun.

Somehow, all this makes me think of Christians. Too often people assume things about Christians: that we are all fundamentalists, anti education, science, and any idea newer than half a century. The stereotype of "dumb Christians" is becoming so wide-spread that some people of faith refrain from referring to themselves as Christians, and some congregations choose not to use the term "church" in their name.

Personally, I don't much care what people think of crows. But I do encourage us to challenge the tendency to place all followers of Christ in the same pigeon-hole (or crow-hole?). We need to be very outspoken about differences among those of faith, very articulate about diversity within the Christian community. For example, we may applaud and affirm and appreciate the spirit of forgiveness manifest among survivors of the recent tragic accident on Highway 395. But we may also politely challenge the assumption that those deaths were "the will of God," just as we may object to the pronouncement that the damage by Katrina was punishment for not doing what a Televangelist says God wants.

It is important for us, as persons of faith, to bring our best thinking and our finest sentiments into the public discourse, lest the voices of those on one edge of the Christian religion speak for all of us.

November 15, 2005
INTELLIGENT DESIGN?

Every so often I get into a conversation with Crawford, the curmudgeon talking crow, over the subject of evolution.

"What do you think of Intelligent Design?" I asked the corvid.

"I think it would be a good idea," he answered.

"No, no, I mean the claim that nature, by its very complexity, proves that life is the handiwork of a supernatural Intelligence. That nature is the product of Intelligent Design."

The crow shook his head. "Any Intelligence worthy of the thought would have designed you humans with feathers."

"That's silly," I countered. "We're mammals. If we were covered at all, it would be with fur."

"Oh? How would covering yourselves with trees help?" he inquired.

I paused. "That's f-u-r, not f-i-r," I informed him. "As in hair."

"Sadly lacking on your part," he responded, peering at the top of my head. "The Bible says that God made the beasts of the field and the birds of the air before he made humans. So both hair and feathers had already been invented; therefore what was intelligent about designing you humans naked?"

How can a person argue with such a supercilious birdbrain?

"And didn't Jesus say," Crawford continued, "in his parable of the ship and goats, 'I was naked and you clothed me'? If Jesus says it's not good for you to be naked, then why didn't God simply clothe you from the beginning. Intelligent design?--I don't think so!"

I had had enough of that silly crow. He wouldn't know intelligence if it bit off his tail feathers. Nonetheless, his twisted comments did get me thinking. Why didn't God design us so that we never get hungry? Or never get hurt? Or never sin? Instead, we have to figure out how to grow food, avoid accidents, and get along with others. And we have to be smart enough to actually do these things.

Intelligent Design? I began to wonder if the Design is all about forcing us to be come Intelligent.

November 8, 2005
OVERLOOKING SELECT BIBLICAL PASSAGES

"Just what is a religious money-a-mentalist?" asked my friend Crawford, the talking crow.

The question baffled me. I didn't know if he was referring to stewardship, TV evangelists, or fundraisers. Then it hit me. A fund has to do with money, and Crawford had mistakenly substituted one word for another.

"You mean fundamentalist?" I suggested.

"Yeah. That's what I said," he insisted. "What is it?"

So I quoted Georgia Harkness, who defined a fundamentalist as "a Bible literalist in a fighting mood." Then I explained the notion of biblical inerrancy, how fundamentalists regard every word of scripture as coming directly from God. Then I concluded my rather lengthy definition by referring to Betty DeBerg's Ungodly Women, in which she documents the real, hidden agenda of fundamentalism: to refute the theory of evolution and to keep women from assuming leadership roles in home, church, and society.

Crawford stared at me silently. So I illustrated my definition by describing a relative of mine. "She sees herself as evangelizing the world by denouncing abortions," I informed him.

Much to my embarrassment, Crawford was not familiar with the word abortion and asked me to define it. When I finished, the crow shook his head. "That would be like us breaking our own eggs," he said. "We would never do that." I felt more and more uncomfortable. "Doesn't the Bible forbid abortions?" he asked.

"Well, some think it does, in principle at least. But in the fifth chapter of Numbers it prescribes when and how a priest is to perform an abortion on a woman who is suspected of adultery."

Crawford shook his head even more vigorously. "What's wrong with a woman being an adult?" he inquired in a puzzled tone of voice.

So I had to explain adultery to him. This conversation was getting way out of hand.

He cocked his head. "I see. The Bible is in favor of abortions, but only in the case of adultery?"

"NO!" I declared. "Well, that is, not really--"

"And money-a-mentalists," he went on, "believe the words of the Bible, but not the Numbers?"

By now the conversation was completely outside my control. How can one explain the finer points of biblical interpretation to a crow?

However, the conversation did raise a serious question in my mind: If those who believe in Biblical inerrancy nonetheless overlook certain passages, how much more likely are the rest of us to do the same? I must quit conversing with that corvid . . .

November 1, 2005
STEADFAST RESOLVE

"What you need," Crawford the talking crow informed me, "is a vacillectomy."

"A what?" I exclaimed, assuming that this corvid was getting just a little bit too personal.

"A vacillectomy. To have your habit of vacillating removed. On the other hand, maybe you should go all the way and have a complete personality transplant."

Let me explain that Crawford is always and forever finding fault with me (and with humanity in general, I might add).

"'To vacillate or not to vacillate; that is the question--isn't it?'" I quipped, quoting Bruce Wallace.

Crawford aimed his beak directly at me and lowered his head (the corvid version of a glare). Then he flew off.

His words did remind me of when Al Gore quoted the Scottish mountain climber W. H. Murray who, earlier in the twentieth century, wrote, "Until one is committed there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative...there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, Providence moves, too."

Then I thought of the Savior, kneeling in Gethsemane, praying fervently that God would deliver him from his coming death.

I have been to Gethsemane many times. There is nothing stopping a person from walking east, over the hill, away from Jerusalem. All Jesus had to do was rise and walk away, disappearing into the Judean wilderness.

That is all it would take . . .

But he stayed. He faced his enemies. He endured torture and death. He did not vacillate.

Nor are we, his followers, to hesitate in fulfilling our high calling. We are to continue the ministry that Jesus began: to worship, teach, evangelize, practice the spiritual discipline of stewardship, and minister to physical and spiritual needs.

October 25, 2005
TELLING "THE HOLE TRUTH"

When I happen onto an interesting article or hear a fascinating bit of information, I just want to share it with someone else. Sometimes, however, there is no one else around. No one, that is, except Crawford, the talking crow.

So last week, on one of those unexpectedly warm and sunny October days, I ventured outside with a piece of paper in hand. It was a report from a Daniel Strizek of Lakewood, Colorado, which he calls "The Hole Truth."

I found the curmudgeon bird standing on a pine tree branch and chewing a piece of fruit. "Hey, listen to this story," I said.

"A young preacher," I read out loud, "was asked by a funeral director to hold a graveside service for a man who died with no family or friends. The preacher got lost on the way to the country cemetery. When he arrived a half-hour late he saw a backhoe and crew, but the hearse was nowhere in sight and the workmen were eating lunch. The diligent pastor went to the open grave and found it partially filled. But still he preached an impassioned and lengthy service. Returning to his car, he felt he had done his duty in spite of his tardiness."

Here I paused, not so much for effect as to make sure my audience had not flown off mid-story.

"Then he overheard one of the workers," I continued, "say: 'I've been puttin' in septic tanks for 20 years, and I ain't never seen nothin' like that.'"

I waited for the corvid to laugh. Nothing. He just wiped his beak on the tree bark and stared at me. "What's a skeptic tank?" he asked. "Somewhere they put doubters?"

It took some time to explain the difference between doubters and waste management systems. By then the story had lost all of its appeal.

Then I began thinking about our stories of faith. How often we may be moved by some new insight, some growth of spiritual awareness, some exciting program that expresses our deepest religious impulse. We all have such stories. But do we share them with others? Others who may not be familiar with our church or the scriptures?

If we don't share our stories with other people, then is our faith only "for the birds"?

October 18, 2005
BY WHAT DO WE MEASURE?

The sun was shining and I was restless, so I crossed the church parking lot and began to stroll among the pine trees. I was thinking about the recent articles regarding the theory of evolution and the "Intelligent Design" argument. Then I began pondering that deep question the Psalmist asked of God: "What are human beings, that you are mindful of them, mortals that you care for them?" (Psalm 8:4) It was that sort of day.

I unconsciously began to talk out loud as I recalled ways that ancient philosophers have defined humans: "'A reasoning animal'--Seneca; 'A political animal'--Aristotle; 'A thinking reed'--Pascal."

"A two-legged twit--Crawford."

I jumped, startled at hearing the voice above me of the local curmudgeon crow, who just had to add his own misguided definition to my list.

Hoping to stifle his uppity attitude, I quoted the famous maxim, "Man is the measure of all things."

"You humans measure things only in reference to yourselves," he declared, "and so you lose perspective when measuring time and earth."

"How can you say that about measuring time?" I challenged. After all, a year is a year is a year.

"You refer to the last few seconds of geological time as 'all of history,'" he said. "However, the earth was well over 4 billion years old before there were humans. Right?" (I don't think I nodded over this one.)

"But," Crawford continued, "given the fact that humans have been here only for a brief blip of geological time, isn't it logical to assume that God actually enjoyed the other life forms for billions of years, and that God put off creating humans for as long as possible?"

I don't know what you think of Crawford's silly suppositions, but personally I think God was thrilled when he created us humans.

After all, didn't the Psalmist answer his question about humans this way:

Yet you have made them a little lower than God,
and crowned them with glory and honor.
(Psalm 8:5)

On the other hand, I haven't compared notes with Abel or Noah--and there was that incident on Calvary...

October 11, 2005
REVEREND CRAWFORD?

"I want to be ordained."

The words halted me was I walked towards the church office. I looked up at my friend the talking crow, standing on a tree branch. "Crawford, did you just say what I thought you said?"

"Depends. I said," he replied in a voice normally reserved for explaining quantum physics to mushrooms, "that I want to be ordained. I want to be your insistent pastor."

"You mean assistant pastor?" I asked.

"Whatever. And I would be a good insistent pastor," he declared.

I asked him to explain.

"It's so obvious, even you should have seen it." He then made a series of statements, each preceded by a clicking sound, as if he were counting:

"I don't need a robe, 'cause I'm already dressed in black.

"I like to hear confessions--the juicier the better!

"I hate dogs, so I can preach hellfire and Dalmatian sermons.

"I can set people straight in ways that even Dr. Laura never considered.

"I like being invited out for lunches and dinners.

"And, if I really tick people off, I can fly up out of reach!"

"Crawford," I responded, "in order to be a minister, you have to go to school for at least three years--"

"Humph! If a third grader can do it, so can I."

"I'm talking about three years after college. And, besides, I don't want a crow for an assistant pastor."

"Why don't you want an insistent pastor?" he asked, conveniently overlooking the "crow" part of my statement.

"I said ASS-istant pastor!"

"Well, I wouldn't want that kind, either."

"I mean," I said, gritting my teeth, "that we don't ordain birds--I mean, people--just to fill some sort of staff position. We educate and ordain persons who can then help us, working together, to continue the mission of Christ. You see, many folk today have no knowledge of the faith. No experience with church life. No skills in prayer. No notion of what the Bible says. So if we are to do the work of the Christ, we will need people who can help--"

Crawford lowered his head and said in a low whisper, "I might be able to do that."

I halted my spiel. Just how serious was this crow's intention? So I began to ask probing questions.

Finally the truth came out. Crawford wanted to become a pastor because he was certain that Charisma (his "significant bother") would run from the idea of becoming a preacher's wife!

"She already thinks I preach too much," he added. "Just imagine what she'd do if I were ordained!"

October 4, 2005
BIRD-BRAIN EDUCATION?

"I have been attending school," bragged my friend Crawford, the talking crow.

"Which school?" I asked him.

He rustled his wing feathers in irritation. "School. Just a school. Aren't they all alike? I mean, you yourself said" (here the corvid lifted his head as if in triumph) "that education is important."

"No, not all schools are alike," I stated. Silently I imagined Crawford landing on a window sill of an elementary school and distracting all the pupils. I also imagined Crawford with a tiny flat black hat, strutting proudly during college commencement.

"Well, this one teaches a lot of things," he insisted, flipping his tail in a--well, an insulting gesture. "For example, it teaches that light travels faster than sound. Which explains why you appear bright until you open your mouth and say something."

I hoped he was using the impersonal "you." Changing the subject, I asked him about math.

"Yes," he declared, "they teach math. Arithmetic too. And sociopathy as well."

"I think you mean sociology," I corrected.

"Whatever. For example, I learned that three out of four Americans, ah, uh . . ."

"Three out of four Americans what?" I quizzed.

Crawford scratched his head feathers. "I think they said that three out of four Americans, ah, make up seventy-five percent of the population."

Later I reflected on Crawford's value of education. It reminded me of a story:

The principal of a Catholic high school was surprised by the phone call. It came from an inmate at a nearby prison who had made a considerable fortune by illegal means. Now the man was offering to make a significant donation to the school.

In return for his donation, the inmate wanted the high school to make it possible for his adult son, a high school dropout, to receive a high school diploma. As the principal inquired further, it became clear that the inmate did not want his son to have to do anything to earn the diploma. He simply wanted his son to be sent a diploma.

The principal was flabbergasted. Why, she asked the inmate, did he care so much that his son, now in business for himself, should receive his diploma?

"Because," the inmate replied, "education is important!"*

I began to wonder about faith and biblical knowledge. Are we, like the inmate's son, prone to want these gifts, without doing anything to earn them?

*from Connections, October 27, 2000: "Do you want a diploma--or an education?"

September 27, 2005
RETURN OF THE CURMUDGEON

I did escape from Crawford, the talking crow, during the General Assembly and my subsequent vacation. Moreover, when the elders, acting as the pastoral relations committee, advised me that Crawford articles were "over done," I thought maybe I could quit conversing to that curmudgeon corvid. You know, sort of give the bird a cold shoulder and the bum's rush. No more fielding that crow's denigrating comments and upstart assertions.

Since I had not received any comments about the Crawford articles for some time, I assumed that the elders were on to something. Too much crow and not enough straight-talk in the newsletter.

I now understand that the elders were not really suggesting that I discontinue the Crawford stories, but that I provide the Courier with additional news items and pastoral reflections. Not put all my eggs in one nest, so to speak. Moreover, a fair number of persons have expressed a desire to hear more from the feathered "friend."

So, aware of all this, I walked out among the trees and called Crawford's name. A pedestrian along Country Homes Boulevard heard me, stared at me for an embarrassingly long time, and then punched three numbers on his cell phone. I decided to return to the office before the public servants he called for arrived on the scene.

However, later in the day the crow found me. "I heard about your adoration of Rita," he remarked.

"That's Risa, not Rita," I explained. "And it's ordination, not adoration. It's an occasion when the church ordains her for Christian ministry."

"So if she is ordained, does that make her ordinary?" the bird asked.

"Nope. Sets her apart for Christian service as a pastor. She will even be given a pulpit robe."

"A black one, I assume," asserted the corvid, "if you want her to be really adorable."

As I said, Crawford has his own rock-solid opinions. Hopefully Risa will have a long and productive ministry among people who are less hidebound than this bird.

July 19, 2005
TECHNOLOGY AND CROWS

As I was walking up the sidewalk toward the church building, the automatic sprinkling system suddenly started shooting a stream of water across the lawn. At that same moment my ears followed a trajectory of loud squawks and curses, and my eyes watched a wet bundle of black feathers roll across the grass, sputtering.

Apparently the system had caught Crawford while in flight. Afterwards he stomped across the wet grass to where I stood.

"Blasted techno-confounded-ology!" he shouted, shaking water from his wings and tail. Then he glared at me with his beady black eyes and snapped, "Why can't you humans be satisfied with nature? If God intended for there to be lawns, he wouldn't have made dandelions! But you humans invent bulldozers and..." (The last of his sentence was lost as an arc of water from another sprinkler moved around and doused the poor bird once again.)

"Crawford," I said, after he had flown up to a dry tree branch, "the Bible says that we humans are given stewardship of the earth. It tells how God commanded Adam to care for the Garden, and I believe we still have that same divine commission.

"However," I continued as Crawford spread his feathers to the drying sun, "it is a mistake to regard us humans as separate from nature. We too are a part of nature. We were not transplanted here from some other planet, you know." (Crawford looked at me as if to say he didn't know any such thing.)

"Anyway, the technology that just blasted you with water also makes it possible to grow grain and produce food, like that part of a cookie I saw you pecking at yesterday. It's all a matter of how we use the technology we've developed."

This incident took place several weeks ago. Crawford left in a huff and a flurry, and I thought nothing more about the event. What I failed to consider was Crawford's innate desire for revenge.

The corvid could not attack the church's sprinkler system, of course. But with crows, there's always a way.

"Techno-confusion-ology is fun," he announced to me yesterday.

It took me a moment to recall his earlier denunciation of technology. "How is it fun?" I asked. "Have you learned to take a shower under the sprinklers?"

"No. I have learned to make chirping and music and beeping noises. I sit on a signpost or telephone wire at an intersection where pedestrians are waiting for the crosswalk light. Then I make all these sounds and watch people desperately reaching for their cell phones."

I guess Crawford has a point. We really are dependent on our own technology. Maybe that's why we need vacations that take us to "the lake," or the mountains or the seashore--away from routine, yes, but also away from phones, traffic, newspapers, TV's, computers, and maybe even lawns with sprinklers.

July 12, 2005
HUMOR AND HEAVEN

"I heard that your father passed on," Crawford the talking crow said to me last week, looking down from a tree branch.

I guess I was still feeling the intense stress of the events surrounding my Dad's death, in that I bristled over his euphemism "passed on." I recalled a scene in the movie, Support Your Local Sheriff, in which the mayor of a gold-rush town (played by Harry Morgan) is getting acquainted with a drifter (played by James Garner) whom he hopes to sucker into becoming the new sheriff. The mayor refers to his "dear departed wife."

"Oh, she died?" asks the drifter.

"No," the mayor admits. "Just departed."

So I glared at my corvid friend and snapped, "He didn't pass on, he didn't pass over, he didn't pass away, he didn't pass out. In plain and honest language, he died."

Crawford lowered his head and rubbed his beak on each side of the branch (a corvid's gesture of wiping away what was just said). "Was your father as cranky as you?" the crow asked, then quickly wiped his beak on the branch again.

I apologized for my outburst. After all, what does a crow know about language? "Actually, he had a wonderful sense of humor, and he demonstrated that humor right up to the time he passed away--I mean, died." To cover up my slip of the tongue, I continued. "During the memorial service, I said that if Apostle Paul had been writing specifically about Dad in his first letter to the Corinthians, he would have written, 'faith, hope, humor and love abide, these four . . . '"

"Can you really be a Christian and still have a sense of humor?" the crow asked. "I remember some church members elsewhere who seemed to have been baptized in pickle juice."

Crawford's question bothered me. I spent some time reflecting on the relation of humor to faith. Then I found a quote from Madeleine L'Engle, which I thought I would pass on (oops, give) to Crawford. However, the bird was long gone by then, so I offer the quote for your own reflection.

She wrote, "One of the holiest women I have ever known did little with her life in terms of worldly success; her gift was that of bringing laughter with her, no matter how dark or grievous the occasion. Wherever she was, holy laughter was present to heal and redeem."

June 28, 2005
THE FOOLISH SAINT

Much to my surprise, I have discovered that Charisma, Crawford the talking crow's "significant bother," is a piecemeal scholar.

By piecemeal scholar, I mean that she manages to gather unrelated bits of information here and there, much the way a bird hunts for and pecks away at various seeds. Most of her collection falls under the category of religious trivia.

For example, she asked me if our church observes feast days for saints. (Crawford overheard the question and jerked his head up. I suspect he was considering how, if there was a feast day for saints, he might locate a crow-size halo.)

"No, we don't," I replied. (When I said this, Crawford's attention wandered.) "Why?" I asked Charisma.

"Well," she said innocently, "July 1 is the feast day for Simeon the Fool, and Crawford says that you must be related to him." (Crawford slowly ambled away, fascinated by the discovery that a nearby tree trunk was covered with bark.)

"Craw-FORD!" I called, making his name sound like an accusation. The scruffy coward extended his wings and half-flew, half-skipped into the nearby bushes.

Since then I have done some research on Saint Simeon the Fool. He lived in Palestine as a monk during the sixth century. His favorite pastime was to interrupt sermons by asking penetrating and embarrassing questions. He loved to poke fun of hypocrisy within the church and the society at large.

Then he traveled to his birthplace, Homs in Syriak, and devoted himself to caring for the most wretched and neglected, especially harlots!

Simeon's behavior was so eccentric that some decided he was insane. Others regarded him as simply super-critical. Still others venerated him as a prophet and holy man.

As I considered the man, I realized that he had many of the qualities found in Jesus. Our Savior often asked penetrating questions ("who do you say that I am?"), scorned hypocrisy ("they love to stand and pray...so that they may be seen by others"), gave seemingly crazy advice ("turn the other cheek also"), and often associated with outcasts ("he eats with sinners!").

Most foolish of all, Jesus did not run away when a price was placed on his head. Instead, he stayed put, prayed for his followers, and allowed himself to be taken captive and then crucified! And his followers declared that this ultimate act of insanity has actually reconciled us to God!

Perhaps, just perhaps, we too are called to be a little bit crazy--for Christ.

May 31, 2005
CORVID PROPHET OF DOOM

One day I was walking down the street and I drew near five boys, all smoking cigarettes. Suddenly a voice came from above: "SMOKING IS BAD! ONE OF YOU WILL DIE-IE-IE!"

The lads were startled. Three of them looked around quickly, trying to find the source of the warning. The other two quickly tossed their cigarettes onto the sidewalk and stomped on them. One of these began to move off. Another sort of swaggered after him, holding his head high and dragging deeply and defiantly on his cigarette butt.

There was something familiar about the disembodied voice. I studied the tree near where the young men had been standing. Sure enough, a black head popped out from the leaves of one branch. "Sure scared those cig- regret smokers, didn't I?" Crawford, the talking crow, bragged.

I have noted that my corvid friend sometimes likes to play the part of a prophet of doom. In this case, he was applying his knowledge that 17% of those who smoke eventually die of some disease directly caused by tobacco use. Given five individuals who smoke, the chances are that one of the five will die from the effects.

The question is, why does Crawford think he has to go around scaring people over that fact? Does he think they will listen?

Perhaps Crawford has a personal investment in the issue. You may recall that he once told me about the death of his great-grandfather Clewbert.

"He used to hang around a drive-in movie place," Crawford related, "eating kernels of spilled popcorn that fell on the ground. One night he accidently ate something white that wasn't popcorn. We figure it must have been the butt of a reefer." (Where does Crawford learn about such things?)

"There was this war movie showing," Crawford continued, "and Clewbert got all loopy and imagined that he was a fighter plane. He swooped across the big screen, making noises like a machine gun. Then he dove down and strafed several convertibles. But then he flew into a light pole and was killed."

But marijuana is different from tobacco, I thought to myself. Apparently it is less addictive, even less harmful. If it is--then why, I wondered, is tobacco use legal?

On the other hand, who wants to be a prophet of doom? Besides Crawford, I mean.

And, if one were to preach on the dangers of smoking, who would listen? Besides non-smokers, I mean.

So my suggestion is this: if you enjoy smoking, don't do it under a tree.

May 24, 2005
THE TEN COMMANDMENTS AND POLITICS

"I understand why the government does not want to have the Ten Suggestions displayed on public property," Crawford the talking crow informed me last week.

Wise persons avoid talking about either politics or religion. I am even more wary of talking politics and religion, especially with a curmudgeon corvid. Nonetheless, against my better judgement, I responded to his comment--vowing, however, to keep this discussion cool and dispassionate.

"You blockhead," I said, "that's Commandments, not Suggestions. They are God's Ten Commandments."

"Sure, sure," he replied in a skeptical tone of voice. "And everyone has to obey them, right? Except the government?"

I could tell this conversation was getting out of hand already. "Well," I responded, hoping to settle this bird once and for all, "the Hebrew prophets maintained that God's law was for everyone, from king to peasant. That's why Nathan the prophet could confront King David over his royal affair with Bathsheba."

"So," the crow announced, staring at me with a black beady eye, "even the President has to obey the same Ten Sug-Commandments?"

"Crawford," I remonstrated, thinking about King David, "give it a rest. Bill Clinton's extra-marital affair is old news."

The corvid snorted (a sound somewhat like a balloon full of air being released under water). "I'm not talking about adultery. I'm talking about the secret July 23, 2002, British memo showing that President Bush lied about Sadism Hussein and Weapons of Mass Distraction."

"That's Saddam, not Sadism, and Mass Destruction, not--"

"Forget English! How about ethics? Isn't one of the Ten Commandments about not lying? Or does that not apply to government?"

I hate it when that crow argues with me. After all, how could our government function if it always told the truth? Don't we need duplicity to keep Democracy alive? I mean, recall how President Carter's nomination for head of the CIA was rejected by Congress because the man was "too moral"? Or how Governor Bill Clements, when caught red-handed in the SMU football scandal and asked why he had continually lied, snapped, "There wasn't a Bible present"?

"I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just," wrote Thomas Jefferson. Maybe that's one good reason to remove the Ten Commandments from any government property: it helps keep down the trembling.

May 17, 2005
WHINGING

"Crawford," I said one day, when I felt I had had enough of that crow, "why don't you stop whinging?"

"Win jing," he repeated. "What's a jing and when did I win it?"

"It's an Australian term. It means to continually find fault and complain."

When I said this, Crawford lowered his head as if heartbroken. I realized that my sharp criticism had cut him to the quick. "I'm sorry, Crawford," I apologized, "I didn't mean to wound you."

"Wound, smound," the crow responded, lifting his head. "I was just trying to think of how to explain the facts of fault-finding to someone as shallow as you."

Now it was my turn to be stung by words. I stared at him, unable to speak. "Oh, I know you're educated," he conceded, "what with your Doctor of Misery degree--"

"That's Ministry!" I corrected him. "Not misery."

He shrugged his wings and went on. "--but the fact is that no one, not even me, can know everything. Right?"

"Particularly you," I stated, still smarting.

"So, if we learn something, then something else has to be forgotten, in order to make room in our minds. Right? So, when I identify something, then it enters my mind and something else drops out. And if the thing I identify is some minor fault or mildly disagreeable fact, it's quite likely that whatever falls out is something worse. So you see, by complaining I actually make my thoughts more pleasant than before!"

"Crawford, that is the biggest crock of--" I began.

"Besides," he interrupted, "wasn't it Lily Tomlin who said that the reason we developed language was because of our deep need to complain?"

"Crawford, I--"

Once more he rudely cut me off. "Actually, I would go ahead and name the more serious problems, but I'm afraid of the remedies you might suggest for them."

By now I was really irritated. "CRAWFORD!" I said softly, "admit it. You simply like to find fault and complain."

"And just why," he replied, stomping one foot, "should I be pleasant, if doing so prevents me from being happy?"

Later I put this conversation into biblical reference. John the Baptist was a fault-finder. He identified the sins of his listeners. Jesus, in contrast, often identified and affirmed the fine qualities he saw in others. Despite the similarity, however, I cannot speak of Crawford the Baptist. People might not understand . . .

May 10, 2005
THE DIFFICULTY OF LANGUAGE

"Tell me again abut the Day of Penteprice," Crawford the talking crow demanded, while standing on a branch above my head (looking for all the world like a scruffy but stern judge staring down from behind a lofty judicial bench).

I thought for a moment. This bird often confuses words or parts of words, so that communicating with him is like trying to solve a linguistic puzzle.

"Oh," I exclaimed, "you mean the Day of Pentecost."

"Cost, price, same thing!" he insisted, stomping his foot. "Your language is inconsistent. It is illogical. It bepuddles a person!"

So I tried to comfort him. "It's not really that bad, you dimwit," I said.

"No?" he responded gruffly. "Then why do you say something is 'tasty' if it tastes good, but say something is 'smelly' if it smells bad? Or if a thing can be tasty or smelly, why can't it also be looky and listeny? Answer me that!"

I knew that this corvid likes to complain about human customs and faults for long periods of time, so I decided to divert his attention back to the initial question. "Pentecost," I told him, "is a Jewish holiday. It takes place fifty days after Passover. On the Pentecost after Jesus' death and resurrection, his disciples were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in tongues, so that people from all sorts of different countries heard the gospel in their own languages."

"Did they speak English?" the crow inquired.

"No. English had not come into being yet."

"Then no wonder they could understand what was said," Crawford mused.

I have thought about this conversation. The real miracle of Pentecost was not the sound of wind or the tongues of fire. It was not even the gift of speaking in different languages. Rather, it was the successful communication that happened. This was the miracle: that people heard and understood the message.

Today, when the message of God finally gets through to a person, when that great "AHA!" takes place inside a person's mind and soul, when the Divine gets a hearing that makes a difference...then the miracle of Pentecost happens all over again!

May 3, 2005
CRAWFORD'S KIDS

Yesterday I saw Crawford the talking crow standing in the grass behind the church building. He would cock his head to one side, peer down, take a step, cock his head, peer down, and so on. Occasionally he pecked at the ground, flew away, and then returned.

I became rather curious at this behavior. "What in blazes are you doing?" I asked him.

He lifted his head. "Not in blazes. In blades." So saying, he poked his head deep into the blades of grass, jerked back, and flew off.

A moment later he returned. "OK, so what in blades are you doing?"

"Love bugs. I'm searching for love bugs."

"Try a computer," I replied. Crawford looked at me and flipped his tail (a corvid gesture that means--well, it's a gesture, anyway). "I take it that you are referring to insects," I continued, "but just what are love bugs?"

Crawford took another step forward, peering down into the green lawn. "They are juicy bugs for the kids."

THE KIDS! I was stunned. I forgot that Crawford and Charisma had started a nest together.

Then I tried to imagine offspring from the only two talking crows I know. Crawford, the curmudgeon at heart, breeding with Charisma, the Dr. Laura among wild birds! My mind began to spin. Black little cheepers who would mature into, into what?

"Congratulations to you both," I stammered. "You'll make fine parents, I'm sure. How many hatchlings are we talking about?"

Crawford jerked his head up and stared at me. "Parents? Hatchlings? These bugs are for human children!"

It took some time for me to learn what Crawford meant. Apparently he (and Charisma?) had been reading discarded newspapers again, and they had been deeply moved by statistics regarding child neglect and abuse:

". . . 14 million children in this country are either hungry or at risk of hunger."

I, in turn, was moved by Crawford and Charisma's compassion. "It won't be a very nice Mother's Day for those kids," Crawford explained. "Maybe some bugs will help. Besides," he added, "didn't ravens feed the prophet Elijah? And didn't Christ say we are to feed the hungry, and bless the children?"

St. Francis, it is said, preached to the birds. Perhaps these two crows can offer us some inspiration in return. Let's contribute food to Caritas, help with Crosswalk, and give to the blanket fund on Mother's Day in support of troubled families, especially "Crawford's kids."

April 26, 2005
AGING AND HOW TO AVOID IT

"How was your workshop on living willies?" asked my curmudgeon friend, Crawford, the talking crow.

I stared at him for a moment, trying to process the question. "Oh, you mean living wills. It was very informative and helpful. Only, all that talk about medical crises and end of life stuff made me feel really old."

"You are old."

I stuck my tongue out at the scruffy corvid. "Age is nothing more than experience," I pointed out.

"Then you must be a man of many experiences," he countered.

I chose not to rise to Crawford's bait. "Yes, I have had quite a lot of experiences," I responded calmly.

"So I have noticed," he said, "and you didn't acquire most of your experiences until right after you needed them."

"Age matters only if you're cheese or wine," I insisted.

"Yeah, first you ripen, and then you either ferment or rot."

I stared at my companion. Crawford himself is no spring chicken. I recalled how Christy and I, when we first moved to Kentucky, lived just down the road from Old Crow distillery. I thought about a certain old crow that I would like to distill, even now.

Then I remembered the adage, "You don't stop laughing because you grow old. You grow old because you stop laughing." So I decided to practice laughing.

"Ha, ha," I declared.

Crawford flipped his tail feathers.

"The problem," I pontificated, "is with our society. In ancient times, age brought respect. Grey hair was a crown of glory. And in Korean culture, baldness is regarded as a sign of wisdom. And the Bible describes the elderly King David as 'old and full of days.'"

The crow eyed me carefully. "Old and full of something," he said, leaping into the air and flying away.

It is strange, I reflected, how our society values youthfulness and tries to slow down the aging process. Phyllis Diller, in her book The Joys of Growing Old and How to Avoid Them suggests one way of looking younger: putting braces on one's false teeth. (As an aside, let me suggest that we could certainly slow the aging process down if it had to work its way through Congress.)

Nonetheless, aging itself is indeed a privilege, just as life is a gift and a blessing. Each stage of life brings its own challenges, but each stage also brings more and more reasons to celebrate!

April 20, 2005
OUR PURPOSE STATEMENT

It was a stupid thing to do. I realize that now. But I was tired of hearing Crawford the talking crow complaining about how Charisma, his "significant bother," complains about him.

Besides, I had work to do in the office. So, in order to forestall the corvid's grousing, I actually invited him into the church building. In fact, I let him into my office. Dumb of me.

He flew up onto my desk and stared at the life-like statue of a crow sitting there (a gift from a former pastoral intern). I hoped the piece of art would keep him distracted while I typed a note into my computer. No such luck.

"Why does that word have a red line under it?" Crawford asked, looking at the screen.

"It's a sign from the spell checker," I explained.

"You mean it checks to see if the magic spell you cast will work?" he asked, awestruck. "Like the petrification spell you used on that poor crow?" he added, staring at the statue.

"Of course not, you blockhead! The spell checker checks my spelling."

The crow looked back at the statue nervously, then resumed gazing at the computer screen. "How does it work?" he asked.

"OK," I responded, "in this instance, the word in question is pastoring. It's the verb form of pastor-- what a pastor does. But the computer does not recognize that word. So I can open up the spell checker and it will suggest other words I might have wanted to use."

I clicked the mouse twice. Suddenly the computer offered me several options for "pastoring": pasturing, posturing, and pestering.

Crawford hopped over to the computer, studied the spell checker window, and then turned back to look at me. "So which one of these best describes your own pastoring?" he asked.

I nudged the corvid back onto my desk. He continued to watch me as I wrote out our church's purpose statement: "to continue the ministry that Jesus began."

"You can't mean that!" he exclaimed. "You certainly don't want your congregation to be like the first followers of Jesus!"

Irritated already at this bird's interruptions, I asked him just why he thought we should not be like the first disciples.

"Jesus (the pastor) was executed," the crow explained. "Peter (the chairman of the board) cussed, swore, and denied his position. Judas (the treasurer) embezzled funds and then committed suicide. The other disciples (board members) ran away. The only ones to stay around were a few members of the Women's Fellowship. And you want to continue that sort of church?"

I swept Crawford up and tossed him outdoors.

April 12, 2005
MOONING THE OPPOSITION

I have not seen Crawford, the talking crow, lately. But what with the upcoming General Assembly in Portland this summer, I began to recall conversations I have had with Crawford after previous Assemblies. I especially remember the one following the Assembly in Kansas City, held jointly with the General Synod of the United Church of Christ.

Before relating this conversation, let me explain something about my corvid "friend." From various comments I've heard, I sense that some folk regard Crawford as a rather innocent and adorable soul (if somewhat eccentric). Well, I'm here to set the record straight. If the facts be known, that bird is crude and ill-mannered in every way imaginable. My fore- mentioned conversation illustrates that curmudgeon's lack of decency:

Crawford: "Did you enjoy your trip to Can Sauce City?"

John: "That's Kansas City, and yes, it was good."

Crawford: "And the General Assembly and Odd Sin?"

John: "That's Synod, not Odd Sin, and yes, that assembly was the best I've attended. The only disagreeable part were the protesters."

Crawford: "Protesters? What were they in favor of testing?"

John: "You don't understand. To protest is to oppose something."

Crawford: "Sounds as if that should be con-testing, not pro-testing. Anyway, what were they opposing?"

John: "They were standing on the street corner, opposite the Convention Center, carrying obscene signs and making rude remarks to us."

Crawford (jerking up his head in interest): "About what?"

John: "The issue of homosexuality. They--well, I can't even repeat what they called us, but they did claim that all gays, and the rest of us as well, were going straight to Hell."

Crawford: "Did you send over some big, burly toughs to 'explain' things to these pro-testers?"

John: "No. In fact, I heard that this group arrived with their lawyer in tow. They were actually trying to incite us to acts of violence, so they could threaten to sue and then settle out of court. That's how they finance their efforts, by getting Christians to attack them. Apparently they assumed we would disregard Jesus' teachings, such as 'love your enemy,' and 'blessed are you when people revile you'."

Crawford: "So, did you follow Jesus' teachings? Did you moon these protesters?"

(OK, I will admit it. An insane vision flashed through my mind of 10,000 Disciples and United Church of Christ members lining up alongside the Kansas City Convention Center, turning their backs to the protesters, and dropping their pants. But I quickly and guiltily dismissed the image. I mean, I am a pastor . . .)

Instead, I swatted the branch Crawford was standing on. "How can you dare suggest," I demanded, "that Jesus' teachings could prompt us to moon this group?"

Crawford (taking to the air): "Didn't Jesus say, 'turn the other cheek'?"

John: "CRAWFORD!"

April 5, 2005
GOD'S DRESS CODE

"I don't see why you bother having a church building," Crawford the talking crow declared. He and I had been enjoying the sunshine after the Easter showers. "Why have a building, when you could hold classes and such outdoors, on the lawn."

"Crawford," I responded, "that's ridiculous. We do meet outside for mid-week events in the summer, but not now. Think of the weather."

The corvid paced back and forth on a tree branch. "Well, you humans are good at making clothes for all kinds of weather," he stated, adding, "even if God did not intend you to do that."

"Do what?" I asked.

"And you call yourself a biblical scholar! Make clothes, silly. God did not intend humans to make clothes. Says so in the Good Book, right after Adam and Evening fell out of the tree."

"That's Adam and Eve," I corrected, "and they didn't fall out of the tree."

"Oh? And why, then, is it referred to as the Fall? As for the clothes, didn't you read how God fashioned for them aprons to wear? Obviously, God wants you humans to wear only aprons."

"Now who's being silly? Crawford, if we wore only aprons, we would get cold and wet!"

"Maybe that's part of God's curse," Crawford suggested.

"Besides," I added, "wearing only aprons would be embarrassing."

"For whom?" the crow asked, surprising me by using the accusative form of the word "who" (although, as I reflected later, I should never be surprised by anything accusative in Crawford's speech). "You humans don't need much covering for modesty. A man can get by with a jockey strap, and a woman could wear a negligence."

"That's negligee," I corrected. "Anyway, we humans cannot get by with such skimpy amounts of clothing."

"That's why God says birds are superior to you humans. As Jesus put it, we birds neither spin nor weave, but Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of us. And we don't fall out of trees, either."

"Crawford, you've got it all wrong. Jesus said birds don't sow or reap, and Solomon was compared to the lilies of the field, not the crows in the field."

"Well, Dr. Know-it-all, Jesus did say that birds don't gather into barns, yet you humans gather in church buildings, even when you wear more than aprons." With that, Crawford flew off.

What can you say to those who misuse the Bible to exalt themselves and put others down? I see it happen often, although usually much more polished than Crawford's efforts. Perhaps it's time for us to give it a name. I call it scriptural abuse.

When you hear it being done, whether from the pulpit, the door-to-door caller, the televangelist, or the politician, give it a name. Call it for what it is: abuse.

March 22, 2005
MISSING THE MESSAGE OF THE CROSS

I have been reading Native American legends about Crow. One story tells of Crow's fascination with her own shadow. She could not leave her shadow alone. She would look at it, scratch it, and peck it. Finally, Crow's shadow woke up and became alive. Then Crow's shadow ate her, and she became Dead Crow.

Having been verbally prodded and teased by Crawford, the talking crow, in past times, I decided to tease him by relating this legend. The corvid listened and then was quiet for a moment. At last he spoke: "I will have to point out to Charisma how fascinating her shadow is."

Disregarding Crawford's intent to precipitate trouble for his "significant bother," I began to associate the Crow legend with the events of Good Friday--how Christ's teachings provoked the vile shadow of human nature, resulting in the death of the Savior.

Putting those dark thoughts aside, I moved toward Crawford and told him to hold still.

"Why?" he asked. "What are you going to do?"

"I want to look in your eye."

"Why?" he asked again, suspiciously.

"Because, according to another Native American legend, if you look deeply into Crow's eye you will find the gateway to the supernatural. The legend goes on to say that Crow knows the unknowable mysteries of creation."

So saying, I moved closer to Crawford and peered into his beady black eyeball.

"What do you see?" he asked.

"Just a tiny, tiny reflection of myself."

"And that," he announced, "is the whole mystery."

Now I wonder what he meant by that . . .

March 15, 2005
A 'SLEAZY YEAR

"I don't understand," Crawford the talking crow admitted with unusual humility and candor, "I don't understand about this X-sleazy-astical year."

"Sleazy what?" I responded.

"X-sleazy-astical," he declared, emphasizing the first syllable.

"Ah, you mean ecclesiastical," I exclaimed. "That's a fancy word meaning church-related stuff."

Crawford hates to be corrected. He lowered his head and made a buzzing sound--a corvid form of growling. "Yeah," he said, "the church year. Starts with Advertisement, goes on to O-piff-on-me, Lint, Penny-cost--and other seasonings."

"That's Advent, Epiphany, Lent, and Pentecost," I said with the same patience one normally employs when explaining higher math to a tree stump. "They are seasons of the church year. The ecclesiastical year is designed to celebrate the life and ministry of Christ."

"Doesn't work," the crow stated flatly. "The timing is all wrong."

I asked Crawford to explain; and, I admit, his insights were--well, remarkable.

"First," he began, "Advertis--I mean Advent, is four weeks of anticipation of Christ's birth, right?"

I nodded.

"Should last nine months, not four weeks! Didn't those old church fathers know anything about human reproduction?"

"Wait a minute!" I objected. "The time is compressed during Advent. It's a remembrance, not a re-enactment."

"By that same time scale, then," Crawford declared, "the period between Good Friday and Easter morning should be about fifteen minutes long."

He continued. "Secondly--if there are no more interruptions--it is extremely unlikely that Jesus was born in December, let alone December 25."

"I know that, but the date was selected to replace the pagan Roman holiday of--"

"THIRDLY," Crawford interrupted, "Jesus' whole ministry is absent from the x-sleazy-astical calendar. He's named, baptized, transfigured, crucified and resurrected--and all this is accomplished by March, with eight whole months yet to go! No special days celebrating his teachings. No Sermon on the Mount Sunday. And not even a Feeding the Five Thousand Friday!"

(I knew that Crawford would get around eventually to the subject of food.)

"OK," I conceded. "But isn't there anything out of Jesus' life that you find worthy of celebration?"

"Absolutely!" he answered, swelling his chest. "The most telling event of all, the one that really makes Jesus special."

"And what would that be?" I asked.

"The flight to Egypt!" Crawford explained, flapping his wings and taking to the air.

March 8, 2005
A CORVID'S VIEW OF ART

"Looks to me," my friend Crawford, the talking crow, said to me this week, "that you're turning that church into an artery."

I assumed he was referring to our Good Friday blood drive. "Yeah, I hope we have a good number of blood donors that day."

The crow cocked his head and stared at me with one black, shiny eyeball. "Donors! You mean that when you pass the collection plate and ask for donations, you expect people to bleed!"

"It's a matter of enabling people to get needed medical help," I explained. "Part of our purpose statement, promoting healing and wholeness. We have a parish nurse program, too."

Crawford paused. "Medicine. Is that why you have a posterior intern as well?"

How do you explain such things to a bird, anyway? "That's pastoral intern," I informed him.

"Anyway, I wasn't talking about blood," Crawford continued, content in his ignorance. "I was talking about art. Your stained glass windows, your seniors' art exhibit, and your poet lariat."

Disregarding this corvid's abuse of the English language, I told him of the collection of poetry we are publishing, the delightful works of a very talented member, Darlyne Lamb.

"But why art? Why bother?"

"It's generally agreed," I pontificated, "that artists are ahead of their time."

Crawford nodded his head wisely. "Yes, yes, I can see that," he said slowly.

I was suspicious. "See what?" I demanded.

"How you could make that statement. Artists appear to be ahead of their time to those who are far behind theirs."

Is it any wonder that artists and poets tend to use crows and ravens as symbols of doom and gloom?

March 1, 2005
CONTROL SQUEAKS

"You've got to do something about that golf ball," I heard a voice say as I left my office. I looked up at the church eaves and saw Charisma, Crawford the talking crow's "significant bother," standing on the roof edge staring at me.

"What golf ball? There's not a golf course within miles," I informed her.

"Not 'golf ball' -- goof ball!" she corrected. "Crawford!"

I recalled the last time that Crawford and Charisma had experienced a falling-out, how she had left him alone to tend the eggs in their nest. "So," I said, "I suppose you want me to do some marriage counseling again for you two."

"Wouldn't do any good. Crawford's not capable of change. His faults are so obvious that they can be spotted by a near-sighted mole with his back turned. But can Crawford himself see them? No. The main problem is that he's a control squeak. He's-- "

I decided to cut her off with a question. "Where is Crawford?"

"Wherever idiots hang out. Probably the place where plastic pink flamingos migrate for the winter."

OK, so I wasn't going to get the two of them together at this time. Nonetheless, I began to inquire of Charisma about their relationship.

"Crawford says he wants me to be his Queen," she reported.

"That sounds pretty good."

She moved from one foot to the other. "Yeah, he wants me to be his Queen, but just as long as he gets to be King."

"Oh."

"And I don't want to be Queen. I want to be Prime Minister."

This reminded me of a conversation I had recently with a Disciple minister in another state. He described a congregation he had known, in which one "patriarch" sought to impose his will on the other members. "Any congregation that is a patriarchy or a matriarchy is an unhealthy church," this pastor declared.

The same can be said for marriages, I thought to myself.

Jesus was concerned about would-be patriarchs and matriarchs among his followers. "The kings of the Gentiles lord it over them," he said, "and those in authority over them are called benefactors. But not so with you; rather the greatest among you must become like the youngest, and the leader like one who serves." (Luke 22:25-26) Most of the mistakes and tragedies within church history have resulted from Christians disregarding this teaching.

Whether in a marriage or a church or a democracy, there is no room for a "control squeak"!

FEBRUARY 22, 2005
ON FRIENDSHIPS

It was such a beautiful day that I strolled outside the church building. The air felt clean and crisp, and my spirit was light. I crossed the parking lot and entered the little forest.

"Friend or foe?" a pine tree asked me in a gruff voice.

Great! Just when I was enjoying a peaceful moment of serenity. "Crawford, show yourself," I demanded of the foliage.

My "friend," the talking crow, popped his head up where I could see him.

"Tell me," the corvid inquired, peering down at me suspiciously, "do you have any friends?"

"Of course I have friends!" I snapped.

"Really? Remarkable. How many friends?"

I glared at the bird. "Plenty."

"As many as three?"

"More than that, I would hope!"

"Well," the crow responded, speaking in a calm, inviting tone of voice, "think of your three closest friends. Are any of them mentally ill?"

"No. None of them."

"Hmmm. Too bad."

"What do you mean, too bad?" I demanded.

"Consider the grim fact," Crawford explained, "that one out of four Americans suffers from some form of mental illness. So, if your three best friends are okay, then it's you."

I know, at least, that I am not paranoid. I do not imagine that I have enemies.

I don't need to imagine. I have Crawford.

So I counted to ten (several times), and then I explained to the crow how valuable friends are. "One of the benefits of being with a church is forming friendships," I said. "Christy and I receive letters and visits from dear friends in the church in Seattle. We even get cards and letters from some in Kentucky--friendships we formed over thirty years ago. And there are new friends here--"

But Crawford was having none of this. "I heard once that real friends are those who, when you've made a fool of yourself, don't feel that you've done a permanent job."

"Sounds good."

"In which case," he added, "I can understand you having lots of friends."

FEBRUARY 15, 2005
A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME IS STILL A LIE

"What do you think about signs?" asked Charisma the talking crow (Crawford's "significant bother").

I assumed that she was referring to "signs of the times," supposed evidences by end times folk of an approaching apocalypse--or as Crawford calls it, pox- a-lips. "I don't put too much faith in them," I answered.

"Exactly," she replied.

"We've always had what people regarded as signs, but so far none of these signs have proved accurate."

"That's for sure!" she exclaimed.

I stared at the corvid. Maybe it's from being around Crawford so much, but I am simply not used to having a crow agree with me.

"So why do people put these signs up if they are lies?" she mused.

"Ah, just what do you mean?" I asked. "What signs? What lies?"

Charisma stared at me for some time, and then flipped her tail. "I thought we were talking about untruthful signs!" she stated firmly.

"Let's start back at the beginning," I suggested. "What signs?"

"Lying signs. Like signs that say So-and-so Meadow."

"Well, what's wrong with that?"

"It's a meadow when the field is covered with cow piles. It's not a meadow if the grass is covered with new houses!" she snapped. "And then there are signs indicating woods and creeks and lake views, but in reality there are only houses." She stomped her foot.

Ah! She was referring to all these nice, romantic- sounding names for housing developments: so-and- so "Meadow," such-and-such "Glen," and so on.

Now, I admit that the spelling of some housing developments sets me off. I will never live in some community which includes in its name the misspelled word "Pointe." But Charisma's concern was basic honesty. (Personally, I give the developer the benefit of the doubt. I assume there used to be a meadow or a glen or a view--before the houses were built there, that is.)

Then I thought about another name: "Christian." It literally means "belonging to Christ." I wondered about the honesty of that name. Do we really regard ourselves as His people? Do we make bold decisions based squarely on that relationship? Can we declare with Paul that we "were bought with a price"?

Sometimes, I find, a name is not as much a description as a direction. May it be, for us, both direction and our destiny!

FEBRUARY 8, 2005
THE PRISON OF ROMANCE

"I saw a horrible sight this morning," complained Crawford, the talking crow. "Two birds trapped in a cage!"

"Um," I said, feigning interest.

"They were in a CAGE!" he repeated.

"What kind of birds were they?" I inquired. "Jail birds?"

Crawford flipped his tail feathers at me (a gesture that has a human counterpart not allowed on public television). "They were keets," he informed me. "A pair of keets."

"Oh, parakeets. Love birds."

"Ah, that explains it. They were in a cage because they were married," the corvid mused. "Very appropriate."

I knew that Crawford's love life was turbulent at best. His "significant bother," Charisma, is always trying to reform him (how does she know where to start?), and he is always resisting her efforts. When Shakespeare wrote that "the course of true love never did run smooth," he might have had a couple of crows in mind.

"So," I ventured to ask, "you equate marriage with being behind bars? I thought you and Charisma had come to some sort of agreement about your relationship."

"We have. We are both in love--with her."

He didn't fool me for a moment. Crawford's own world is bounded on the North, South, East and West by Crawford. His and Charisma's relationship reminded me of an old Smother Brother's routine:

So much in love with us are we,
that you could kiss you
and I could kiss me.

But real love is something quite different. I like the way Antoine de Saint-Exupery put it: ". . . love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking outward together in the same direction."

Happy Valentine's Day!

FEBRUARY 1, 2005
A POX-A-LIPS ENCOUNTER

"Fallen, fallen is Spokane!" came a cry from overhead as I stepped out of the church building. I looked up and caught my breath as dozens and dozens of black crows circled dizzily overhead, all shouting, "Alas, alas, fallen, fallen!"

"Crawford!" I shouted wildly. "Stop this, this CHAOS--at once!"

One of the birds swooped down and landed on a tree branch at my eye level.

"Can't take hearing a pox-a-lips?" he asked with a slight head toss (the corvid version of a smirk).

"Pox-a-what?"

"That pox-a-lips you talked about during your end of the day lecture last Wednesday."

"The subject was "ideas about end time," not "end of day," I corrected.

"And," I persisted (though one might wonder why), "the word is apocalypse, not pox-a-lips. It's another name for the Book of Revelation."

Crawford nodded. "It's called that because it revels in the destruction of just about everybody else."

"No, no," I argued. "It's really a book about hope. It describes Heaven."

"So it's about life after death, not about the fall of Spokane?" the crow asked.

"Not at all. Heaven is the abiding place of God. It is not in the sky or a place for after death. It is God's realm, hidden yet sometimes glimpsed by a visionary."

The crow paced back and forth on his tree branch. Then he remarked, "But the book of Reveling is about world events today, isn't it?"

"No, no, not really. It's from an age when Christians were being persecuted by pagans. Revelation foresees a time when God will pour out his wrath on Rome. 'Babylon' is a code name for Rome."

Crawford lowered his beak, as if dejected. "Not Spokane?"

"No."

Then he lifted his head with a jerk. "What about Gag and May-Gag? Aren't they Russia and Ceramics?"

"You mean Russia and China?" I asked. "No. The book is not a timetable about the future. It is about being faithful to Christ in the midst of life-and- death threats."

The crow flew up to a higher branch. "You're just jealous," he accused me, "because Hal Lindsey sold millions of books before the events finally proved him incredibly wrong!"

"A pox on your lips!" I snapped back.

JANUARY 25, 2005
TRAPPED

Last week I discovered my friend Crawford clutching onto a tree branch, panting and cussing quietly to himself. His feathers were disheveled and he looked terribly shopworn.

"I got trapped," Crawford snapped. Then, after a few more gasps, he explained. "I followed this kid with a bag of popcorn into a revolving door, and I got caught."

"In the door?" I asked, trying to imagine the scene.

"No, in the shopping mall!" he wailed. "It was awful! People kept pointing at me. I landed on a counter, and some woman actually tried to put a paper bag over me. Then I noticed some doors that automatically open for people. So I flew over to one, but it wouldn't work for me."

"Oh," I responded. "You see, there's this electric eye--"

But Crawford was not ready for any explanations, especially technical ones. "I figured maybe these doors wouldn't let you out unless you first bought something. So I went into a clothing store, grabbed some weird item with my beak, and flew back toward the door. But it still wouldn't open, and people just laughed at me!" I probably should have sympathized with Crawford's anger and humiliation, but he is a proud bird and hates being pitied. So I asked, "Just what piece of clothing was it you picked up?"

He glared at me. "How should I know? It looked like a couple of caps for midget Siamese twins, complete with elastic ear flaps." (I did my best to keep from guffawing at this point in his narration.) "So then I flew through an archway into a restaurant. I decided to simply ask people to open a door for me, but the moment I tried, the thingamajig I was carrying in my beak fell out and dropped into some guy's bowl of soup.

"Then a man in a uniform barged in, yelling for people to shut the doors so he could catch me. I just panicked. I swooped down one of those moving staircases, causing shoppers to shriek and drop their packages."

"What happened then?" I asked.

Crawford described a long series of his frustrated attempts to locate an open door. Finally he flew into a window pane by mistake, and then someone grabbed him and tossed him out into the parking lot.

Now, I've been thinking about this incident. Everyone at that mall viewed Crawford as a problem--an anomaly, a minority of one, something out of place. For them, the solution was simply getting rid of him. Apparently no one looked at the situation in terms of Crawford's own needs. No one thought to open a door for him.

So I began to wonder if our society does something similar to some of its members. You know who I mean, the kind of people who feel out of place and trapped, who need most of all for some kind soul to open a few doors for them. Maybe that's part of our job, pushing open a few doors, in the name of Him who overturned a few tables in the temple.

JANUARY 18, 2005
CHOICES AND MISTAKES

The arrival of a new year always reminds me of the many choices we have to make, some of which I would just as soon avoid.

For example, I recently received this note in a soiled and belated Christmas card from a rather long-legged crow:

Dear Dr. John Bristow,
During this season of good will, Crawford has been misbehaving and stupid. Please straighten him out.
Gratefully yours,
Charisma Crow
P.S. There is always a possibility of an Alienation of Affection lawsuit if you should fail to follow through. RACCKK

The letter reminded me of other times when I have been pressured to persuade (read "tell") someone to do a certain thing, feel a certain way, or otherwise shape up and act right.

Those memories in turn led me to consider God's role in our own behavior. God provides us with rules and principles to live by; however, God does not force us to behave.

Excuse me for asking, but do you suppose that the Almighty might be overlooking a good thing there?

I mean, consider the words of Henry Huxley:

"If some great Power would agree to make me think always what is true and do what is right on condition of being turned into a sort of clock, I should instantly close with the bargain. The only freedom I care about is the freedom to do right; the freedom to do wrong I am ready to part with."

What do you think? Would you prefer having God make your choices for you, or leaving you with the freedom to goof--yea, even to sin? (A related question: would you prefer the preacher or some other worthy person to make your choices for you?)

I suspect that lots of people would say "yes!" to those questions. They like churches to tell folk what to believe and how to act and what to feel. We Disciples, on the other hand, prefer to encourage people to think for themselves and to make educated, wise choices. But that approach is rather risky, isn't it?

By the way, I did read Charisma's letter to Crawford. He dictated the following response:

Dear Charisma,
Get lost.
Love,
Crawford

JANUARY 11, 2005
WHEREFOR ART THOU, NOAH?

"All leave! All leave!" shouted my friend, Crawford, the talking crow, hopping from one pine tree branch to another.

"All leave?" I asked, looking around and seeing no one else in sight. "All who?"

Crawford splattered me with droplets of water from his feathers. "A branch, O Dry and Pampered One," he explained, "an all leave branch."

"And why do you want an olive branch?" I asked. "Have you gotten in a fight and now want to make peace?"

The crow glared at me and stomped his foot. "I want you to paint my feathers with white shoe polish and give me an all leave branch! Then, disguised as a dove, I will go out over the sea and look for Noah. I'll give him the branch, and prevent any more t-sue- namey floods. OK?" he snapped. "Isn't that the way it happens?"

I understood why Crawford was getting somewhat testy, after all the gruesome news we've received of the tsunami damage in Indonesia and other countries.

Crawford continued his nervous pacing, and I suddenly realized he was more than testy. He was scared.

So I addressed him in a soothing tone of voice. "Crawford, are you worried that this is the kind of flood the Bible describes as happening to Noah?"

"Not at all," he assured me. "I'm afraid we might have one that's worse!" Then Crawford shook his head. "Chicken Little was right, after all," he sighed. "The apocalyptus has arrived."

He was literally trembling with fear. So I ignored his confusion between the apocalypse and an eucalyptus tree. Instead, I attempted to comfort him. I asked him if he really thought that the world was coming to an end.

"Yes!" he declared.

Realizing that my question was not really helpful, I said (in my best professional voice), "Crawford, I think you need more faith--"

"I have faith, and that's precisely what scares me!" the crow insisted. "Look, you call Jesus the Savior of the world. Right?" I nodded. "Well, I'd be much less nervous," Crawford explained, "if he is Savior of the earth as well."

The following week, as we heard more estimates of colossal losses and contributed financially to the monumental task of helping the survivors, I reflected on Crawford's fears.

He helped me realize that those Christians who talk a lot about the end of the world do not really think of Christ as Savior of the world or the earth. If Christ is truly Savior, then we as "the body of Christ" will help in the healing and repair of the world.

And it does make a great difference, doesn't it?

JANUARY 4, 2005
CROWING

I confess that I am somewhat puzzled over the large number of persons who tell me that they like Crawford. He is, after all, a rather offensive bird. And one of Crawford's most repulsive traits is his tendency to contrast humans to crows--to the distinct disadvantage of the former.

For example, he recently argued that crows will be welcomed into heaven, but humans will not. How, you may ask, does he know this? "Jesus said so," Crawford informed me.

When I insisted that he explain, he sighed (which, when a crow does it, sounds like an air mattress with a serious leak). "And you call yourself a preacher!" he exclaimed. "Don't you recall how Jesus said that the kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed?"

I nodded.

"Well, if you will recall, the mustard seed grows up to be a large tree, right?"

I nodded again.

"And then Jesus says that birds come and make nests in its branches. So there!" he declared.

"So what?" I asked.

He stared at me, as if wishing to measure my intelligence but discovering that he lacked a necessary micrometer. "Well it should be obvious," he declared. "Nowhere does Jesus say that people will come and sit in its branches!"

Perhaps I shouldn't become so irritated with Crawford. After all, he is the only crow I know who can both speak and read English (though he refuses to tell me how he learned either). But there's simply a limit to my patience toward his put-downs.

Yes, I know that Eleanor Roosevelt said, "no one can make you feel inferior without your consent" -- but Crawford manages to do it, every time.

On one occasion I accused him of being conceited. "I am not conceited!" he snapped. Then he added, in a meditative tone of voice, "Although I do have every reason to be."

However, Crawford has helped me to recognize that pride is usually maintained only at the expense of others. As one person put it, "It is not enough to succeed. Our friends must fail as well."

Perhaps in Christ's own example we find an antidote to pride. If we compare ourselves to Jesus (rather than to others), we find in him one whose character and courage far exceeds our own, yet who often described himself as simply a "son of man" who came not to be served, but to serve.

Crawford, are you listening?

DECEMBER 21, 2004
CHRISTMAS FOR PAGANS?

Recently I have reported how my "friend" Crawford, the talking crow, has attempted to dampen my holiday spirits. This curmudgeon seems to delight in criticizing the special days of autumn (which he sometimes lumps together and calls "Hallowthanksmas").

He persists. Just yesterday he declared to me, "Christmas is a pigeon holiday."

It took me some time to discover that he meant to say, Christmas is a pagan holiday. Having determined that, I assumed he was referring to its commercialism. I was wrong, he was referring to the decorating of Christmas trees.

"And you call yourself a biblical scholar," he sneered. "It says right there in the book of Jerry Myna that it is wrong to cut down trees and decorate them with silver and gold."

"Crawford," I said, assuming the voice of the wise professor, "that's Jeremiah, not Jerry Myna, and the exact wording is,

'For the customs of the peoples are false:
a tree from the forest is cut down,
and worked with an ax by the hands of an
artisan;
people deck it with silver and gold;
they fasten it with hammer and nails
so that it cannot move.'

"That way," I explained, hoping to add some levity to the conversation, "the trees could not walk off by themselves."

The crow rapidly shook his head and stomped his foot, as if he had just eaten a sour berry. "Condemned by the very words of the myna prophet! Christmas trees are a bomb a nation!"

It suddenly struck me that Crawford was serious. I realize that a bird might regard the cutting down of trees the way we humans would regard the bulldozing of houses. But the decorating of Christmas trees--what harm is there in that?

"Crawford," I said firmly, "Jeremiah was denouncing the practice of pagans--"

"That's what I said."

"--who engaged in fertility worship. They used trees and images of animals and of, well, other things more representative of reproductive processes." (How can you explain pagan fertility worship to a crow?) "And sometimes they engaged in sexual orgies under these trees."

"Humph!" declared Crawford. "Makes Christianity seem pretty boring in comparison." With that he flew away, singing "Deck the Halls with Boughs of Folly."

As I said, Crawford seems determined to dampen my holiday spirits. However, I think the real problem is that he and Charisma are not talking to each other. (Charisma is his would-be lover, a long-legged female whom Crawford sometimes refers to as his Barbie crow.)

After all, holidays are really celebrations of relationships, times to enjoy the presence of friends, family, and God. If we can't do that, well, then our holiday decorations are nothing more significant (to continue with the words of Jeremiah) than "scarecrows in a cucumber field ..."

DECEMBER 14, 2004
JESUS IN A FLYING SAUCER

"What are you-foes?" asked my friend Crawford, the talking crow.

"Yew foes?" I asked. "Enemies of yew trees?"

The bird cocked his head, as though he thought I was the crazy one among us. As it turns out, he was thinking of an amateur astronomer he had seen the previous night.

"It's that dumb Clunkwell," Crawford explained, referring to another crow. "He goes bonkers over anything that is bright and shiny. Last night a few dozen of us crows were having a brilliant discussion, when a pedestrian dropped a lit cig-regret on the sidewalk." (I have repeatedly told Crawford how to pronounce cigarette, but he refuses to listen.)

"So Clunkwell," my friend continued, "swooped down, snatched it up, and flew over a nearby house. The moving air made it burn real bright, and Clunkwell decided to put on a show. He began flying in a tight circle, faster and faster. All we could see was the glowing spot, making arcs in the night sky."

"Crawford," I said impatiently, "if this story is very long--"

"And then this guy on a deck in the next yard," the crow continued in a forceful voice, "jumped up from where he'd been looking through a telescoop--"

"That's a telescope," I corrected.

"Whatever," growled Crawford, "and then he yelled, 'Good Lord, it's you-foes, coming to get us!'"

"Oh," I responded. "You mean UFO's. Unidentified Flying Objects. You know, like flying saucers."

"Frisbees?"

"No, I mean space ships, vessels from outer space."

"Like what Jesus came down in?" asked Crawford.

Jesus in a flying saucer? Just where did this bird-brain get that idea?

Crawford told me he heard a radio preacher say that Jesus had come down from heaven, and that Jesus was not of this world.

"Crawford," I explained in my ministerial tone of voice, "Heaven is not so much a place as it is a presence--the presence of God--and God is here, among us, as well as everywhere else." (The crow cocked his head again, a gesture he knows I dislike.) "And when Jesus said he was not of this world," I continued, "he meant he did not belong to this world. He was not owned by this world. He was not for sale. That's not the same as saying that he was not from earth.

Then I added, to clinch my theological argument, "He also said that his disciples were not of this world. So now do you understand?"

"Yeah," my feathered friend answered. "It means they had to use a really big you-foe, to carry all those disciples."

Since then I've been trying to determine why this conversation disturbed me so much. I think it's the way that so many people try to describe Christ. The more they talk about him as a divine being who came to earth, the more distant and unapproachable Jesus seems.

The gospel, I realized, is not a theological treatise, any more than it is a science fiction story. At its heart it is an amazing invitation--an invitation to know God better and to fellowship with the One who is best reflected in Jesus of Nazareth.

Perhaps, I added, Jesus is for me a real UFO: an Unexpected Friend and Savior.

DECEMBER 7, 2004
A FISHY CHURCH?

"So, you finally have a fish?" Crawford the talking crow asked me.

If you regularly read my little reports of conversations with this curmudgeon corvid, I should explain that each one undergoes a considerable amount of necessary editing on my part. His choice of words is often confusing, to say nothing of his thoughts.

To put it bluntly, Crawford's mind is like a steel trap: everything that goes in it gets mangled. This last encounter illustrates my point.

"Fish? What fish?" I asked. "I don't have a fish."

"Your church, it has just voted on a new fish."

I stared at the crow for some moments while he paced back and forth on a tree limb. I thought of how the fish was an ancient Christian symbol, but this notion of voting on it left me puzzled.

Then Crawford added, "You know, a porpoise."

"Oh," I said, "you mean a purpose. Not a porpoise. Besides a porpoise is not a fish, it's a mammal--"

But Crawford absolutely hates to be corrected. He turned his back on me and muttered, "Whatever."

"Yes, we voted on a purpose statement, 'to continue the ministry that Jesus began.'"

"So," responded the crow, turning to stare at me with one eye, "does that mean you are going to have apostles and such?"

"It means, first of all, that our purpose for being a church centers on Jesus, not on ourselves. In effect, it means that we are going to center on those tasks that Jesus emphasized: healing, teaching, and proclaiming. We are also going to emphasize faithful stewardship."

"Stewardship? What kind of ship is that?"

"A steward," I explained, in a professional tone of voice, "is a manager of someone else's property. We are managers of what God has entrusted to us: our time, our talents, our treasures. The word itself is derived "sty" and "ward," denoting a person who has responsibility for a pig sty, but extended in meaning--"

"So," interrupted the corvid, "your flock voted on a fish that involves caring for pigs? All I have to say is, what about the birds?"

As I said, my conversations require considerable editing . . .

November 23, 2004
THE SCARE CROW

It was cold, the skies were gray, and I was thinking about the war in Iraq. Not a very happy moment, I admit. In fact, my mood had become so serious and anxious that I actually and deliberately sought out the company of Crawford, the talking crow. (Usually I try to avoid this curmudgeon corvid, but I thought it might be helpful to visit with some bird-brain who hadn't a clue about world affairs.)

So I walked out among the pine trees, looking upward for a dark form. Nothing.

"Crawford," I said out loud.

No response.

"Crawford!" I said, more loudly.

Still no response.

"CRAWFORD!"

I waited for a response. None came.

At last I decided that my feathered fiend (I mean, friend) was not nearby. However, just as I turned and started back toward the church building, something dark and sinister drove past my face and hit a nearby tree branch with a tumultuous thud, simultaneously yelling, "BOOM!"

I jumped back. Perhaps I even let out an involuntary (but ever so tiny) exclamation, of sorts.

"Scared you, didn't I?" croaked Crawford proudly. "Scared you really good!"

"Darn you," I began. But then my masculine ego kicked in. "No. I mean, maybe you startled me, just a bit. That's all I was, just startled. BUT JUST WHAT THE BLAZES WERE YOU TRYING TO DO?"

"I'm practicing being a scare crow!"

Well, he may have his roles confused. After all, a scarecrow is something that is supposed to scare crows; however, Crawford apparently intends to be the scarer, not the scaree.

And I sense that a lot of people are fearful. If not outright scared, they endure chronic low-level anxiety--over the war, the economy, our politically polarized citizenry, taxes, social security (the list goes on).

However, the most frequently stated commandment in the Bible is, "fear not." Like all divine orders, this one is given for a reason. And, like all of God's intentions, it takes our cooperation and lots of time and practice to fulfill it. God is in control, we believe, but not in control of our anxiety level. We have to take charge of that ourselves.

So, let's make a deal--I will keep Crawford occupied, and you work on not being stressed out or fearful . . .

November 16, 2004
CROWDS

"Hey, there, Shiny Scalp," came a raspy voice from above. I looked up and saw a line of black crows sitting along a telephone line, examining me with round, yellow eyes.

"Crawford?" I asked the gathering of birds.

"Right over here, between these two good lookin' babes," came a response from somewhere along the row.

Not being able to distinguish between male and female crows, I asked a question, hoping thereby to identify my disrespectful friend from the other birds. "What are you all doing?"

The third crow in from the end answered. "Listening to old Road Kill' Cutworthy here brag about how many cats he's lured out onto busy streets."

I am aware of how much crows dislike housecats, but I blanched at the thought of enticing pets into traffic. Knowing that lecturing or arguing would be useless, I responded in a more subtle manner. "Isn't that dangerous?" I asked.

Crawford shrugged his wings. "That's the idea."

"I mean, isn't it dangerous for Cutworthy?"

"When," demanded Crawford, "have you ever seen a squashed crow on the pavement?" The other birds laughed raucously. "Actually, though," my friend continued, "Cutworthy's just whistling through his beak. He hasn't lured a single cat into the street yet."

Wanting to change the subject, I observed, "You all seem about as crowded on that telephone wire as we were on Sunday. The lines of people waiting for flu shots backed up all the way into the parking lot."

"So you were like Cutworthy, luring people into the parking lot traffic?"

"We were doing no such thing!" I snapped.

The corvid looked down the row at his black feathered companions. "When things get too crowded for us, we accidentally push the quietest ones off the line. You could have done something like that. Told the crowds that the fire marshal would object to so many people in the halls."

"We were providing space for a good cause, helping to promote health. That's part of our proposed purpose statement, 'continuing the ministry that Jesus began.'"

The crow eyed me sternly. "So why didn't other churches do the same? Do they have a different purpose stalemate? One that keeps them from taking risks?"

"That's statement, not stalemate," I corrected. But Crawford had already leaped into the air and flown off, with a crowd of corvids following him.

November 9, 2004
BLACK ANGEL

It had been a very busy day, and I arrived home late for dinner. As I closed the garage door behind me, a voice from overhead announced, "I AM AN ANGEL, SENT FROM GOD. DO NOT BE AFRAID."

"Crawford, just what are you doing up there in that maple tree?" I responded (in a somewhat surly tone of voice, I fear; after all, I was tired and hungry).

"I am performing a religious experiment," the talking crow informed me (in an even more surly tone of voice).

"Religious experiment? You, doing a religious experiment?"

"Yes, but obviously you are not in the least bit interested."

Actually, my attention was tweaked, so I said placating my words to my offended corvid friend: "All right, already, so tell me about your so-called experiments," I said.

"Hmmmph. Well, I get myself well out of sight from an individual and then announce in a loud voice, 'I AM AN ANGEL, SENT FROM GOD. DO NO BE AFRAID."

"Just what reactions have you gotten?" I asked.

"Most people just look around, curious, and then walk on. But one guy who had been drinking out of something in a paper bag threw it into a trash can. One woman asked eagerly if I were announcing the death of her ex-husband. And another man told me he needed some spiritual sign in order to believe, like maybe the sight of his boss handing him a huge check."

I thought for a moment. "And what does all this tell you?" I asked.

Crawford ruffled his feathers. "That people are different than those in biblical times. Back then, if an angel appeared--zap!--everybody cowered and whimpered. Today, people just demand divine favors."

I've thought about this for some time. I suppose churches and preachers can emphasize God's love and mercy so much that people forget God's instructions and expectations. Perhaps many folks want (expect?) rights without righteousness, grace without goodness, spirituality without service, comfort without commitment. They may imagine God as like a dotting old man, delighting in providing blessings and indulgently winking at the indiscretions of his children.

Perhaps we need to remember that when Jesus said, "follow me," he wasn't talking about a holiday stroll, but a courageous ministry that would transform the world.

What about you? Seen any angels lately?

November 2, 2004
A CROW'S VIEW OF PREACHING

Yesterday I sat down for a nice long talk with Crawford, the talking crow. I wanted to learn more about this old flame of his named Charisma, the one who keeps tossing him out of the nest and then taking him back again.

But every time I brought up her name, he changed the subject. Most of the time, he changed the subject to the matter of preaching.

"I understand that in seminary you had to take a class in humbletics," he said at one point.

"The art of preaching is called homiletics," I informed him, "not 'humbletics.'" (Although, I thought to myself, sometimes preaching can make one feel pretty humble). "Now, what about this Charisma chick?"

Crawford immediately changed the subject again. He made a few disparaging remarks about sermons in general and mine in particular . . . which I will not bore you with here.

So I asked him again about Charisma, and he became so desperate that he actually asked me for my insights regarding homiletics. Boy, can that bird manipulate a conversation!

Anyway, I offered him some insightful quotes from great pulpit figures, and he matched every one of them with his own observations. Here are several examples:

Me: "A false prophet is a man who preaches another man's sermons.' Arnold Rhodes."

Crawford: "All work and no plagiarism makes Jack a dull preacher."

Me: "It is a crime against preaching to deny it imagination.' Fred Craddock."

Crawford: "Be informative. Be succinct. Be seated."

Me: "It is not in chewing that we are nourished, but in chewing food.' Alexander Campbell."

Crawford: "If you make people think they are thinking, they will love you, but if you actually make them think, they'll hate you."

This was getting on my nerves, so I pulled out the big guns. "'Since...the world did not know God through wisdom, God decided, through the foolishness of our proclamation, to save those who believe.' The Apostle Paul."

Crawford: "Yeah, but you are under no obligation to make it more foolish than need be."

That did it. I had had enough. So I shot one last quote at him, right at his heart: "The effective preacher must have charisma." But the crow flew away before I could name who had said those words.

October 26, 2004
LOVE THY VICTIM

Someone tossed pumpkins onto the church parking lot last week, enjoying watching them smash open on the pavement. I noticed three crows busily eating raw pumpkin meat.

"Crawford?" I asked. The birds suddenly flew up onto the tall outdoor light posts and waited for me to leave.

"Ye-e-e-es?" responded a melancholy voice from a nearby tree.

I thought you'd be eating with the other crows," I remarked to my curmudgeon feathered friend.

"Ate some. Not hungry."

I studied Crawford for a moment. "So, how does pumpkin taste?"

"Like chicken."

"Crawford, that's ridiculous. What's the matter with you, anyway?"

"Charisma left me again."

I stared at him in silence. Charisma is the only other talking crow I know, a long-legged corvid who is (usually) love-sick over Crawford. Sensing my feathered friend's distress, I decided to respond with professional tact.

"I just can't imagine why she would ever leave you," I lied. He just stared at me, so I decided to demonstrate heartfelt empathy.

"You should rejoice!" I informed him. "After all, you're always grousing at her and calling her your 'significant bother.'"

Crawford flew away. So much for my professional manner.

Since then, however, I have been thinking about how I have had more than my share of funerals for murder victims (five, at last count), and how in each instance love got mixed up with all kinds of other emotions: jealousy, regret, wrath, remorse, guilt.

A woman jilted one man and married another (I officiated at the wedding), and her ex-boyfriend, enraged with jealousy, tied her up and set her house on fire. A young man, killed in a bar room brawl, had done nothing more significant with his life than impregnate two women; nonetheless, his family deeply mourned this twit's death. As I held the hand of a woman who had stabbed her live-in lover, she wept and we prayed (unsuccessfully) for his life.

Love, they say, makes the world go round. I have found, however, that sometimes we have a tendency to hurt most those whom we love the most. Jesus once said, "Love your enemies." It's interesting to note that he did not say, "Make enemies of those whom you love."

I wonder if Crawford would be helped if I pointed that out to him?

October 19, 2004
IN GOD'S IMAGE?

"How are your classes going?" Crawford asked me, while preening his wing feathers.

I was surprised at the inquiry. Despite the fact that this crow is remarkably intelligent, he seldom exercises any social courtesies, including demonstrating the least amount of polite interest in the affairs of others.

His question referred to my teaching two classes at Gonzaga University on the synoptic gospels.

"It's interesting," I reflected, "especially since a large percentage of the students have little or no knowledge of the Bible or of theology. Some of them even imagine God as a man."

Crawford's head popped up. "A man?"

"Yes. They pictured God as an old man with a long grey beard." I stroked my own beard as I said this.

"That's ridiculous," Crawford declared flatly.

"Of course it is," I agreed. "So I pointed out to them the verse in Genesis, about how both male and female are formed in God's image."

The crow shook his head. "Must be a mistranslation. Humans can't be made in God's image."

"And just why not?" I demanded.

"Because God has feathers."

I sputtered. I admit it: I simply sputtered. When I regained my composure, I gently inquired, "Where did you get that hair-brained, idiotic notion?"

"From the Bible," he countered. "And you call yourself a preacher! Have you never read the psalms? '....in the shadow of your wings I will take refuge,'" he quoted, "....in the shadow of your wings I sing for joy....under his wings you will find refuge....' Do you want me to continue?"

I was impressed. I had no idea that Crawford had been reading the Bible! I did not even know where he found a Bible to read.

However, at that moment the crow spread his wings fully, flapped them with majesty, and lifted his head in a regal pose. Well, this was simply too much!

So I decided to take him down a notch or two. "Yes," I said, "God does have wings. God is a bird. As it says in Jeremiah, 'he shall swoop down like an eagle....' That's the kind of bird made in God's image."

This was a bit nasty of me. After all, crows absolutely hate eagles. So I was not really surprised when Crawford backed away from me, hissed, and then flew off.

Since then I have thought about this theological encounter. If we humans are indeed made in the image of God, then gender, color of skin, language, and all the other differences within the human family are simply incidental. And if they are incidental, then they are relatively unimportant. All of us are in God's image, irrespective of these various differences. As the psalmist says--and I hope Crawford is not listening--"all people may take refuge in the shadow of God's wings."

October 12, 2004
WISDOM AND ADVICE

Even though Crawford often irritates me, nonetheless there are times when pity for this curmudgeon crow courses through my veins.

One such occasion happened only last week. Crawford was looking exceptionally scruffy and downcast, so I asked him what was the matter.

"Charisma," he answered. (Charisma is his wannabe mate, whom he refers to as his "significant bother.")

"Charisma," I repeated, demonstrating my mastery of Rogerian counseling techniques, where the counselor repeats what the counselee says.

"You hard of hearing,?" he inquired sullenly. "Yes, Charisma. She told me to go take a hike."

"You mean she threw you out?" I asked, surprised.

The corvid glared at me. "For a crow," he informed me, "'take a hike' means walk, as opposed to fly--thereby exposing oneself to nasty predators, such as dogs and cats. It is the equivalent of you telling another human to go take a stroll on the freeway."

"So Charisma is angry with you," I observed, still exercising my professional bedside manner.

"She has been giving me all this crummy advice on how to get along with others. 'You ought to compliment them,' she tells me. 'You ought to say nice things sometimes,' she says to me. 'You need to listen more and say less,' she informs me. Bah! How can I say nice things and yet not talk--tell me that!"

"Ah," I said in a tone of voice that would have pleased Freud.

"You would have been proud of me," Crawford continued. "I quoted the Bible to her."

"Oh?"

"I said, 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.'"

"I don't understand."

"Those words," he explained, "they were said by Jesus. You remember, Jesus of Nazareth, who-- "

"I know that Jesus said them," I declared through clenched teeth. "I mean, why-did-you-quote- those-words-to-her?"

Crawford rustled his wings. "Advice. She was giving me advice. So I told her, 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.'"

I was reminded of a quote by some wit: "It is best to pass on good advice--after all, it's of no use to oneself."

Perhaps I should stop being the empathetic listener with Crawford, and give him some sound advice.

October 5, 2004
HUMAN CREATURES

"I don't understand why you humans claim that God is good," said Crawford. "Of all creatures, you should be the last to make that sort of statement."

I had arrived at church in the early morning, while it was still rather chilly. Seeing my friend, the talking crow, pacing in front of the building, I went inside, found a rather old donut, brought it out and shared it with him. "Why do you say that?" I asked, tightening my coat collar against the crisp autumn air.

"Because God made you without feathers."

"What has that got to do with anything?" I asked halfheartedly.

He stared at me with one eye, then turned his head to look at me with the other. "Everything!" he snapped. "Lacking feathers, you have to build shelters and then heat those same shelters. Moreover, you can't fly, so you have to build cars and roads. Remember, even Jesus admitted that birds are better than humans."

Now he had my attention. "When did he say that?" I demanded.

"And you call yourself a preacher! It was during the Sermon on the Monk. 'Look at the birds of the air,' Jesus said (wisely, I might add), 'they neither sow nor reap or gather into barns, yet your heavenly Father feeds them.' You human beings need feathers."

I pointed out that Crawford was being fed by me, not the other way around. "Besides," I added, "you'd better recall the very next words of Jesus: 'Are you not of more value than they?'"

"A restorical question," Crawford insisted, "the obvious answer to which is, 'no.' Consider the recent disasters in Florida. Were any crows drowned, made homeless, or stranded by floodwaters?"

Before I could respond Crawford stomped his foot and said, "How can you think of God as good when He created house cats! And he made you featherless! Just what kind of world is this where the Son of God has to urge you humans not to be anxious?"

"OK," I admitted, "we may be more vulnerable, but that forces us to devise ways to take care of ourselves and others, to grow smarter and become more compassionate."

Crawford tossed his head back. "Here's the way I see it: God provides for us birds; since you humans claim to be made in God's image, you are thereby obliged to feed the birds--especially the crows.

"But," the corvid added, as an afterthought, "I suppose you also ought to help other human beings, too. After all, it isn't your fault that God made you without feathers."

Septemer 28, 2004
THE NATIONAL EMBLEM IS NOT A CROW

The sun was shining brightly last Friday, so I stepped outside the church and breathed deeply. I was pleased with the voter forum event the night before, so informative about up-coming state initiatives and a referendum. Then I heard a rhythmic clicking sound moving across the church eaves.

I looked up at the source of the sound. "Crawford, what are you doing?" I asked my friend, the curmudgeon talking crow.

"Preparing to join the march on election day," he answered proudly, continuing to pace back and forth.

"March?" I asked. "What march? I haven't heard of any march!"

"The one I'm going to organize. It will be a protest march."

"Protesting what?" I asked, already half-regretting having shown an interest.

"Protesting the Great White Father's stupidity regarding birds."

Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound. So I inquired further, "What stupidity regarding birds?"

"Having an eagle as the national bird, that's what! Ben Frank proposed that they select the turkey. Now there's a bird of finest color, but an eagle?"

"That's Franklin, not Frank," I corrected.

"--an eagle is a...a...a savage!" Crawford screeched.

I knew that corvids hated eagles, but I had no idea the animosity could be so intense.

"But I did see one good eagle," the crow continued. "On top of a flag pole, a replica of an eagle, only with this eagle one wing was missing."

I was considering the differences of political opinions in our nation. "Right wing or left?" I asked, proud of my humor.

"What other choices are there?" Crawford snapped back. "With only one wing, an eagle could only fly in circles." With a vindictive sort of laugh, Crawford flew away.

I thought about our society. Left wing versus right wing. But if there were only one, only liberals or only conservatives, wouldn't our nation just go in circles?

I wonder. In the meantime, vote intelligently.

Septemer 21, 2004
"GOD BLESS AMERICA"

I was already irritated before I arrived at my office that morning. As usual, I had read the morning newspaper. I noticed that a higher percentage than usual of letters to the editor resorted to name-calling: "liberal weirdos," "Fascists," "spineless cowards," "tree-hugger" and the like. I don't know about you, but I assume that anyone who resorts to name-calling has simply run out of arguments and resorted to insults.

So, having already mentally groused over the offensive slurs by some of our citizens, I stepped out of my vehicle and was confronted by Crawford, the curmudgeon talking crow.

"Shut up!" I said in greeting.

"Wha-a-at?" he responded. "Wake up on the underside of the bed this morning?"

I glared at him. "It's just that I'm tired of put-downs and insults, especially during an election time. I respect our nation and deeply value our democratic form of government. We need to show some honor toward our elected officials. And last week hearing you refer to those running for office as 'cand-idiots' didn't help! People who seek public office and represent their constituents should be called statesmen."

The scruffy crow was silent for a moment. "I thought a statesman," he reflected, "was a politician who had been dead for ten years."

"Crawford!" I snapped.

"OK, OK. But the reality is that some elected officials are more capable than others. So how do we speak well of someone who, if brains were taxed, would get a rebate?"

"You don't know anything about public service," I retorted. "Government officials have to learn a vast amount of facts and theories in order to survive in our political process. It's an exhausting job."

"More so for those who enjoy a room temperature IQ."

I paused, because I remembered one politician I knew some years ago who, well, to be truthful, did sort of exemplify Crawford's negative stereotype. On the other hand, I have known and do know some really fine, dedicated and thoughtful elected officials.

So I decided to resort to an up-beat conversation-stopper. I almost shouted the words, "God bless our elected officials and God bless America!"

But Crawford had to have the last word. "Better," he said, "that America be a blessing for God." And with that, he flew off.

Septemer 14, 2004
CRAWFORD AND POLITICS

"You had it all wrong when you talked about the floozy bird," Crawford the talking crow informed me.

"That's floogee," I corrected him. (At least I assumed he was referring to last Sunday's sermon, when I quoted an author who compared the church with the fabled "floogee bird" that flies backward and sings one monotonous refrain: "I don't know where I'm going, but just look where I've been!")

The corvid shrugged his wings. "Whatever. Anyway, this floozy bird is not a good analgesic for the church--"

"I think you mean analogy," I suggested.

The crow glared at me. "--for the church," he repeated, "but for the country. In this political Fuhrer--"

"Don't you mean furor?" I asked.

Crawford stamped his foot. "In this political FUR-or, the voters are acting like floozy birds. All the attention seems to be on the Vietnam war and what the cand-idiots did or didn't do back then."

I opened my mouth to correct his pronunciation one more time, but thought better of it.

"And when the voters do look at the present time," he went on, "they mistake the pebbles for the mountains."

Against my better judgment, I asked the crow what he meant. "Each day forty thousand children die of starvation," he declared, in the tone of voice one usually reserves for lecturing at mushrooms, "yet Congress is busy arguing over the flag. While half of marriages are ending in divorce, Congress is busy debating the issue of gay--"

It was time to cut off this bird's ranting. "If you were able to vote," I interrupted, "who would you vote for?"

He stopped yapping and stared at me. Then he gave perhaps the wisest statement ever (I wonder who he borrowed it from?). He said: "I would not vote for an individual because each one represents a party and a political party is just a gang that wants to mismanage the country. Instead, I would vote for the nation itself, with the next generation in mind."

Septemer 7, 2004
THE PURPOSE OF MARRIAGE?

"Are you still married?" Crawford, the curmudgeon talking crow, asked me.

"Absolutely!" I snapped back, a bit irritated that he even thought to ask such a question. "Thirty-eight years and holding," I added.

"Why," he demanded, "do you humans marry?"

I was surprised by his inquiry. This corvid is much more prone to state his opinions than to ask questions (not unlike some people I've met). So I shrugged my shoulders and replied, "Because they love each other."

"So marriage is just registering your emotions with the state," he noted. "Then what's the problem with gay marriages?"

I froze. I tend to avoid discussing homosexuality, because most folk get too emotional over that subject. They get red in the face and say things that don't make much sense.

(I once related about a time when a fundamentalist cousin of mine approached me--her theological teeth bared--and demanded to know how often I preach about homosexuality. I told her that I spoke on that matter as often as Jesus did. She stopped cold, thought for a moment, and then exclaimed, "He never said anything about that subject!" I nodded, adding, "And what does that say to us as his followers?")

Nonetheless, I told Crawford that conservative Christians often say they oppose homosexuality in order "to save the institution of marriage."

The crow paced sideways one way and then back again. "What's the purpose of marriage?" he puzzled.

I recalled a textbook from college that said marriage was a means for two persons to grow and mature through an intimate and caring relationship. "Can't you say the same for friendship?" the crow asked.

Again, I shrugged my shoulders. "Which is more prevalent," Crawford asked, "gay marriages or couples living together without getting married?"

"The latter, by far," I answered, proud of my keen knowledge of such things.

"Which is more prevalent," Crawford asked again, "marriages broken by one who discovers he or she is gay, or by one who commits adultery?"

"The latter, by far," I answered, as one who is professionally informed on such matters.

"So why do so many Christians regard homosexuality as a threat to marriage, when these other concerns are--"

"Crawford, I don't want to talk about it," I interrupted. After all, no one in his or her right mind debates such thorny issues with--of all things--a crow! "But I do think we need to help troubled marriages."

But this bird would not let the subject die. "Just what is the purpose of marriage? To have children? No, couples do that without being married. To express love? Yet half of all marriages end in divorce."

"Crawford--"

"I know! I know!" he exclaimed. "There's one and only one thing that marriage produces that can be produced in no other way!"

In spite of an inner voice that warned me to refrain, I asked him what it is that only marriage can produce?

"In-laws!"

August 31, 2004
CRAWFORD PONDERS PURPOSE

During this past week, I was discussing religion with Crawford, the talking crow. He asked me about the baptism that I performed recently. I explained that baptism is a sign of the washing away of sin.

"A bad memory helps, too," he remarked.

I went on about the deep spiritual meaning of baptism.

Crawford's commend was this simple advice: "Whatever you say about immersion, don't ever try doing it with a cat."

The crow then proceeded to ask me questions about the ministry and to register his own take on things.

For example, I mentioned how I am looking forward to the fall schedule, with Sunday school classes. "It's so important to teach the Bible," I said, "and to do so in an objective, honest manner, because some folk tend to use the scriptures for their own selfish purposes." I included a clever quote from William Sloane Coffin, Jr.: "Some people use scripture like a drunk uses a lamppost--more for support than illumination!"

Crawford cocked his head and stared at me. "An hour on Sunday morning is not long enough to teach the Bible. You may think they are drinking from the fountain of knowledge, but they've only got time to gargle."

Then Crawford asked me about my pulpit robe, the one I wore in my previous church. (He used to object that I preferred a white one when black is the most beautiful color of all.)

I explained that now I wear a suit and tie. "A pastor needs to dress in some manner that reflects the importance of worship," I said. "After all, 'clothes make the man' -- or, in this case, make the minister."

"You're right: naked preachers have little or no influence on congregations."

He fluttered his wings a bit and then added, "Speaking of influence, isn't it a maxi--"

"You mean 'maxim'?" I interrupted.

"Whatever. Anyway, isn't it a maximmm that you cannot fail if you have no purpose?"

"I suppose. But we are called to risk failure. Churches need a sense of definite purpose. And I'm asking this congregation to live out a new purpose statement: 'continuing the ministry that Jesus began.' This, I believe, is our calling, our purpose."

"I understand," the corvid persisted, "why you need a suit and tie, but why do you also need a purpose?"

I wondered how to answer him. I recalled that the illustrious Japanese Christian, Kagawa, once pondered that question. "I read in a book," he reflected, "where a man named Jesus went about doing good. It is very disconcerting to me that I am so easily satisfied with just going about."

I shared that quote with Crawford. "But it probably doesn't make any sense to you," I admitted. "After all, a crow cannot be expected to understand the value of a vital, specific purpose."

He tossed his head and flipped his tail at me. "I wonder," he responded, "just how many humans have a sense of purpose; and, of those who do, if you can define their purpose just by watching them."

With that, he eyed me very carefully.

August 17, 2004
CHILDREN

On a recently fine day I found Crawford huddled high up in a pine tree, groaning. I asked what was wrong, and he told me that a youngster with a slingshot had hit him (exactly what part of his avian anatomy was struck he did not care to specify). Then he rasped, "The problem with you humans is that you live too long."

Crawford often baits me with statements that begin, "The problem with you humans is..." Unfortunately, this ploy usually works. "You mean you wish that the kid with the slingshot had died young?" I asked.

"No," he answered. "I mean, it takes a human child more than a crow's lifetime just to reach maturity. Therefore, you adults just assume that a child has all the time in the world. If he or she does not learn something now, you think, 'well, there's always next year.'

"However," Crawford continued, throwing back his head with a sense of pained hauteur, "I have observed that if human children miss learning something specific at the right biological age, then they may never learn it at all."

By now I was interested. "For example?" I asked The Philosopher.

Crawford eyed me as if I had missed a few obvious lessons myself. "Humph! Consider almost anything that a child needs to learn. Kindness, for example. If it isn't learned early, it will probably never be learned. Or gratitude, or self-confidence, or trust, or empathy, or responsibility, or peacemaking, or--"

Once a crow starts on his criticism lists, he can continue until the sun goes down. "But, Crawford," I interrupted, "doesn't living a long time give a person more opportunity to catch up on the missed lessons of life?"

He cocked his head at me. "That illustrates just what I was saying, that you humans don't take seriously the need to instill necessary qualities of character while the opportunity exists. You think schools or experiences or jails or counseling will allow a person to play catch-up. But we crows have a saying: 'good branches depend on good roots.'"

I assumed that Crawford was mostly irritated with the child who hit him. Nonetheless, I agreed with the bird. "You're right," I said.

Crawford stared at me in disbelief.

"I mean, you're right that time well spent with children can make a lifetime of difference. Our congregation believes that.

"In our 'continuing the ministry that Jesus began,'" I continued, "we follow Jesus' example by giving high priority to children. We provide Sunday school classes for children (as well as adults), plus children's church.

"Moreover, we are presently scheduling a six-week program entitled 'Active Parenting Now,' which promotes effective parenting of children ages 5 to 12. This material combines video, activities and discussion to help parents raise responsible children who are able to resist negative peer pressure. It also demonstrates non-violent discipline techniques and effective encouragement skills.

"And besides all that, we have the parents of teens support gr--." I stopped there, however, because my audience, bruised and all, had flown away.

August 3, 2004
A BIRD BRAIN VIEW OF POLITICS

"Who are you?"

I was surprised by the question. Had I mistaken Crawford and some other crow? I mean, any large and scruffy talking crow could be easily mistaken for my curmudgeon feathered friend. Or had Crawford suffered some long-term memory loss during my vacation and forgotten me?

"I mean," he went on, "are you a Publican, a Demi-cat, or a Green Piece?"

I grimaced over the prospect of talking politics with this opinionated and ill-informed corvid. So I tried to duck the question by quoting Edward Langley: "What this country needs are more unemployed politicians."

But the corvid was not so easily dissuaded. "So which party would you like to see have the highest unemployment rate?" he demanded.

I held my ground. "Crawford, right now politics seems especially divisive. Our President promised to be a unifier, not a divider; but--however well intended he was--that just hasn't happened. I hear more