Throughout the winter of 2020, I took daily walks around our suburban neighborhood. Being relatively new to the South (if northern Virginia can be considered the South), I was surprised to hear birdsong in the middle of February, and equally as surprised to see the occasional cardinal lift off from the ground and wing its way into the sky.
The first time I spotted one, I followed its upward trajectory as it flew through tendrils of smoke from chimneys. Somehow these images fused--the red bird like a piece of glowing ash, suddenly, unexpectedly launched through a veil of smoke.
Or like a fiery tongue momentarily poised above the homes of suburban America.
As if I'm still walking around the block, I keep circling back, trying to understand what I saw and why I saw it the way I did.
Flame and wind shoot ash
skyward. So too, the red bird
flings herself higher.
Red bird rises, flame
from a pyre, riding smoky
wisps of hidden fires.
In the cold blue sky
red bird flies, a flaming tongue
from another time.
I can't quite it get right, but maybe that's because I'm not entirely sure what I'm trying to say. For reasons I'm still sorting out, this image of the cardinal and the spirals of smoke reminds me of Pentecost--the Holy Spirit like a rush of wind, spreading like wildfire through the disciples, settling on each person like a tongue of fire, giving them words to speak.
And as they speak, the Jews who've traveled from different parts of the world to celebrate the Feast of Pentecost understand them in their own languages. It's a stunning reversal of the Tower of Babel. Where humans have frayed the fabric of humanity, the Holy Spirit knits it back together.
The pandemic has felt a bit like Pentecost turned inside out. In the early days, as the virus spread across the globe, there was a sense of unity, of humanity rallying together. But rather than being unified by the the good news of a Savior coming to redeem everything, we were unified by sorrow, confusion, loss, and fear--the antitheses of redemption. We understood each other, but only because we were speaking the same language of grief.
It was a temporary unity--as the fatigue of ongoing crisis has settled in, our shared pain no longer holds us together. As the pandemic wears on, the rifts (many of which were already there), continue to widen. It can feel a bit hopeless at times.
And yet, the image of the cardinal above the rooftops of my neighborhood homes is strangely comforting, a small reminder of God with us.
When Jesus prepares to leave this earth, he promises the disciples he will not leave them bereft. He fulfills that promise at Pentecost when he sends the Holy Spirit to comfort and counsel and guide them.
"And I will pray to the Father, and He shall give you another Comforter, that he may abide with you forever [...]. I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you." John 14:16,18
There's hope there--although the world is still very broken, Christ does not leave us alone in it. Although the degree of brokenness can feel overwhelming, he doesn't leave us helpless. And although it can be difficult at times to remember these truths, he uses the ordinary and unremarkable in our lives to remind us. Homely little messengers of hope.
One last, but probably not final, variation on the theme:
Lift up your eyes. Help
comes riding on the wings of
red birds in winter.
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