“The stellar’s jay was at the birdfeeder today,” Linda said. “I haven’t seen him for more than a month. And the pileated woodpecker was in today too. He was giving the deer fat a real working over. I think it’s going to get cold.”
We had both stepped into the house after digging out from an early December blow. It had been unseasonably warm for about a month and except for the chickadees and pine grosbeaks, the usual winter hangers-on at our bird feeders had all but disappeared. And then this morning winter hit with a vengeance. Birds of every shape and feather were flocking to our bird feeders.
I sat down at the kitchen table and scratched at the scruff on my face. “You know,” I said, “I’ve been thinking that we’re going to see a lot more of the pileated woodpeckers.”
“Who are you?” Linda asked, “The self-declared Birdman of Lac La Hache or something?”
“Well,” I said, “The pileated woodpeckers have had a pretty easy go of it the past six or seven years with the mountain pine beetle infestations to feed on. Easy times make for good times and I have noticed a definite woodpecker baby boom. But now the beetles have pretty much killed off all of the pine trees in the Cariboo, thus engineering their own demise. No beetles make a pileated woodpecker a hungry bird. I am thinking that this winter may bring on the starvation of a lot of woodpeckers, including the pileated kind.”
“Pessimist!” Linda said. “I think hungry woodpeckers an opportunity make. We’ll just have to get caught up in the spirit of Christmas and take care of them. They’re like family to us.”
“Who are you?” I asked Linda. “St. Francis of Lac La Hache?”
I threw on my heavy wool mackinaw, donned my rat-hat and headed out the door to fire up the pickup and head for work. Linda disappeared downstairs for more bricks of deer fat for the woodpeckers. As I drove, I thought about what she said. At first, the ecological side of me struggled with the idea of interfering with nature’s course. Best let the population of woodpeckers balance out naturally. No need for us to muck up nature’s way once again. As reasoned environmentalists, we are supposed to be smarter than the rest of creation and resistant to intervention, unless it threatens our lives. If human life is threatened, then we throw everything out the window and intervene with a vengeance. This new age environmental Puritanism definitely wasn’t what I was looking for.
And then the theological side of me got into the struggle. I thought about taking care of the woodpeckers “in the spirit of Christmas” in the same sense of what we do at Christmas in terms of taking care of the poor. But somehow that wasn’t what I was looking for. I thought about taking care of the woodpeckers as part of our good stewardship, a “co-creator with God” kind of thing. But somehow that wasn’t it either. I planted what Linda said in my naturalist’s mind. Then I sowed it in my theological mind. By the end of the day, what she said was deeply embedded in the earth of all my thoughts. Something was germinating but I’ll be darned if I could identify the embryo yet.
A couple of days later found me reading the Christmas story in John’s gospel, something I always do at this time of the year. What Linda had said about caring for woodpeckers as family leafed out into a full-fledged idea. It is an idea that has changed Christmas for me this year, and perhaps my whole relationship with regards to creation.
The Christmas story in John’s gospel doesn’t plant my feet at the manger but rather plants my fanny at the creation event. In John, the Word of God that was birthed or became flesh and lived among us, is the same Word of God that created all things (John 1:3 and 14). This is echoed in Hebrews where the author has God the Father addressing the Son as the creator of the cosmos (Hebrews 1:10).
This concept, that Jesus of the manger is the power of God that speaks all creation into existence, gives me new appreciation for him. It causes me to ponder how Jesus related to the wonder of creation as his sandal-clad feet kicked up the dust of Palestine. How did he look at a sunset – as just another sunset or as his sunset? How did he look at the wind that he stilled – as just an irritant wind or as his wind? How did he look at the Sea of Galilee as he walked upon its storm-tossed waters – as just another body of water that he saw almost every day of his life, or as his body of water? And how does he look at woodpeckers, especially starving pileated woodpeckers? Is there any doubt that the creator Christ looks upon them as his own?
So for me, this begs the question; how do I look at woodpeckers, and the rest of creation for that matter? As a Christian I deeply care about people, largely because I understand them to be related to Jesus as “the least of his sisters and brothers” (Matthew 25:40). I try to love all people and to help as many as I can because I envision Jesus loving and helping them as a brother. This is part and parcel of my faith, as I understand my redeemed self as brother to Jesus, who is the first-born of many brothers and sisters (Romans 8:29).
But Jesus as creator brings a new and exciting dimension into this. It places me, as a Christian, in relation to creation (including pileated woodpeckers) in much the same way as I have understood myself to be in relation to all people, as something of a brother. If I am Christ’s because he created me, then the pileated woodpecker, also created by Christ – well to put it simply, we belong to him together, like brothers. Like St. Francis of Assisi, as a follower of the creator Christ, I can think of myself in a much tighter relationship with creation than a mere steward. I am not a co-creator with Christ, I am co-created with the likes of pileated woodpeckers. A theology of dominion, stewardship, or co-creator is not very helpful most of the time. It bears arrogance towards creation that can become destructive. St. Francis thought of the birds that he was infamous for preaching to as his brothers. In his Canticle of Creation, St. Francis even referred to the big yellow globe in the sky as “brother sun” and the dirt of his garden as “sister earth.” This kind of theology (or is it spirituality?) has embedded in it a mutuality and humility towards creation that is sadly lacking in both liberal and conservative Christian thought, not to mention new age puritanical environmentalism.
So it’s coming on Christmas and the pileated woodpecker is hungry. It’s coming on Christmas and all creation groans (Romans 8:22). As I bow before the manger this Christmas, I have a new sense of being called by the creator Christ, called way beyond mere stewardship, called into relationship with creation as one who has been co-created. Excuse me, while I go downstairs for more deer fat for the pileated woodpecker. “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.”
