A theology for the bird feeder

In this, my tenth year of feeding neighborhood birds, I've expanded my largesse by dropping a hearty handful of bird seed, or two or three, beneath the feeder. We've got no trees close by, so squirrels are not a problem. Bunnies are, but I have not yet had my fill of them, and besides, they seem to Hoover up whatever doesn't get et; they're the backyard's sanitation crew, adept at mopping up.

I expanded my ritual in large part because my heart goes out to the juncos. I mean, someone has to sit at the bottom of the pecking order--someone has to be the Pawnee. Outside my window, it's the juncos, cute little hoppers. The jays rule the roost, but the sparrows cede the territory just as quickly to the cardinals also when red king and queen arrive. The sparrows are the teeming masses. They descend on the backyard by the dozen, little worry-warts who go up in an audible flutter when they sense the flimsiest danger.

I should be thankful for sparrows--God is, after all. He made a point of telling us he cares. But they're easy to take for granted: they're not showy; they're always here; they come and go in bands, like junior high girls. You never wonder if they'll show up. Of course they will. Maybe it's a good thing His eye is on the sparrow. Mine, most often, isn't.

Even though my benefaction has grown as of late, there's always been some cast off seeds in the snow beneath the feeder, and I've been at a loss to understand how. Why is clear. The top dogs, the ones who fend off rivals as they sit up top, don't eat everything that comes down the shoot. No ma'am. They only pick up the goodies. Look--

Down beneath him, some seeds are dropping as he kicks them out of the way. Or am I being too much the Calvinist? My view of this behavior--and it's repeated a thousand times every day--is that birds are just plain picky. He knows what he wants of the goodies he sees before him, and he's interested only in the chocolate. Anything else gets spanked out of the way for the rabble who circle up beneath the feeder. This guy is the Donald Trump of the backyard. He cares only for his own gargantuan appetites.

I MAY BE WRONG. 

It could be that an apology is in order here, if not forgiveness--and penance too. The St. Francis in me--yes, there is one of him too--couldn't help wondering, a while back, if this feeder-eater isn't dispensing food for the hungry beneath him literally--and in the pecking order. After all, his actions have immense benefits to the community at large, keeping the weaker brother and sister's stomach's from aching. This guy--have a look again--is kicking out seeds from the feeder because he's lovingly aware of those in need beneath him. His eye too is on the sparrow. Isn't that a sweet idea?

That's where I am this morning, just a few days before Christmas. Is the glass half-empty or half-full? Who wins in me, St. Francis or John Calvin? Total depravity or some smattering of the image of God?

Can't help but hear Ethel Waters, can you? "His eye is on the sparrow."

It's Christmas--think of the animals there in the stable singing carols? This super-cold morning, I think I'll throw my lot in with St. Francis, help things along a bit, and toss out a handful more.