Once again I sit looking out my window at the bird-feeder tree, this time as a cloudy morning brightens the sky uniformly. Today, tiny feather-balls drop from the tree to the landscaped rock bed and peck around at who knows what. I watch them randomly skitter around and peck until the neighbor's central air unit rumbles into action. Spastically, the whole community takes cover, returning to the safety of the branches of the tree. Though not appearing to be finished with the pecking work, they nevertheless find the loud noise reason enough to relocate, abandoning the task at hand.
How often am I like that little bird? How often do I flap off in terror when loud things happen at the "next house" down the block, things that have nothing to do with me, really, despite the loud noise they make? That's not to say I shouldn't ever seek a larger awareness and express active concern for the larger world where possible, but should I be fearfully reactive?
One of the first hallmark moves toward spiritual formation is the recognition that we know as little about the larger environment of our spiritual placement as these little birds knew of the suburban yards they inhabit. Henri Nouwen described this step of growth succinctly in his book, Spiritual Formation: "Spiritual formation leads not to a proud understanding of divinity, but to docta ignorantia, an 'articulate not-knowing.' " We can't help but react to the things that startle us, but we can humbly acknowledge the mystery that is--and always will be--larger than our knowing.
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