by Rev. Tim Kearney

A few weeks ago I was browsing in a bookstore and saw the title “How to be a (Bad) Birdwatcher.” The author, Simon Barnes, is hoping to interest people in bird watching and to eliminate the perception that those who are mesmerized by our feathered friends are the sometimes stuffy and serious. In the past few years, bird watching has become more popular. Sales of binoculars are up; new bird-watching guides are being published all the time; and people are discovering that observing birds and their behavior can be relaxing and fascinating.

Two of the best places to go bird watching in the state are local. Rare birds (the kind that fly, that is) are always being spotted at the Arnold Arboretum, and bird watchers seem to love the Forest Hills Cemetery too. I’ve never taken my binoculars to either place. When I go to the Arboretum, I am usually on my bike, and binoculars would be a bit awkward. When I’m at the Forest Hills Cemetery, I am usually otherwise occupied. Saying “Excuse me, I think I hear a red-winged blackbird in the tree over there” and taking out my binoculars would probably not go over too well with a grieving family.

Now I am not a bird watcher, and only learned about bird watching through another hobby, photography. Until I took up photography, I had little interest in birds and quite frankly, thought one bird was no different from another. I too had always imagined bird watchers as somewhat stuffy people, wearing somewhat goofy clothing. An accidental bird-watching trip taught me otherwise, and I learned an unexpected lesson too.

In July of 1999, I signed up for what I thought would be a lighthouse tour. There is an abandoned lighthouse on Monomoy Island off the coast of Cape Cod near Chatham, and I wanted to visit it and snap a few photographs of it. There are all sorts of groups that offer birding tours of the island. I called the first number I saw and made a reservation. The boat trip was somewhat enjoyable, watching Chatham disappear, seeing the fishing boats in action, and observing the seals swimming, but I was not ready for the tour. Getting to the lighthouse meant walking through three miles of sand, seeing a bird or two if you had powerful binoculars, and after resting at the lighthouse, yet another three-mile trek though the sand back to the boat.

The bird lovers were excited all through the tour. A few days earlier, a rail had been sighted, and it was hoped that it would be spotted again. Now that I own a birding guide I know there are all sorts of rails: the clapper, king, black, yellow, and Virginia. All I knew at the time is that a rail had to be a bird.

Guess who did find a rail? I did, but it was not the kind of rail that flies; it was what appeared to be a rail that was once used by the railroad. When I said, “Look, I see a rail” everyone snapped to attention, with binoculars ready, looking for this rare find. I thought I was being clever, but I was in a minority. Lesson learned: birdwatchers do not find bad jokes funny. I suppose non-birdwatchers don’t find bad jokes funny either, though a few friends who are married to bird-a-holics found the story humorous.

At one point the birders decided to explore a different area, and I stayed behind at the lighthouse with a few other people: a high-school-aged brother and sister team and their uncle. I guess I knew that if three other people were at the lighthouse I didn’t have to worry about being left behind... a punishment that would have been fitting for my bad joke. The bored kids sat on the steps of the old keeper’s house, and I looked for interesting things to photograph. The uncle accompanied me. He started taking some shots with his camera, but began talking about the way the sunlight was hitting the old oil house, ways to get an angle of the lighthouse from the shore, and views of the island from the abandoned tower. He was just what I needed. I had only started taking photography seriously about a year earlier, and still did not appreciate how light can either make or break a photograph.

As we talked, I learned he was an art teacher in a high school and had never needed a vacation more in his life. When I asked him if it had been a hectic year, he told me he and his wife were teachers at a school that took students from Columbine High School in Littleton, Colorado. The Columbine tragedy was still recent at the time. Columbine had closed and the students were sent to neighboring high schools to finish the year. He talked about how difficult it was trying to console grieving students, and how he and the faculty were looking at ways to prevent a repeat of Columbine in their school. He was planning on using the photographs in his drawing classes to inspire his students to see things they might not otherwise see and to realize that the world is bigger than we sometimes believe.

The birders arrived back, but I didn’t notice. I was still mesmerized by this man’s story, and also that of his niece and nephew who talked about attending school with some of the young people who had lost close friends and siblings. Out of courtesy they asked me about my life and I told them about being a priest and spoke about an upcoming service trip to Kentucky that I would be making with students from our high school. One of the birders joined in the conversation and talked about going to Honduras, but not for a birding trip. Her aunt was a nun in a missionary order and for two weeks every year, she went and volunteered as a nurse at a medical clinic. Another had to talk about being a new grandmother, as if she was the only grandmother who ever existed, and it was easy too; it was as if she was created by God just to spoil her first grandchild and more than likely any others that followed.

The best story was shared by the director. She told of a group that had recently visited the lighthouse for an overnight stay. A man saw an advertisement about getting away from it all and decided it would be the perfect get away to celebrate his first anniversary. He was going to surprise his wife with the lighthouse trip, but forgot to check on the details. Cold cuts by kerosene lamp did not replace a candle light dinner at a quaint restaurant. Bottled water is not champagne. The sleeping bags were hardly comfortable and sharing a room with ten strangers was not cozy. She mentioned that everyone thought the two were headed for a divorce, but love won out and they laughed about it the next day. Something happened as we began sharing stories. For a few moments, a group of strangers became interconnected. We learned about each other through the stories we shared.

One of the greatest story tellers in history is Jesus Christ. Just about everyone, even those who do not profess to be Christian know “The Good Samaritan” or the “Prodigal Son.” But Jesus did more than just tell stories. Jesus listened to stories too.

Think about some of the most memorable people in scripture. We could come up with names such as Peter, Nicodemus, Zaccheus, or the unnamed people such as Centurion, the Samaritan woman at the well, or the Syro-Phonecian woman who wants her daughter healed. In each case he listened with his heart and in each case, the person was moved and had a better understanding of God. Maybe the reason Jesus was such a great storyteller was that he was such a great listener. He listened with his heart to the hearts of others, and was able to speak to the heart.

In any given day, we come across all sorts of different people. Most of the time we will simply pass these people by, and they will do the same to us. Sometimes we do stop and listen. It may be with friends, or it may be in an unexpected place: a supermarket, at a sporting event, or maybe at a social gathering after church. Sometimes it’s really worth it to take the time and listen to the stories of another person. When we share our stories, we share a bit of ourselves. When we listen to others, we may be receiving a gift we never expected. Sometimes this may be routine, but at other times it can be a moment where we can have an experience of being Christ-like... sharing ourselves with others and allowing others to share too.

This summer I’ll be going on vacation. I am not sure what my plans will be. I know I’ll be spending some time with my family at the Cape. I may also take a few daytrips and maybe I’ll venture someplace unexpected. I may use the bird-watching skills acquired that day on Monomoy Island. Maybe I’ll even see a rail (the bird, that is), but I hope that I’ll have an experience of meeting people and using my skills I really appreciated that day: the skill of listening to others and the skill of sharing myself. If I do, I am certain I will do what Jesus seemed to do... discover the richness in the stories of others who, in turn, discovered the richness of Jesus and experienced God’s love.