Living theology begins with attention — to the world, to one another, to the small and specific signs of grace that surround us.
The Bible invites this kind of seeing. When Jesus says, “Consider the ravens” (Luke 12:24), he calls us not toward abstraction but to close observation. Ravens are clever and playful, known to slide on snow for fun, use tools, and befriend wolves. They are particular — and, as Luke demonstrates, the universal is revealed through the particular.
After all, the Eternal Word became a certain wry, contemplative Arab Jew. Jesus was a unique bird, wasn’t he? And so are we, each “fearfully and wonderfully made” (Psalm 139). The universal emerges through the specific — through a raven’s eccentricities, a stranger’s kindness, a praying person’s attention. Every creature – raven, poet, pastor – longs to be fully itself. That longing is holy and alive in the One in whom we live and move and have our being.
Ornithologist and poet L. Drew Lanham captures the gift of noticing specificities in Joy Is the Justice We Give Ourselves. “As billions of birds have disappeared, it becomes ever more crucial that we pay attention to the one,” Lanham notes in an interview for Orion Magazine. Lanham practices a theology of attention — noticing as devotion, specificity as praise.
Typing this, I can hear a Carolina wren singing outside my open office window. These small birds inhabit the dense thickets around the back of my church’s sanctuary. Wrens mate for life. Only the male sings, and this one is belting notes on this bright fall afternoon. Apparently, he is unconcerned about the breaking news headlines from other parts of the world. He is “relentless in his wrenishness,” as Lanham would say.
How can I embrace my true self, my Andrewishness?
In an interview, Lanham said, “Part of my affection with ornithology is the freedom that birds have to be who they are and what they are, and sort of follow what appears to be a free course.” He expresses this idea in one of my favorite poems, “Learn from the swallow and take dips and dives as privileged flight.”
Especially in crisis, I take hope in that “[God’s] eye is on the sparrow,” as the old hymn has it. I hope our theology will cause our imaginations to soar. I hope that living our theology includes a deep appreciation for wondering and wandering. I suspect the more we notice the specificities of what lays before us, even ourselves, we will become more aware of God’s presence in it all.
Taking a cue directly from Lanham’s poem, “Joy, As It Comes;” I invite you to practice noticing. Write a list of what you see, smell, taste, touch and hear. Lanham’s examples include “Autumn at its blushed orgasmic peak” and “Any sparrow singing from a weed top.” If our eyes are on the sparrow, perhaps we will be able to sense more fully the Creator in creation. Perhaps our lived theology is one of joy.
