A Call to Arms

"Now is my way clear, now is the meaning plain:

Temptation shall not come in this kind again.

The last temptation is the greatest treason:

To do the right deed for the wrong reason." Murder in the Cathedral, T.S. Eliot

My childhood church eventually outgrew the small auditorium where the pony was given as a prize and moved into a new sanctuary that the local press had dubbed "Noah's Ark up-side-down"—not because of the church's history with animals, but because it did indeed look like the capsized hull of a deep wooden ship with huge sweeping beams and a keel. Settling into the new building was an eventful time for the congregation, but one Sunday morning in May things were especially exciting.

Somehow a pair of sparrows got into the ark, and every minute or so they'd flit from light fixtures to the tall cross that towered over the baptistery. It looked like a game of tag, but in fact it was spring and this was the timeless dance of love—in a Baptist church no less. Fortunately, the female was playing hard-to-get and showed no signs of fatigue. They were still darting about as we all went home.

After Sunday dinner Dad asked my brothers and I if we wanted to go back over to the church with our BB guns to discreetly eliminate the distraction. He made us promise not to talk about it. Dad was Chairman of the Property and Facilities Committee, but even with that high rank, he thought it wise to "classify" this particular mission, and we agreed to the terms.

Boys and birds and BB guns are inseparable. Dad understood this. On Christmas Day a few months before when the three of us opened our Daisy Winchester replicas, he laid down the law: we could not use the guns on Sundays and could shoot only grackles and blue jays—irksome, noisy birds that raid the nests of others to eat their eggs to take over the nests for themselves. He was as convincing as Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird,* and by honoring his code, we could aim our sights with little guilt. We weren't just shooting bad birds; we were making the world safe for "Good Bird Democracy."

But this was the Viet Nam Era, a time of social unrest when moral absolutes like "good bird, bad bird" were "blowin' in the wind"—what else could explain the demonstrations and angry protests of the lady next door every time one of the bad birds we shot landed across the fence still flopping in her yard until her dog playfully shook it to death and retrieved it to us for a simple pat on the head. Mrs. Giovanni definitely opposed our military intervention.

We knew that if shooting bad birds in the neighborhood was divisive, it would likely be even more controversial to shoot birds inside a church—sort of an ornithological "Murder in the Cathedral" if you will—especially since these weren't bad birds. They were good birds trying to "be fruitful, and multiply." And it was Sunday! Dad explained that securing a no fly zone before the evening service trumped these otherwise valid concerns.

Arriving at the back door of the church, we carried our BB guns close to our legs and entered. "Remember," Dad whispered, "No shooting while the birds are on light fixtures, in window sills, or in flight—only when they're perched in the wooden rafters with nothing breakable behind them." We spread out and slowly walked down the aisles, staring up at the high ceiling for anything that moved. No one said a word.

Soon we were all standing at the front like penitent gun slingers responding to an altar call. There was no sign of a sparrow anywhere. We made lame attempts at sparrow calls —not "Hear, Sparrow!" but chirpy whistles and tweets that sounded like a deranged cuckoo clock. Still nothing. Dave ran through the choir loft slamming a hymnal shut with loud THWACKS, but there was no sign of a bird anywhere.

We went home in utter disappointment that we would never have the chance to be tempted to tell the secret we had promised to keep—that we had snuck into the church and shot that morning's unwanted guests. We later learned that Pastor Sedalia had opened the doors during the parsonage lunch hour, and as if guided by a higher power, the birds flew outside where they lived long, productive lives (assuming no grackles or blue jays raided their nest).

If this were TV fiction, the end of this episode would show us driving home in silence with the radio playing in the background, "All we are saying... is give Peace a chance." Father and son's eyes would meet in silent understanding of a lesson learned (camera fades—cut—commercial). But this is not fiction, and Dad did not like the Beatles or listen to stations that played them. I did learn from the experience, however, and the lesson stuck with me.

Every two or three years, I share some thoughts on problem solving with our teaching staff. One of my three points stresses the importance of proportionate responses (not reactions) to problems. Whether the conflict is global or in the classroom, at one time or another, most management situations cause well-meaning policy wonks, politicians, teachers, or knee-jerk leaders to address minor problems so broadly or with such bombast that their "solution" becomes far worse than the problem. That day in the church makes a good case for proportionate response.

Never use a shotgun when a BB gun will do, but before you shoot at all... try opening a door and giving God time to work
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TK
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*To read Atticus Finch's speech about BB guns, click on the linked title of To Kill a Mockingbird in the fourth paragraph above. Scroll down the linked page once it opens. (For a change of pace and a jib-jab style pirate-friendly spoof on To Kill a Mockingbird click here. )
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