Like the rest of the members of Presbytery assembled in the small church, I sensed that something was wrong before I actually KNEW it.  I kept trying to ignore a faint squawking at the edge of my consciousness.  I glanced back once to see that the church doors were open, and assumed the commotion was outside.  Then Dan stopped preaching, glanced up, and said, “Wow.  Look at that!”

It was a hummingbird—a Rufus hummingbird, I later learned.  It had apparently wandered in through the open doors and was doing its best to get out.  Unfortunately, it was relying on instinct, which meant flying upwards toward light.  But the light it flew toward was the ceiling fixtures rather than the sun; and, as it bashed itself against the sanctuary ceiling, it shrilled out its frustration.

The hummingbird had interrupted the last official act of Presbytery, Sunday morning worship.  We’d been trying, all weekend, to speak frankly about the changes coming for the church.  We talked about the fact that none of us could really know what church will look like; we just know that it won’t look like what we are used to.  We were trying to creatively imagine the future; we were trying to remind ourselves that God is with us in this great transition from mainstream to marginal.  We were even letting our grief squeak out in tiny bits.  The hapless hummingbird was interrupting our Conference President, Dan Chambers, as he spoke about the need to practice finding our way in this new place without landmarks.

The sermon stopped.  The lights were turned off.  Someone suggested opening the windows, but they weren’t the kind that could be opened.  Someone else suggested we all get quiet so it could hear its mates calling from outside.  Then we were asked to pray.  We waited.  Someone got a bowl of sugar water; someone else walked down the aisle with a big bouquet of red plastic flowers.  Some folks reminded the rest that eventually the bird really ­wouldtire, and then it could be put out.

But the hummingbird continued to smash against the ceiling and screech.

Our powerlessness was painful.  You could feel the anguish in the air as the bird flew back and forth, back and forth, never landing, calling out its distress over and over.  After ten minutes—it seemed like eternity—someone suggested that Dan continue his sermon.  He did, but it was different; we were all divided, our hearts longing for the bird’s release, our heads trying to attend. 

In a short time, I heard something from the back, something different, something not so shrill and distressed.  Hardly daring to hope, I turned around.  There in the back corner next to the open door someone held high the dusty red flowers, now splashed with sugar water.  There was my friend with his i-phone, playing a Rufus hummingbird call over and over.  There was the bird, coming down—oh God, coming down to the flowers, taking off, coming down again, and finally resting long enough for the flowers to be walked out the door.  When the hummingbird took flight outside, the church erupted in cheers.

We talk a lot in the church about living into change; we talk a lot about spirit-filled leadership. But we don’t often get an object lesson about this future of ours, and we don’t often get to see how difficult it is to be a leader. 

About this future of ours: just saying we’re ready to be changed will not help us avoid pain. We are going to feel utter powerlessness when congregations choose old, instinctual solutions.  If there’s an ounce of compassion in us, it is going to hurt to watch communities smash themselves against barriers that can’t be removed, or fly desperately towards light that isn’t real. We may feel as if there is nothing we know how to do to make things better; and we may be right.

About the difficulty of being a leader: it won’t be comfortable, and we will need each other desperately.  I talked to my friend of the i-phone later, and he told me how long he waited to do anything because he wasn’t sure he could really help.  He told me how he had six different hummingbird calls loaded on the platform and no idea which one was right.  We also spoke of how the person who knew that hummingbirds liked red flowers was necessary, as was the one who knew about the smell of sugar water.  And how the rest of us needed to be silent and prayerful.

I don’t know who was, really, the spirit filled leader that day. Was it the person with the technology, or the one with the knowledge of birds?  Was it those who prayed?  Those who pointed out that the bird would eventually tire and drop? Or could it have been the hummingbird—the Holy Spirit?—who showed us that spirit-filled leadership in our changing, marginalized church is going to be unpredictable, uncomfortable, and require our best creativity, our deepest cooperation.