From the Rector…
One of my favorite things about September is the return of the hummingbirds. Each year I put out a feeder as they begin their long migration back to Mexico. It gives me joy to support their journey—and I love watching their tiny bodies zoom around the backyard, drinking eagerly from the feeder.
What I don’t love, however, is how territorial they become. Though beautiful, hummingbirds are also fierce. Once one finds a feeder, it guards it day and night, chasing off any bird that dares to approach. The other evening, as Petunia and I sat quietly on the back porch, the hummingbird on duty decided I was too close and began buzzing my head, wings whirring loudly. As the dive-bombing continued, Petunia grew anxious, scanning the skies for the attacker until she finally bolted inside. She was so shaken she refused to come back out, even after the bird calmed down.
Nature is strange and mysterious. I knew what the hummingbird was doing—it could not trust me and saw me as a threat. Petunia, who had never witnessed such a thing, couldn’t make sense of it and simply fled. Both were responding out of fear: the hummingbird with fight, and Petunia with flight.
Fight, flight, or freeze are our most basic responses to fear and anxiety. They come from the primal part of our brain—the amygdala, often called the “lizard brain.” When we react from this place, we are not intentional. We fight back, run away, or freeze and hope we go unnoticed.
The hummingbird’s dive-bombing might work against other birds—or even a basset hound—but it had no effect on me. I wasn’t afraid, so he couldn’t drive me off. Eventually, he perched in a nearby tree and watched me warily. How often do we let others push us away simply because they feel threatened, even if that perception isn’t accurate? And how often do we pause to consider why someone feels threatened, adjusting our presence to ease their fear?
Petunia, on the other hand, fled. Unable to locate the threat, she did what seemed safe, she got out of there! I recognize myself in her reaction. When I feel anxious or under threat, I sometimes disengage rather than risk conflict or lose a relationship. In a world already so divided, why add fuel to the fire?
But while fighting back or disengaging might bring short-term relief, I wonder how often deeper truths are buried in the process. Respectful engagement—where each person can express their beliefs while honoring the other’s—creates opportunities for wisdom, understanding, and deeper relationships.
This is what Nicodemus did when he approached Jesus at night to ask about baptism (John 3:1–21). As a Pharisee, Nicodemus worried about his standing in the community, yet he didn’t run away or fight Jesus. Instead, he sought conversation. We don’t know if he was convinced, but we do know that after Jesus’ death, Nicodemus helped bury his body.
Unlike Petunia and the hummingbird, we don’t have to remain stuck in our lizard brains. We can choose compassion, practice non-judgment, and engage one another with love and curiosity. That means we can’t simply fight, freeze, or flee. Instead, we are called to listen and love—and then listen and love some more.
Light and Life,
Candice Frazer+