“The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.1”
Can you hear it? The shouts of a nightmare scream? Can you bear to listen to its beginning – a beginning birthed in silence of families robbed of loved ones? Can you bear to listen to the rising sound as it crescendos into the death of dreams longed hoped for and now gone, now dead? Can you bear to stand there and hear the fearful trill that a caged bird knows deep within its heart? Can you stand there and listen to a song so sad that not even the greatest of poets can put word to it?
It is the song of a long caged people. It is the song of the past coming back to life in the here and now. It is the song of a people long chained in fear of each other.
The past year has been a difficult year for many people, and Maya Angelou’s poem Caged Bird reminds us of that pain. It has been a year in which we are reminded of the need of laborers to go out to do the work of the Lord’s harvest. It has been a year in which we have been painfully reminded of the chains of racism and prejudice in the efficiency of a well aimed piece of lead.
It has been a year in which we saw images of police in riot gear, semi-automatic assault rifles, and guard dogs along the route of a protest. It has been a year in which we have been reminded of the necessity of a prophetic voice in the wilderness willing to take hold of the plow without turning back.
Yet, to do the work, to take the plow without looking back, requires that I understand my place amongst the laborers of the harvest. It requires that I take the time to listen to where God is calling me in that work in order to complement the work of those that have gone before me, of those that work alongside me, and of the work that is to come from those that come after I am gone.
The work of taking the plow and not looking back asks me, asks each of us, to listen not only to God but also to the person that is different than I am. I am asked to listen to the trills of the birds around me, to hear their melodies and to recognize my place as a single individual within a greater choir, a greater throng of melodies offering its melody as one part of an orchestra of voices singing in the wilderness hoping that someone is listening. The recognition of being one among many helps me to understand that I am not be the solo instrument pouring forth a lone melody for all the others to hear. Instead, I am a member of the accompaniment to the many other melodies that are being sung. I am called to lend my voice to highlight the sometimes haunting melodies that ring out across the landscape; I am called to lend my voice to raise up the songs of long oppressed peoples simply because their skin color is not as fair as my own. When I recognize that my place is as a member of a choir, I slowly begin to understand that my role is lend my voice in such a way that the voices of those that are different from me are heard all the more clearly as their melody carries across the land.
In her own day, Prudence Crandall listened to the melody of oppressed peoples that held on to dreams that had died but longed for still. Prudence heard the melody of another and raised her voice to highlight not her own melody but the melody of someone that looked very different than she did. She heard the magical dance of the notes sung by her neighbors, and she responded by attempting to provide girls and women of every race an opportunity to gain knowledge through education. She heard the melody being sung in the wilderness, and she took hold of the plow by lifting her own voice in opposition to the powers of the day. She listened to the melody of another and shifted her own melody ever so slightly. Prudence recognized the chains of racism and prejudice not only around the ankles of those discriminated against but also around the ankles of those that discriminated. I am called to learn from her example as a disciple of Christ by adding my voice to the throng of peoples that continue to know the pain of oppression in a way that I can never understand, if for no other reason than the fact that I am a white man that has a privileged place in contemporary society.
As a person that is able to live a life of privilege different from a person of color, I must also learn that God calls me not only to listen to the mournful songs of oppressed peoples but also to add my own song to the throng. I am called to take my song, composed of different notes, and to change that song based on my hearing of the song of another. I am called to sing a new song; a song that was changed by the relationship that I created because I refused to continue staring into the looking glass and noticed the beauty of the person that is different. And so I begin a new melody that was changed through the experience of another, and I share that melody with the world. I sing that melody to highlight the melodies of other people singing around me. The harmony that is sought can only become a reality when I stop long enough to listen to the song of another in such a way that my own song begins to shift ever so slightly and begins to highlight the notes of another person’s melody inviting relationship, understanding, love.
As I continue to listen to the melodies of other people with varied voices, I slowly adapt those notes as my own, and ever so slowly, I begin to feel the pain that another has felt over the course of a lifetime. Ever so slowly, I begin to understand that the work of taking the plow handle and not turning back is having the courage to love all of God’s children just as they are. Ever so slowly, I begin to understand that the work of the harvest is listening to the melodies of other people and adapting my own melody to sing a melody that threads the experience of another into the experience of the self. The work of the harvest is being able to welcome the laborers to the field and to give thanks to God for the voice of another, for the perspective of a differently lived life, and for the opportunity to share my own melody with all that join in the chorus of the Lord’s harvest.
Eventually, I may find that the melody of the caged bird’s song, with its fearful trills, has seeped into my own song. I may discover that in some way, I have been able to make the mournful song of the oppressed peoples my own even though I may not have experienced the oppression of racism and prejudice in the exact same way. I may find that my desire for things unknown but hoped for still is just as strong in me as it is in my sister or brother of a different race.
In the end, I discover that in you – a person wholly and completely different from me – I see Christ, and in seeing Christ in you, a beautiful child of God, I begin this new melody:
“The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.1”
1 Maya Angelou, Excerpt from “Caged Bird,” Poetry Foundation, accessed August, 20, 2014. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178948
A Journey In Faith 
