Duck Butts

This is an older essay from my time in Fort Collins, CO. It seemed like the right message for a blustery winter day. ~J

I live in a crowded neighborhood. It consists of duplexes, fourplexes, and large vintage 1960’s apartment buildings. It’s pleasant enough but it’s often noisy and busy. From my office I can hear children yelling and being yelled at, couples fighting and making up, friends coming and going with honks and hollers and laughter, and you can add to that dogs talking to cats talking to squirrels talking to mental health patients talking to themselves. A car is always leaking somewhere in the parking lot and my car is no exception. Leaves are piling up and for some reason one of my neighbors decided to empty their vacuum cleaner on our sidewalk instead of the dumpster which is barely thirty feet away. This entire scene exists less than a block from the helicopter pad at the hospital. Unfortunately for me, I have this thing about praying for anonymous victims whenever I hear the sad note of emergency vehicles. I am running out of creative ways to phrase my intercessory pleas and I’ve grown weary of sirens. Helicopters are a much different story. When they come in to land I rush to the window to watch like any normal five year old. The fact that I am well beyond five doesn’t bother me one bit. I fully expect to witness one fall right out of the sky because even though I know intellectually how they fly, I don’t believe they can. Faith, it seems, is a funny thing.

Faith is what brings me away from my apartment, down the hill, across the creek and along the trail to a pond created by a small dam. Like Adam trying to remember what Eden looked like, I come to this place seeking paradise lost. In summer the grasses are green and the cerulean pond smells of the riches of life. It’s fall now. The angle of the sun’s rays chase blues into grays and browns. The water only just moves and the odor of decaying leaves accompanies my melancholy. This doleful trio languishes in my subconscious as I contemplate the scene in front of me: ducks, unaware of my endless endeavor to understand life, are engaged in the good works God has given them. This consists of going butt up and head down in search of whatever it is that ducks eat in that pond. On first inspection duck butts are kind of cute. “Oh look” I say to myself, “duck butts.” The ducks here are making a living and are quite at home among the other flailing webbed feet and exposed posteriors. Ducks just being ducks which is better than being a goose. (Geese are mean.) Before long I realize that what I wanted to see was ducks swimming, quacking after each other, and utilizing their gift of flight.

In my mind I command creation to serve up the landscape I desire but instead my Creator serves up a much more sobering landscape. The pond is my church, your church, every church and God has come by to love us and be loved in return. True to our nature we are busy with our good works and we greet our gracious God to a pond of duck butts. He has told us we should look up, skim across the water, talk with Him and erupt into flight. We’re so busy pinning down those elusive works we never even notice. Were it not for His endless patience and grace I suppose His trips to our pond would be torturous.

“Look ducks, Thanksgiving!” He cries. We don’t even pretend to hear, we’re too busy preparing for Christmas.

Later, with great joy He shouts, “Ducks! See the angels! See my baby boy born to save you?”

“Oh, Lord, we are too tired and really wish it was all over so we can rest” the duck butts reply.

Later still He presses us, “Beating, blood shed, cross, victory over death and redemption.”

“Sorry Lord, its Holy Week and we got swamped.”

Nice move duck butts.

As bad as we are as a people it pales to my own insensitivity. Every week I am offered an opportunity to come to His table and receive His blood and His body. How often, I ask, have I come to this lavish banquet thinking about the next song or who I must speak to after the service? Instead of offering up my smiling grateful face I present nothing more than my inglorious backside busily engaged in yet another good work.

Woe is me. Woe is me.

And yet, Jesus has made it clear that He died purposely for duck butts like me. I am undone, even as I write this. Weep Church, for you worship the works of your own hand. Rejoice Church, for Jesus Christ has covered you with His righteousness anyway.

I hope to forego that next bite to eat in my pond. A little hunger makes the senses sharper. If I look up, swim around, and quack a bit then maybe Jesus will take me flying today. I don’t deserve to rise up on the wings of eagles. After all, I’m still a duck. For now . . .

Copyright February 2011, John P. Van Dusen
The picture "Duck Butt" is by Travis Swan