When we read that God manifests his divine nature “from what has been made” (Rom. 1:20, NIV), we’re probably thinking about the big stuff: sunsets and constellations and Grand Canyon overlooks. I think of the ruby-throated hummingbird. The practice of seeing the greatness of God in the smallness of things is a Savior-sanctioned activity; Jesus illustrated the kingdom with trifling objects like a pinch of yeast, a small mustard seed, or a tiny pearl. He drew attention to widow’s mites and field lilies. And somewhere along the way, he asked us to ponder the value of sparrows (Luke 12:6–7) and told us to “consider the birds” (Matt. 6:26, CSB). And so, six years ago, as a pastor amid a pandemic shelter-in-place order, I was distracted one morning on my front porch by the novel sight of a perched hummingbird, resting in the branches of my maple tree. I’ve been a birdwatcher since my college days and have spotted plenty of hummingbirds, but they usually revealed themselves with hyperactive busyness, flitting about in a whir of self-importance. Seeing one so close and so still was a surprising treat. It caused me to reflect on how the pandemic realities had forced my rushed routines to a quieter rhythm, leading me to balance the importance of work with the cadence of godly rest. I wrote a piece about it. I made a website to contain the piece. I borrowed a word from birder-theologian John Stott to title the website. And Ornitheology.com was born. Lessons in Faith from Front-Porch Birds Over the ensuing months, I kept looking for faith-illustrative lessons from the birds on my front porch. If the heavens and skies proclaim the glory of God and the work of his hands (Ps. 19:1), shouldn’t we look up more often? The activity in my trees held a new expectancy. My cul-de-sac’s most notorious songster, the Carolina wren, became for me a mascot of praise. It was a regular reminder that our faith is a singing faith, modeled by a God who rejoices over us with singing (Zeph. 3:17). The mockingbird perched on my mailbox seemed a fitting lesson in discipleship as mimicry. As the bird constantly listens to others and learns new sounds, it reminds us that growth comes in part by listening to and imitating the right things (Phil. 4:8–9). I researched the language of my local chickadees, discovering the complex information contained in the dee-dee-dee calls they make as they identify the various threats around them. How do I correctly assess the dee-dee-dee dangers in my own life: the fear of loss, of failure, of death, of the future? And do I underestimate the hidden dangers of my own heart (Jer. 17:9)? God doesn’t waste illustrative material; he truly intends to reveal himself through what he has made. All of it. I’m reminded that—as the wisest of kings—Solomon was a birdwatcher. It’s right there in 1 Kings 4:33 (a verse that should also make botanists, herpetologists, and game fishermen feel vindicated in their pursuits). God doesn’t waste illustrative material; he truly intends to reveal himself through what he has made. Solomon knew how much we miss when we fail to look. While “the heavens proclaim [God’s] righteousness” (Ps. 97:6), today we settle for 10-foot drop ceilings and a good HVAC system. But there’s Solomonic wisdom in creational attentiveness. Widen the scope beyond the front yard, and the awe multiplies. Did you know that researchers think great grey owls can actually see sound? Try that illustration out the next time you’re trying to explain Paul’s exhortation in 2 Corinthians 4:18 to “fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen” (NIV). Or did you know that a turkey vulture’s stomach is superpowered to neutralize toxins like anthrax and rabies that spread death—dutifully removing death from the world and rendering it harmless? I’d like to think John Owen might have worked that into The Death of Death in the Death of Christ if he’d known that factoid. Maybe not. But it definitely made it into my Easter sermon. My point: Lessons are everywhere. When God filled the skies on day five (Gen. 1:20–22), he didn’t just make a bird, call it “bird,” and be done with it. He made at least 11,000 different bird species. Doesn’t it seem like he wanted us to notice? God’s Works Illustrate His Word So why be attentive to the birds? Besides the fact that Jesus spoke “consider the birds” as a Greek imperative (good enough for me, I guess), I don’t want the intricacies of God’s creative wonder to be wasted on me. He truly intended to display his glory in his creation. A nature walk won’t tell you everything; only God’s written Word marks out “that knowledge of God, and of His will, which is necessary unto salvation” (Westminster Confession of Faith 1.1). But his works illustrate his Word to “manifest the goodness, wisdom, and power of God” and leave us slack-jawed at his glory. Enough majestic wow-ness is still on display in this sin-tainted world to expose all our inexcusable objections. When God filled the skies on day five, he made at least 11,000 different species of birds. Doesn’t it seem like he wanted us to notice? Doesn’t that motivate you to want to notice—truly notice—some aspect of his creation? You pick. Gardening, astronomy, beekeeping, bonsai trees. I chose birds, and despite the 11,000 species this subject matter invites me to explore, it’s only a sliver of the creative output of God that groans to be liberated at our Savior’s coming. We’ll have an eternity to explore this world perfected when Jesus makes all things new. Until then, “the whole earth is filled with awe at [God’s] wonders” (Ps. 65:8, NIV), and it’s a worthwhile ambition to lift our eyes, and our binoculars, to pursue with awe the Artist behind the artistry.