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As A Hen Gathers

Prayer - O God, may the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in your sight, our strength and redeemer, our rock of love and salvation, Amen.

I used to read the little Golden Books, those square shaped hard covers with gold trim on the side. You’ve read some, maybe? Many of the stories are a lot like Aesop’s fables. When I was reading this scripture passage this week, I was reminded of one of those Golden Books I used to read called, The Little Red Hen. About a hen who plants wheat and tries to care for the farm and her brood of chicks.

If you’ll join me in this, I’m going to read some of it. It starts like this,

“A Little Red Hen lived in a barnyard. She spent almost all of her time walking about the barnyard in her picketty-pecketty fashion, scratching everywhere for worms. She dearly loved delicious worms and felt they were absolutely necessary to the health of her children. As often as she found a worm she would call "Chuck-chuck-chuck!" to her chicks.

When they were gathered about her, she would distribute choice morsels to them.....One day the Little Red Hen found a Seed. Carrying it about, she made many inquiries as to what it might be. She found it was a Wheat Seed and that, if planted, it would grow up and when ripe it could be made into flour and then into bread.

When she discovered that, she knew it ought to be planted. So she thought of her friends on the farm, the Pig, the Cat, and the Rat, and she called loudly:

"Who will plant the Seed?" But the Pig said, "Not I," and the Cat said, "Not I," and the Rat said, "Not I."

"Well, then," said the Little Red Hen, "I will." And she did.

Then she went on with her daily duties through the long summer days, scratching for worms and feeding her chicks, while the Wheat grew tall and ready for harvest. One day the Little Red Hen chanced to notice how large the Wheat was and that the grain was ripe, so she ran about calling briskly: "Who will cut the Wheat?"

The Pig said, "Not I," the Cat said, "Not I," and the Rat said, "Not I."

"Well, then," said the Little Red Hen, "I will.” And she did.

She got the sickle from among the farmer's tools in the barn and proceeded to cut off all of the big plant of Wheat….And Little Red Hen! Her attention was sorely divided between her duty to her children and her duty to the Wheat, for which she felt responsible. So, again, in a very hopeful tone, she called out, "Who will thresh the Wheat?"

But the Pig, said, "Not I," and the Cat, said, "Not I," and the Rat, said, "Not I."

So the Little Red Hen, said, "Well, I will, then." And she did.

She had to feed her babies first, though, and when she had gotten them all to sleep for their afternoon nap, she went out and threshed the Wheat. Then she called out: "Who will carry the Wheat to the mill to be ground?"

The Pig said, "Not I," and the Cat said, "Not I," and the Rat said, "Not I."

So, the good Little Red Hen could do nothing but say, "I will then." And she did….”[1]

I feel like this story accurately describes a lot of caretakers I know. Turns out that hens, like most other creatures who become parents and caretakers, are very protective of their young or of those they are caring for. If they see something that can help, they will make sure that it gets done, even if it means doing it all themselves. Dutifully putting themselves in the front of caring for their brood so that they might grow into the beings they are meant to be.

When we are born, we are a mystery. Who will we become, what will we do, how will we act, what will we like? Those who cared for us had to buckle in for the ride as they worked to keep us alive, asking for help, and planting new seeds for us that might harvest into something good.

The nurturing presence of a caring loved one offers us a glimpse of God’s unconditional love for us. Which is hard to fathom. And because it's hard to fathom, it's hard at times to accept both God’s love and human love.

For those of us who have not had the easiest of upbringings, who may have never felt the security of safety or protection from a parent, whose family loved us in the best way they knew how but lived with their own struggles with love and affection, and had trouble asking for help when they wanted to plant seeds. For us, this narrative of the hen looking after the farm feels far.

At times we may have felt that the embrace of the hen’s wings was a dream. Whatever has happened to us, our lives are all messy and full of choices that sometimes lead us well and sometimes lead us astray.

It’s how we learn to cope with ourselves, with our faults, our mistakes, and how we make room for love in our lives that ultimately makes the difference on whether or not we can accept the hens embrace.

And that “how” is a journey. For me, I was adopted when I was 17 years old, after a long period of bouncing from house to house, from guardian to guardian, never feeling rooted anywhere or secure in anyone. My parents were teenagers when I was born and weren’t equipped to care for me. From the earliest time I can remember, I felt that I was performing for affection because it didn’t come naturally to me. I felt that in order to be loved by anyone else in my family, I had to be good. I had to do everything I was told, believe everything I was told, follow the rules, do well in school, be able to take care of myself, and never ask for more than I was given.

Basically, I was a very anxious little one. Feeling like if I ever slipped up, I would be punished and forgotten. I put my all into making sure I was good, I put my trust in those anxious, broken things to make me feel better.

Though, of course, the people in my life who were caring for me meant well, I was harmed. Then when I grew and gained a new family, I was finding it difficult to trust people, especially those who showed any affection for me. So, when my parents adopted me, and wanted to love me, I rejected it in every way I could. Even with the simplest things.

One week when I was at college, and this whole parent thing was very new to me, my mom called me to say hi. I missed the call. I thought, oh, that’s weird. And I didn’t call her back, so she called me again. She left me a lovely voicemail. At that, my mind started spiraling. It’s so silly to think about now, but I kept thinking, “Why does she want to talk to me, I just talked to her a week ago? Is she bored? Did I do something wrong? Is this her calling me to say, never mind, we are going to return you, it's been fun?” That kind of thinking just pushed me further and I wouldn’t take the calls. When we did finally connect and talked about it, she said, “Why wouldn’t I want to talk to you??” But I struggled to accept that. And because I struggled to accept it, I chose to try and control it. By rejecting her, I felt I was protecting myself. But I was really rejecting myself, too.

My rejection was not because I didn't want that kind of love and affection, I longed for it, but because I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t trust her at all. I expected to find myself alone again at the end. I was not willing to be embraced by her. I trusted broken things, not true things. Sometimes we reject the people who love us the most, because we don’t trust that love to be real. Because we don’t find ourselves worthy of it.

We have to be careful, because what happens when our heart and mind go unchecked? When we feel powerless and out of control, we start to seek power and control. And we all have those moments, we all do. But if we continue to seek power and control, continue to find our trust in broken things, we find ourselves unable to find our hearts and mind in anything other than power and control. And we start rejecting ourselves, too.

In our text today, it seems that Jerusalem is also finding its trust in broken things, not true things.

What has Jerusalem been through that they would find themselves unwilling to accept the embrace of God? To find comfort behind the hens wings? Jerusalem, the city of peace, never seems to have lived into its name. There were a few golden years during the reigns of David and Solomon. Thirty-five hundred years before the time of Jesus the people of what we now call Jerusalem were striking fear in Egypt. Then they were conquered by a Canaanite people the bible calls Jebusites. And David conquered them. David brought some measure of peace to Jerusalem before he died, but it was a bloody peace.

He passed that fragile peace to Solomon under whom it withered and died from internal strife. Almost six hundred years before Jesus the Babylonians ravaged Jerusalem, the Persians then liberated Jerusalem from the Babylonians, but did not free it. They were followed by the Greeks and the Romans and Christian and Muslim empires, then the Ottoman and the British. Each wave of occupation was brutal. Jerusalem has long been acquainted with death and destruction. And broken things at the expense of its prophets.

When Jesus spoke in response to the warning about Herod, Jesus spoke of the death of prophets like himself. Women and men who stood up to power and control. They didn’t stand up because they were immortal. They stood up because they were moral.[2] They believed in the words of love, fellowship, redemption, justice as actionable words. As seeds that would harvest into something good. And, like the rejection of the prophets before him, Jesus knew he was walking into a place with its trust in broken things.

Why would Jesus want to go there? The city that offers him destruction and harm? The city that wants to hurt him.

Why would a loved one come to us in moments we want to reject them? When we want to hurt them?

We do have those moments, I still do. We don’t learn to rid ourselves of those thoughts and feelings, we learn to live with them in a way that makes us more compassionate towards ourselves and others. That plants a seed in hopes that it might grow into something good. That’s what love is. Love is finding ourselves willing to step into the deep waters of distrust and anger and conflict and pain.

Here, Jesus chooses to walk into Jerusalem. The city that will reject him. The rejection of Jesus does not lead to Jerusalem being punished or forgotten; it comes with sadness. That we might choose the power and control over ourselves, over our neighbors, and over God.

Jesus does not turn away or destroy, but enters Jerusalem, saying “O Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets. How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!”

Jesus never argues that the broken things we trust aren’t real, he doesn’t say that the fox isn’t dangerous. He never promises his children immunity from harm.  If a fox wants to kill a hen and her brood of chicks, he will find a way to do so. What Jesus the mother hen offers is not the absence of those things, but the fullness of his vulnerable self in the face of all that threatens and scares us.  What he gives is his own body, his own life. Wings spread open, heart exposed, shade and warmth and shelter at the ready.  What he promises — at great risk to himself — is the making of his very being into a place of refuge and return for God’s children.  For all of God’s children — even the ones who want to reject and kill him.[3]

Like a loving mother bird, Jesus desires to shield and save her children from the powers of death and desecration. She longs to spread out her arms, her great wings sheltering all creation, all that God has made.[4] The way a hens wings swell with indignation, fear, and courage.  The way they stand their ground. The way they prepare to die if they have to, their children tucked securely beneath their soft, vulnerable bodies.  I can’t imagine a more profound picture of our God.[5]

Jesus walked to Jerusalem prepared to die. For the sake of us all. Regardless of how we react to God’s love, it is always there for us. Even when they warned him, they would reject him. Even to the ultimate cost. In Jesus, God shows us there is no one not worth redemption, there is no one beyond the point of God’s love. As the hen gathers her chicks to feed and protect. When others might say, no, God says "I will." And God does.

Amen.

[1] “The Little Red Hen” by Mary Mapes Dodge, 1874.

[2] “Christ our Mother” by Rev. Dr. Wil Gafney, 2016.

[3] “I Have Longed” by Debie Thomas, 2022.

[4] “Tender Mercy” by The Salt Project, 2022.

[5] “I Have Longed” by Debie Thomas, 2022.

Speaker: Rev. Ashley Bair

March 13, 2022
Luke 13:31-35

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