Sermons

“Why Won’t You Get in the Hen House?”

Psalm 91; Luke 13:31-35 – Rev. Rebecca Littlejohn

Vista La Mesa Christian Church (Disciples of Christ), La Mesa, California – March 17, 2019

 Holy God, bless the speaking and the hearing of these words that we might humble our hearts and seek you in all things.  In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.

Do you suppose in the year 30 they had that same expression about “the fox guarding the hen house” that we do?  Honestly, probably more of them had experience with raising and protecting chickens than we do, so even if they didn’t, I bet they would immediately understand what it means.  So when Jesus describes Herod as a fox and himself as a mother hen, there wouldn’t have been any confusion about what he was getting at.

For a carpenter, Jesus certainly used a lot of farming metaphors.  Usually, we’re being compared to sheep, but today it’s baby chicks.  At least chickens are supposed to be smarter than sheep, I hear.  And if we pay attention to the nuances in this passage, we can learn a lot.  On one level, this passage is all about the foreshadowing:  Jesus is warning his followers that he’s going to die.  But it’s not just that.  He talks about working “today and tomorrow” and then finishing his work “on the third day.”  This serves as a reminder to us that Lent is not just about anticipating Jesus’ death, but also about trusting in his resurrection.  He tells them that they won’t see him again until they say “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord”, which, of course, reminds us of Palm Sunday, though it may be intended as a more end-times reference than that.  Certainly, many people still won’t see him for who he is even when the disciples are shouting that out at the gates of Jerusalem.  But all of these things are pointing us to things coming in the next few weeks.

The main emphasis though sets us right down in the middle of Lent.  This passage is about God’s compassion and mercy.  “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!” Jesus laments.  And being who we are, we might expect the next line to be, “What sort of punishment will make you understand?”  Or perhaps the gentler but no less ominous, “I wish I could have stopped your impending destruction.”  Or even, “Thus, lightning and sulfur shall rain down upon you from on high!”

But that’s not what he says, is it?  What Jesus actually says is “How often I have desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!”  Jerusalem is a hot mess – defiant, violent, proud – and all God wants to do is cuddle it till it calms down.  Can’t you just feel your muscles relax when you hear that?  This story feels a little too familiar, doesn’t it?

Why is it that we so often reject the exact thing that we need?  We need help, and we choose independence.  We need compassion, and we choose isolation.  We need mercy, and we choose stubbornness.  There is always part of us inside that is just waiting for the slightest invitation to become that tiny child kicking and screaming in its mother’s arms until we’re completely worn out.  That strong, patient mothering is how God responds to our sinfulness.  Why do we find it so hard to accept?

There is a bit of textual confusion in this passage that makes the same point.  If you were to read verse 35 in other translations, where the NRSV says “See, your house is left to you”, you would find some clarifying adjectives.  The New International Version, following the King James, says “Your house is left to you desolate.”  The Modern English Version says, “Your house is forsaken.”  Without the adjective, the NRSV asks to be read with a different emphasis: “Your house is left to you.”  The point is the same in all three, but clearer if we read them all.  You’re on your own!  You demanded to be on your own, so you are!  Desolate and forsaken, but definitely independent like you asked.

Jesus just warned us there are foxes around; why is it so hard for us to let ourselves be gathered into the hen house?  Why is it so hard for us to receive the mercy of God? Why do we struggle so to admit we need help?  Are we really that convinced of our own righteousness?  Are our sins so terrifying we can’t bear to look at them?  Or do we simply not have a robust enough conviction of the depth of God’s mercy?  Perhaps it’s all three.

There is something else in this passage that can teach us how to receive Jesus as a mother hen better – a potential textual trap, if you will.  In that very first line, verse 31, some Pharisees are introduced.  And suddenly, we’re in dangerous territory.  Because of so many other portrayals of Pharisees, in Luke and other gospels, we have been conditioned to see the Pharisees as the bad guys.  For many Christians the word “Pharisees” is synonymous with “hypocrites”.  But what are the Pharisees doing here that is so bad? They have access to the seat of power, as illustrated by their knowledge of Herod’s desires.  But they’re using that privilege to warn Jesus, to let him know he’s in danger.  Could we spin this to say the Pharisees are standing in the way of God’s plan?  Well, yes, if we had a great desire to prove that the Pharisees are always nefarious characters.  But what if we took the text at its word and let ourselves see them as sincerely concerned about his welfare?  Are there other places where we could see the Pharisees in a different light if we gave them the benefit of the doubt?

The Christian community is moving toward the time in our liturgical calendar when we are most likely to indulge in unexamined anti-Jewish interpretations of scripture.  Certainly, there are places in the Second Testament where the early Christians’ antipathy toward their fellow Jews who chose not to become followers of Jesus is on full display.  Even Jesus’ lament about Jerusalem as the place that “kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it” is more of repetition of an undeserved reputation than an accurate assessment of history.  It is incumbent upon us to examine and understand the dynamics that shaped these passages and the violence they’ve been used to justify over the centuries. The twisted idea that Jews are “Christ-killers” has had deadly consequences in every era, including our own. Events of this week brought back to mind the shooting at the synagogue in Pittsburgh last October that killed 11 people.  Is our belief in God’s mercy strong enough to allow us to examine our hearts for any traces of anti-Semitism that may lurk within them?  Are we ready to confess the ways our tradition has fed this sort of violence?

Our shared Lenten prayer practice this year has us praying with Jesus about the “sins of the world”.  So often, we prefer not to think about the sins of the world because they’re so big and complicated.  These systemic sins that are baked into the structures of our lives feel immutable, like they’re just the way the world is and there’s nothing we can do about it.  So when we hear the tragic news about the massacre at the mosque in New Zealand, and someone brings up white supremacy, for many of us, our first reaction is defensiveness. Any mention of white supremacy can feel, to a white person, like an accusation.  And at some level, it is.  These are the systems of our world, and we all live within them, either going with the flow, or resisting the deforming power of that particular sin.

It may sound naïve to hear that Jesus wants to cuddle the sin out of us.  Certainly dismantling white supremacy will require more than hugs.  But until we all have a solid enough grounding in the mercy of God – that strong, patient mothering God who laments over our sinfulness – we won’t get anywhere.  The gospel is clear that if we haven’t declared Jesus as Lord and if we aren’t working each day to make sure it’s Jesus we’re following, we may think we’re being independent, but really we’re just following something else as Lord.  “Enslaved to sin” is how Paul puts it.  If we’re not secure enough in the mercy of God, we will refuse to confess the sin of white supremacy, even as we unconsciously aid and abet it.  If we insist on being virtuous on our own, our house will be left to us, and eventually we will recognize just how desolate and forsaken it is.

This resistance to God’s mercy isn’t just operating in our response to the news.  It’s a constant threat to our personal well-being.  You know what it is that pushes you toward becoming that kicking, screaming child.  What is the thing in your life that makes you resistant to help, defiant and proud? What is the thing that you’re determined to beat on your own?  Or perhaps the thing that you’re convinced isn’t really forgivable?  Can you imagine that God wants to hold you close precisely because of that thing?  Can you imagine Jesus, this mother hen Jesus, gathering you in under her wings, to protect you, to comfort you, to heal you?  What does that mercy feel like?  What might it have the power to transform?  Can you imagine what it would be like not to be forsaken, left on your own to deal with your demons by yourself?  That mercy, that grace is the blessing of Lent.  The relief of admitting that we need help.  The release of letting go of our need to appear righteous. The liberation of giving up the struggle of defensiveness.

We cannot aid God in the healing of the world if we will not admit our own complicity in the brokenness of the world, including that within our own hearts.  And we cannot confess that complicity unless we truly trust in the depth and length and height and breadth of God’s mercy.  That is why we practice believing in it for these six long weeks.  The foxes are many.  Chickens are not intended to live in separate bushes out in the wilderness. Let us accept with joyful, humble thanks Jesus’ invitation into the hen house!  Amen.