| Scriptures: | Genesis 15:1-8, 17-18 Luke 13:31-35 |
How are all the stars we see in the skies and raspberries alike? Sounds like the start of an old joke, doesn’t it? But actually it’s a serious question. Maybe some of you saw this news report about a year ago – it first appeared in Great Britain’s The Guardian and then was carried by a number of wire services. It seems that astronomers who were searching in space for evidence of amino acids – the basic chemicals from which life is created – instead found a substance called ethyl formate, which is the chemical responsible for the flavor of raspberries. (If you’re not all that much into raspberries, there’s another distinguishing characteristic of ethyl formate which may appeal to you more – it also smells like rum.) The astronomers were actually, as I said, looking for evidence of amino acids, which, if found, would raise the possibility of life emerging on other planets after being seeded with the molecules. But even though this tantalizing possibility eluded them, the newspapers had a field day with images of space raspberries and rum-soaked planets (think what Mel Brooks could have done with this if he had made his satirical movie Space Balls a few years later!).
OK, so what does this little factoid have to do with a Lenten sermon that seeks to help us in walking in the steps of Jesus? For one thing, as Kae Evensen says at the start of her column in this week’s Christian Century: “…there’s poignancy to this new piece of knowledge, poignancy in knowing that the beauty of the galaxies is as intimate, near and sublime as eating raspberries on a clear summer night.”
This scientific finding hints, at least, to the possibility that we are made of the same stuff as the stars. This is what God was getting at with Abraham when God called him out to “Look toward heaven and count the stars….. So shall your descendents be.” In such a manner God was connecting Abraham – and, through Abraham, us – to the whole universe.
Abraham didn’t want to hear it – at least, not initially. It was too mind-boggling. The descendents of Abraham and Sarah shall be as numerous as the stars? But Sarah was childless. Abraham’s sole heir was Eliezer of Damascus. Moreover, it was the possession of children and land that signified a healthy relationship with God in that society. Absence of children produced anxiety, fear, and disappointment for both Abraham and Sarah.
And yet God says to them those comforting words that reverberate down the years – words that we need to hear again and again: “Do not be afraid.” Abraham and Sarah become like our brother and sister, not just distant ancestors, who come to trust in the grace of God through those four simple words. And so God enters into a covenant with them based on their trust that they need fear no longer, for God has their back. And their descendents will be numbered as the stars (and perhaps taste like raspberries and smell like rum, if we want to throw in a bit of whimsy).
In order to be prepared to follow in the steps of Jesus, as we are seeking to do this Lenten season, it is important to recognize the tradition out of which Jesus is coming. We said last week about Moses that he led the Israelites out of the wilderness and into a sense of who they are and whose they are. And this is likewise true of Abraham and Sarah here – this is their defining moment for understanding who they are and whose they are: a people of the covenant; a people of the land; a people formed by God’s promise to them. It is from out of this promise that Jesus is beginning his journey to Jerusalem.
For that is where we are in the Lenten texts from Luke: taking the road out of Galilee and moving on toward Jerusalem. These are the steps we are now about to follow.
Jerusalem. The big city. The center of power. The site of the Great Temple. But also, in the first century, the center of Roman regional control. And it is, of course, the place where Jesus will face his death. It is a city much loved by the gospel writer Luke who refers to it 90 times (it is only used 49 times in the rest of the New Testament). The word “Jerusalem” means “house of peace”. Yet, as Jesus notes, it is a place where prophets have been killed and persecuted: Jeremiah, who was condemned and barely escaped death in Jerusalem; Zechariah, who was killed in Jerusalem. The irony that Jesus must face is that the very city which was the site of the temple, the house of God, and therefore destined to represent sacred space, becomes the scene of persecution and murder of prophets. When Jesus says that it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem, this is his commentary on the history of the mistreatment of past prophets by the people of Jerusalem.
And so Jesus laments: “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!” He speaks as though he had already been there, even though this is his first time. But he knows well what Jerusalem represents, from the inside out.
It’s always been kind of a fascinating exercise down through the years for Christians to substitute the name of their own city for “Jerusalem” in this lament, although for us Las Vegans (“Sin City” and all) it hardly seems necessary (OK, maybe those of you who live in Henderson should try it). The point of the exercise is to recognize that any polis – that is, any place where there is a political system with varying centers of power – both state and religious – is going to find itself trying to thwart the prophetic voices of the day. St. Paul refers to these forces as “principalities and powers”, and it is to them that Jesus has come to bring judgment.
But it is a strange kind of judgment – one rather different from Jeremiah or Zechariah – for it is tempered by mercy. In Jesus judgment and mercy (or, as we might refer to them in more contemporary language, “tough love” and forgiveness) are all bound up together – you can’t separate them out.
That’s a remarkable image that Jesus then uses to display his sense of mercy: a mother hen gathering her brood under her wings. When a hen spreads her wings she is particularly vulnerable. A few sentences earlier Jesus referred to Herod as “that fox”, and this is most likely a deliberate contrast here between a fox and a hen. Moreover, since Jesus is also God here is a feminizing symbol for the divine as God becomes a compassionate mother hen with deep affection and tenderness for her brood.
Timothy Shapiro writes about Jesus here: "He's the mother hen who will pursue her child through thick and thin, through good school days and bad, through stupid moves and violent outbursts; he's the mother hen who folds the covers down on the bed and puffs up the pillow, at the same time saying, 'Don't let me ever catch you doing that again'" What a beautiful way to describe both judgment (or accountability) and mercy!
Barbara Brown Taylor in an article written 14 years ago for The Christian Century but which still has such resonance for this passage says:
“If you have ever loved someone you could not protect, then you understand the depth of Jesus’ lament. All you can do is open your arms. You cannot make anyone walk into them. Meanwhile, this is the most vulnerable posture in the world -- wings spread, breast exposed -- but if you mean what you say, then this is how you stand.
“Given the number of animals available, it is curious that Jesus chooses a hen. Where is the biblical precedent for that? What about the mighty eagle of Exodus, or Hosea’s stealthy leopard? What about the proud lion of Judah, mowing down his enemies with a roar? Compared to any of those, a mother hen does not inspire much confidence. No wonder some of the chicks decided to go with the fox.
“But a hen is what Jesus chooses, which -- if you think about it -- is pretty typical of him. He is always turning things upside down, so that children and peasants wind up on top while kings and scholars land on the bottom. He is always wrecking our expectations of how things should turn out by giving prizes to losers and paying the last first. So of course he chooses a chicken, which is about as far from a fox as you can get. That way the options become very clear: you can live by licking your chops or you can die protecting the chicks.”
That’s a great line, isn’t it – the contrast between the fox and the hen: “you can live by licking your chops or you can die protecting the chicks.” Jesus is preparing himself to die to protect us. His response to all the principalities and powers is simply, profoundly: love. Love for the center of power. Love for the people of Jerusalem. Love for the Pharisees. Love for all of the people.
Note in particular that love for the Pharisees. We are used to thinking of Pharisees as hypocrites and enemies of Jesus. Yet, in this passage it is some Pharisees who warn Jesus to flee because Herod wants to kill him. In Luke Pharisees are often in the company of Jesus and not always antagonistic to him. Jesus is often invited to the home of a Pharisee for dinner. The point here is that Jesus is once again over-turning the tables, taking a group that many react to with such scorn and making them into whole human beings, worthy of respect, compassion, and – yes – love.
So, even as he laments over Jerusalem, even as he realizes that he is beginning the journey that will take him to his cross, Jesus models for us what it means to be compassionate to those who are derided, those who are different, those who are despised. Once again it is essential to say, and say always: Jesus’ love is a universal love. But perhaps it’s especially important to say it here at the end of Black History month, when the need for that kind of universal love is uppermost in our minds. As Michael Curry writes: "For Jesus, God's passionate dream, compassionate desire, and bold determination is to gather God's human children closer and closer in God's embrace and love." Even the most unlikely people, on the margins of society, are gathered in under this mother hen's care, for "the gospel transcends marginality and creates the context for the emergence of a new humanity, a new human community, born not of social custom but of the Spirit of God."
As downcast as he feels over the state of Jerusalem, still Jesus stays the course – still he models for us that “passionate dream, compassionate desire, and bold determination” Michael Curry speaks of. Our task, then, is to stay the course with Jesus, follow in his steps of upsetting apple carts, offering prophetic utterances, showing unconditional love, accepting his comfort and grace. We are to rush under his wings. As Mary Hinkle Shore says, the question is: "Where and how is Jesus trying to gather us closer to him; or, where and how are we scurrying out from under those wings and off to danger?"
Two contrasting images of religious zeal: Jerusalem and Jesus – the fox and the hen. One seeks to use power and authority to control the masses. One speaks truth to power so that the peaceful Kingdom of God may flourish on this earth. The fox gobbles up the raspberries – the souls of the people – and spits them out like seeds. The hen waters and nourishes the raspberry patch so that the fruit can flourish. OK, so I’m mixing my metaphors here somewhat at the end – and I still can’t figure out how to work in the smell of rum – but you see where I’m going with this: to stay the course with Jesus, to continue to follow in his footsteps, is to accept the comfort of the mother hen in order that we will be strengthened for the journey that is still ahead – the journey that leads to the cross. We are being invited to say of Jesus, who is the Christ: “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.”
Next week we will seek to grow even stronger in the journey as we look at “Strengthened Preparation” and share together in Holy Communion.
Amen
Dave Pomeroy
First Congregational Church, United Church of Christ
Las Vegas, NV
February 28 2010