+In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.
In one of my sermon-preparation “rabbit holes” this week, I came upon an article from 2019 about a strange occurrence at an agricultural school in Britanny. A fox snuck into the free-range hen house at dusk as its automatic doors were closing, trapping it inside. One would think that this would be an ideal turn-of-events for the fox, a sort of all-night, all-you-can-eat buffet. Well, that was not to be. I’ll spare you the gory details, but it should suffice to say that the facility’s 3,000 avian inhabitants were fine, and the fox was no more. Perhaps this should serve as a lesson about teamwork. Or maybe there’s something inherently hearty about Breton poultry. “Le coq Gallois” being a national symbol (and redundant in Roman times–gallus gallus) perhaps “les poules Francaises” decided it was time for the ladies to show their mettle. (That was a joke which required knowledge of both French and Latin, for which I apologize.)
I can personally vouch for the qualities of the humble hen. During my previous call Annie and I went on a visit to some parishioners who lived more-or-less off the grid, down a terrifying dirt road in Stone County Arkansas. I had heard it said that going to Stone County was like traveling back to the Stone Age, which was neither entirely fair nor entirely unfair. Anyway, the couple wanted me to come out to meet and say a prayer over a newborn donkey whom they had delivered that morning; I was grateful for the invitation, and all the more grateful not to have been present for the birthing itself. They had quite a menagerie out on their property, I was fascinated by all the types of farm animals I’d never really seen up close, and the couple indulged my city-boy curiosity. We came to an open coop containing a fine looking chicken, and (again, being completely uninitiated in the ways of livestock) I did what anyone would do when encountering a cute, domesticated animal, and reached out to stroke it. Friends, this was not the correct approach. A great clamor arose from Henny Penny, feathers flew and beak sought its target, which I was just quick enough to pull away. While our hosts remained politely silent, Annie quite rightly interjected: “Why did you do that?” My response: “[Shrug]… I dunno.” That was the first and last time I attempted to touch a live chicken.
Despite not knowing anything about the care and nurture of poultry, I should have remembered the image Jesus gives us in today’s Gospel. A mother hen is protective of her brood, as mothers of most of the more advanced species of animals (humans included) are. They know what spells danger ; whether it be a fox in a Breton hen house or a clueless priest.
I believe Christ is communicating at least two things here. First, naturally and explicitly, that the fox, whom he identifies as Herod will succeed in killing him, the mother hen. This is the most basic reading, and it is a prediction which would come to pass very soon after Christ made it. Let’s not get too bogged down in pointing the finger for who historically holds the most culpability–it was not “the Jews” as a people; but the Romans, Herod’s court, and the Jewish temple leadership all had a role to play.
The more interesting thing happening here, and the more apposite for us, is that the risen Lord, now invulnerable to the foxes of the world, protects the baby chicks which are God’s children and Christ’s own sisters and brothers. What I’ve said from this pulpit before about sheep pertains as much to chicks. Humanity may seem a less elegant creation, though this is due to free will and the fall rather than how God made us. The sheep are hard-wired to know and follow the shepherd and the baby chicks are hard-wired to gather under the wings of their mother, while we have the capacity to wander and get lost and fall victim to all sorts of predation. We can be really smart about how to breed livestock and really dumb about doing the very things we’ve bred them to do ourselves. If only we would permit the mother hen, who is Christ, to gather us under his wings we’d be protected from all that assails us. “How often would I have gathered [the] children together, as a hen doth gather her brood under her wings,” laments our Lord, “but ye would not?”
The form of the foxes which seek to devour us–the world, the flesh, and the devil–are manifold. They are social and they are personal. They take forms which those in Jesus day could not have anticipated, through modern commerce and technology and other complex societal factors which would have been foreign to them. But at heart they all prey upon the same human problems that have been with us since the fall–the strong preying upon the weak, charlatans preying upon the lonely and the simple, a selfish disposition preying upon the better angels of our nature, pride convincing us we’ve no need of a savior.
Even the kindest, most loving, most long-suffering human parent might be forgiven in extreme circumstances for cutting us loose. But in the ultimate extremity, the battle against the infernal fox of sin and death, Christ will take us under his wings and protect us. No matter how many times we strike out on our own, he’ll welcome us back to that place of perfect shelter. And he’ll fight fiercely to protect us unto eternity.
I’d like to close with the words of St. Julian of Norwich, who lived as an Anchoress in a cell adjoining the sanctuary wall of her parish church for many years, with one interior window through which she received the Holy Communion and one exterior window through which she dispensed wisdom to those who sought it from her. Having prayed in her cell myself, and seen others praying there, it remains a place of pilgrimage, albeit scandalously often overlooked, to this day. I am personally convinced (though, it not being in scripture, you are not obliged to agree) she was not just some great poet or theological thinker, but was given a series of genuine visions from God, like the prophets of old, between the 8th and 9th of May 1373. Among these “shewings”, Dame Julian was given the following insight, which I think neatly sums up this quality of Christ our God:
God chose to be our mother in all things *
and so made the foundation of his work,
most humbly and most pure, in the Virgin’s womb.
God, the perfect wisdom of all, *
arrayed himself in this humble place.
Christ came in our poor flesh *
to share a mother’s care.
Our mothers bear us for pain and for death; *
our true mother, Jesus, bears us for joy and endless life.
Christ carried us within him in love and travail, *
until the full time of his passion.
And when all was completed and he had carried us so for joy, *
still all this could not satisfy the power of his wonderful love.
All that we owe is redeemed in truly loving God, *
for the love of Christ works in us;
Christ is the one whom we love.
+Amen.