A God Who Squawks?

 Luke 13:35-39
When I was pregnant with Hannah, my mother gave us a great book titled “God is Like a Mother Hen, and Much, Much More.[i]”  The book offers wonderful illustrations and metaphors for God, based on biblical passages.  You learn that God is like a caring daddy who listens very well.  God is like a mommy who kisses all your hurts.  God is like the air—right there, but you can’t see it.  God is like a teacher, who smiles and says, “Try again.”  The author draws upon a variety of biblical resources for her work.  Her hope is that children and their parents will learn about all the diverse metaphors for God found in our Scriptures.  She knows that God is not exactly like any of them, but much, much more.  It is a wonderful book.  Both Hannah and Ryan loved it when they were little-bitties.  I did too.  I still do.

 Of course, as you have probably already deduced, the opening metaphor of God as a mother hen comes straight from our passage for today.  Our passage comes right in the middle of Jesus’ journey to Jerusalem.  It is at the exact mid-point in the story between the mountain of transfiguration and the triumphal entrance into Jerusalem’s gates on Palm Sunday.  Right in the middle of that journey, as Jesus prepares to leave Galilee, he stops and offers lament. 

 Jesus laments over the fact that he so desires to gather the children of Jerusalem under his care and protection, like a mother hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and yet very few of his little Jerusalem chicks will even come close.  He wants to protect them, but they run here and there, searching for protection of a different kind-- protection that is more concrete, protection that is stronger and tougher. 

 But let’s face it, a mother hen, a chicken, is not what we think of when we think “Protector.”  Do you remember from your playground days one of the worst insults you could be called?  That’s right.  Chicken.  No one wanted to be called a chicken—especially the boys.  If you were called a chicken, that meant you were weak and passive.  You were certainly not strong or tough.  Usually, the insult “What are you, a chicken?” signified that someone was about to get into a fight.  The one labeled chicken would go out of his way to prove his toughness, his stamina, his power, and strength.

 And yet, Jesus compared himself to a chicken, a mother hen.  It is such a strange metaphor for him to choose.  After all, think of his competition.  Just a few verses before, a few of the Pharisees told him to run away because Herod was after him.  Herod—that evil, cruel ruler who had John the Baptist thrown in prison for questioning his kingly marital ethics and then beheaded him at the whim of his step-daughter.  King Herod was no one with whom you wanted to tangle.  He had the power of force and fear and did not hesitate to use it. 

 Jesus himself responded to the Pharisees by calling Herod a fox.  “Go and tell that fox that I am busy right now and will leave when I am good and ready.”  Jesus says plainly and clearly he is not afraid of Herod.  Nor will he let Herod tell him when and how he can do his ministry.  King Herod was not going to hinder Jesus from completing his work, no matter how foxy, how sly and cunning, how voraciously destructive Herod could be. 

 With that kind of moxie, that kind of nerve, no one was going to accuse Jesus of being a chicken on Herod’s playground, were they!  And yet, that is exactly what Jesus calls himself.  “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!”  Jesus, God with us, as a mother hen.  What a bizarre metaphor to use.  Jesus could have compared himself to the mighty eagle of Isaiah that swoops down on the enemies and carries the faithful on his mighty wings.  He could have used the image of Hosea’s leopard, or the proud lion of Judah whose roar inspires fear and awe.  A mother hen?  Isn’t that a bit, well, weak? 

 You and I are not the only ones who feel this way.  Theologians and artists throughout the years have wanted to toughen up Jesus’ image a bit.  Outside of the holy city of Jerusalem, the city of so much conflict and bloodshed even today, there is a small chapel on a hill.  Tradition holds that it was precisely in that spot where Jesus wept and lamented for the city.  It was that spot where he uttered these words.  In that chapel you find an illustration of this metaphor on the front of the altar.  From far away, you see what looks to be a mosaic medallion of a chicken with her wings spread wide to shelter the pale yellow chicks that crowd around her feet.  But once you get closer, you realize it is not a chicken at all.  It is a rooster.  The rooster has sharp spikes on the back of his feet.  He looks like he is about to spit fire.[ii] 

 Like you and I, apparently the artist did not find the image of God as a mother hen too appealing.  It was just, well, too weak.  So he created God as a tough rooster.  It makes good sense.  A rooster can defend himself.  A rooster can use those spikes like stilettos on anyone who bothers him.  A rooster can also peck pretty hard.  I myself have never attempted to gather eggs while a rooster is on the loose, but my grandmother Joyce used to do that.  She had stories to tell.  Roosters are fierce when you enter their henhouse and try to take what is theirs.  Though it is still not a fair fight, you would always rather see a rooster in the pen when dealing with a fox, instead of only a mother hen.

 But yet, Jesus did not say he was like a tough, fire-breathing, spike heeled, pecking rooster.  He compared himself to a mother hen.  An animal with no real means of defense.  An animal who chief purpose in life is to lay eggs, sit on them, keep them warm and safe until they hatch, and then protect them until they are big enough to be on their own.  She does not have anything like the rooster’s talons or his powerful beak.  Instead of a loud crow, she just squawks.  When face to face with a predator, all she can do in defense is fluff up her body and sit on her chicks.  When face to face with a fox, all she can do is put her own body between the predator and her babies, hoping that she satisfies his appetite enough to leave her children alone[iii].

 I suppose, then, we should not be completely surprised that Jesus chose this metaphor to describe himself.  This is, after all, the same Jesus who refused to give into the temptations of power and self-protection in the wilderness.  This is, after all, the same Jesus who went out of his way to heal the sick, bring in the outcast, and make sure that no one felt excluded from his love and ministry.  This is, after all, the same Jesus who paid just as much attention to women as to men, who brought children from the fringes and sat them on his knee, who refused to linger in the glory of the mountain at the transfiguration and instead, marched his disciples right back down into the trenches of the broken world.  This is, after all, the same Jesus who told his disciples that true greatness was not defined by being foxy or tough, but by welcoming the child and the least of these.

 The image of a Mother Hen actually fits, doesn’t it.  For this is the same Jesus who cried out at his birth for his mother’s milk and who later cried out of thirst while dying on the cross.  This is, after all, the same Jesus who refused to give into the power of violence, refusing to fight back on his way to Jerusalem.  A rooster, a lion, or a mighty eagle would have fought back.  Jesus could have fought back.  Jesus could have used his power to avoid the ugly cross.  He was God with us.  He could have used his power to avoid all the messy, vulnerable, human stuff. 

 But for our sake, Jesus fought that temptation, again and again.  Instead of using his power, instead of fighting back, instead of becoming a fox and dominating his enemies, he lived out his calling to love the unlovable, welcome the outcast, heal the sick, comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable.  And he did all of that knowing full well that his faithfulness would lead to his death.  But he did all of that knowing that he was a living, breathing testimony that God loves us so much that God chose to become weak in power in order to be strong in love. 

 So, I suppose it really should not surprise us at all that Jesus chose to speak of himself as a mother hen.  An animal who, when face to face with danger and evil, would only puff himself up, spread open his wings, and call to all his chicks, his children, to come close for protection.  A Savior who would stand between the predator and his babies, using his own body as a shield, giving himself up to the power of death so that his children would see once and for all that death was no longer in control.  So that his children would know once and for all that he would shelter and protect them at all costs, no matter what they faced, they were not alone. 

 You see, a predator, a fox, is really only interested in what is in it for her.  What can she devour, accumulate, get for herself.  A mother hen, well, she is in it for the chicks.  Their joy, their protection, their lives are what give her joy and satisfaction.  So, it should not surprise us at all that Jesus spoke of his calling as a mother hen, who longed to gather her chicks under her wings, keeping them warm and safe.

 During this season of Lent, one other thing about this metaphor strikes me.  I did not think about it until I looked again at Hannah and Ryan’s book.  On the front is an illustration of the mother hen and her chicks.  She is looking down, trying to get them under control.  The chicks are all around, not paying much attention to her, pecking the ground, getting their food.  And yet, as she prepares to pull them close, she raises her wings out to the side, making sure there is enough room for all.  And as she does that, she stands at her most vulnerable position—wings outstretched, chest exposed, standing there, waiting for them to come close, without much thought to her own vulnerability, her own exposure to the predator.  Standing, exposed, longing to protect all her children with her very life.

 God is like a mother hen, a much, much more.