2 Lent Yr C

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. In this story from Luke, Jesus is a mother hen, who stands between the chicks and those who mean to do them harm, in this story that is Herod, who is the fox. She has no fangs, no claws, no rippling muscles. All she has is her willingness to shield her babies with her own body. If the fox wants them, he will have to kill her first; which he does, as it turns out. He slides up on her one night in the yard while all the babies are asleep. When her cry wakens them, they scatter. She dies the next day where both foxes and chickens can see her -- wings spread, breast exposed -- without a single chick beneath her feathers. It breaks her heart, but if you mean what you say, then this is how you stand. It is terribly foolish for a hen to stand in such a vulnerable position. The world looks on this vulnerability as weakness, but it is this very vulnerability that saves the hens, that saves us.
(Excerpts taken from Barbara Brown Taylor, Christian Century 2/25/86.)

Jerusalem, Jerusalem, killer of prophets. In the midst of this image of the mother hen with her wings spread wide and her vulnerability fully exposed, is this lament. This is a terribly tragic story, but it is not a hopeless story. Tragedy is not the antithesis of hope, tragedy just is. Tragedy is part of our human existence. Tragedy and death are part of life, love and joy are part of life, but they are not opposites, they are merely parts of a whole. We are not saved from tragedy; you and I both know the reality of tragedy. Ice storms down power lines, a wreck on I-90 kills mothers, fathers, children, a hurricane devastates a city, an earthquake levels a country, a gunman goes to work one day and shoots people.

What we have today is this story of Jesus, the mother hen, who guards the chicks behind her wings and puts herself in between the fox and the hens, in full knowledge that the fox will kill her. This is tragedy, but tragedy is not the end of the story. This is the story of Jesus, who puts himself between the principalities and powers, and each one of us, because of love, and for the Kingdom, his way of peace.

The power of this story is that it shows us what Jesus does on the cross. Jesus puts himself in our place. It is so difficult for us to wrap our minds around, we want to ask why. Why would Jesus do such a thing? Why would Jesus put himself in between us and the principalities and powers? For love. Not a sweet, syrupy, romantic love, but a gritty, tough, and resilient love. It is very much like the love you have for your own children. Which one of us would not put ourselves in the way of sure and certain death for our child?

The problem is that the world counts death as failure. The words we use to describe disease and death invoke battles that are won and lost. We see in obituaries things like she lost her battle with cancer. This idea even sometimes directs our health care decisions. We are afraid that if we don’t wage a courageous battle, somehow we are not good enough. And Jesus’ dying on the cross looks to the world like failure. Jesus suffered, Jesus died. But Jesus did not fail. Jesus redefined death and life. Death does not have the final word; death does not have the victory. The Word of God has the final word.

What Jesus did on the cross was to make it possible for us to have new life, a life that our words cannot begin to describe, a life that our minds cannot begin to imagine. What Jesus did and does is to make it possible for us to be transformed.

Winning and losing have no meaning in Jesus’ Kingdom; love and forgiveness are gifts. Success and failure have no meaning in Jesus’ Kingdom; sharing and walking together are gifts. Isolation and alienation have no meaning in Jesus’ Kingdom; relationship and connection are gifts.

And as those chicks for which the hen gave her life, what is our response? The prayers for our Stations of the Cross say, Lord, teach me, help me learn. When I would snap at those who hurt me with their ridicule, those who misunderstand, or hinder me with some misguided helpfulness, those who intrude upon my privacy—then help me curb my tongue. May gentleness become by cloak. Lord, make me kind like you. This is a prayer of transformation. Lord, make me like you.

But are we serious when we pray a prayer like this, a prayer of transformation. Lord, make me like you. Make me like the hen that puts herself in between the fox and the chicks. Lord, make me like you. The implications of this prayer are enormous. Lord, make me like you who eat with tax collectors and sinners. Lord, make me like you who protect all those who are vulnerable. Lord, make me like you who clothe the naked, feed the hungry, welcome all who come our way. Lord, make me like you who says, love one another, as I have loved you.

It is for love that God came and comes into this world. It is for love that Jesus hangs on the cross, it is for love that Jesus suffers. It is for love.

The Lord is full of compassion and mercy: Come let us adore him.