As a Hen Gathers her
Brood
The Second Sunday in Lent February 28, 2010
Text: Luke 4:31-35 The Rev. Dr. Ross
M. Wright
Just outside of Jerusalem, on the
Mount of Olives, there is a chapel called Dominus Flevit, Latin for
“The Lord wept.”1 The name comes from this morning’s Gospel,
which describes Jesus’ grief over the city of Jerusalem. According to
tradition, the chapel is located on the site where Jesus looked across the
Kidron Valley at the city he was about to enter, and wept, knowing that the
city would spurn his love.
Inside the chapel, there is an altar,
and behind it, a high, arched window that looks out on the city, offering a
panoramic view. The effect is like looking at a stained glass window – only
in this case, the subject matter seen in the window is alive. Your eye is
drawn immediately to the site of the former Jerusalem temple, now occupied
by the Dome of the Rock, one of Islam’s sacred shrines. In the foreground,
you see the famous wall of Jerusalem. In the background, the skyline,
dominated by several high-rise hotels, a reminder that Jerusalem is a
bustling modern city. If you know where to look, you can make out the
approximate route that Jesus took from Caiaphas’ house to Herod’s fortress
on Maundy Thursday.
Jesus must have looked at the city
from this vantage point many times before he uttered what are, to my mind,
among the most poignant of his recorded words:
Jesus’ lament comes after a
confrontation with the Jerusalem religious leadership. They threaten him,
saying: “You need to get out of here, because Herod wants to kill you.”
This is said ostensibly as a word to the wise, i.e., We are telling you this
for your own safety. But really, it is not Herod but the antagonists
themselves who want Jesus to get out of town. They want him dead. So, they
do what people who abuse power frequently do to those who get in their way:
they seek to intimidate by innuendo and veiled threats.
But clearly, Jesus is not
intimidated. He replies:
The term, “fox” is a derisive term on
Jesus’ lips – “weasel” is probably our closest equivalent. Jesus is saying:
You can go and tell that old weasel that I am not about to be deterred by
any third-rate government bureaucrat. I will continue my ministry. I will
go to die in Jerusalem, but it won’t be at Herod’s hand. I to go to be
enthroned as Messiah. This explains Jesus’ last words for Jerusalem “Blessed
is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.” Jesus quotes here from, the
118th psalm, which may have been composed for King David’s
coronation, and according to rabbinic tradition, will be read when Messiah
comes.
I hear in Jesus’ voice not so much
condemnation as deep sadness. Jerusalem, he says, is being true to its
history of killing the prophets and stoning those who bring God’s word. The
tragedy here is that the one who loves the city the most must pronounce its
doom. He utters a chilling word of judgment: “Look – your house is left to
you desolate. And I tell you, you will not see me until [the time comes
when] you say: ‘Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord’.”
What is striking here is how Jesus
expresses his maternal care for the city that will reject him. This image of
Jesus as the hen gathering her brood is particularly striking in light of
the current protest against biblical language for God on the grounds that it
is male, hierarchal, and oppressive to women. Elizabeth Schlüssler Fiorenza,
for example, wants to replace language about God the Father with “Sophia,”
the feminine personification of Wisdom in the Old Testament.
The danger of abandoning biblical
language for God, however, is that we end up recreating God in our own image
and to our own liking. This danger is evident in Fiorenza’s rejection of
classical atonement theology: she asserts that there is no need for Jesus’
sacrificial death to atone for our sins.
Is it possible to recover the
maternal side of God without abandoning biblical language for God? Notice
how Jesus turns upside down our stereotypes of maternal and paternal, of
female and male. He reveals a God who loves maternally, holding us in his
bosom. Listen to how John Calvin explores the maternal imagery in our
passage: “Whenever the Word of God is exhibited to us, he opens his bosom to
us with maternal kindness . . . like a hen watching over chickens.”4
And here, I return to the Chapel,
Dominus Flevit. On the floor of the church, in front of the altar,
there is a mosaic of a hen with her chicks under her wings. Your eye is
drawn immediately to the large, white breast, with wings outstretched,
spread wide to cover the pale yellow chicks beneath her. Above her head is
a golden halo, and her red comb resembles a crown. You look closer, and you
see the chicks –“seven of them, with black dots for eyes and orange dots for
beaks. They look happy to be there. The hen looks ready to spit fire if
anyone comes near her babies.”5 This is a Jesus who loves
maternally, a hen who loves fiercely.
I end with a prayer based on this
text by the 11th century theologian Anselm of Canterbury, who
rings the changes of the maternal images in our text:
Christ, my mother,
you take your chickens under your wings;
this dead chicken of yours puts himself under
those wings.
For by your gentleness the badly frightened are
comforted,
by your sweet smell the despairing are revived,
your warmth gives life to the dead,
your touch justifies sinners.
Mother, know again your dead son,
both by the sign of your cross and the voice of
his confession.
Warm your chicken, give life to your dead
man,
justify your sinner.
Let your terrified one be consoled by you;
despairing of himself, let him be comforted
by you;
and in your whole and unceasing grace
let him be refashioned by you.
For from you flows consolation of sinners;
to you be blessings for ages
and ages. Amen.6