Jesus, Desirous
Sermon
Sermons On The Gospel Readings
Series I, Cycle C
In the powerful movie, Ulee's Gold, Peter Fonda plays a tired man who is a beekeeper by day. He runs the old family business of collecting and selling the golden honey that pays the bills. It is exhausting work for a man now in his late sixties. Ulee does most of it by himself because he cannot afford to hire someone to help him. He maintains and moves the hives, gathers the trays, separates the honey from the wax, spins the final product into jars, and ships it off to market. He worries about the ebb and flow of money offered by his distributor and doesn't sleep well at night. You can almost watch the spirit drain out of Ulee as the movie progresses.
But what really causes Ulee to worry is his daughter and her children. His daughter is in and out of drug treatment facilities and long ago left three children with Ulee and his wife. Now that his wife is dead, it's only Ulee. His daughter phones about twice a year. I recall one scene where the oldest girl, around sixteen, is about to leave on a date with her older boyfriend. A rather fresh argument still hovers in the room. Ulee has worried about her for weeks, not knowing exactly what to do, remembering his own daughter's rebellion at about the same age. A car is honking in the background. Ulee is slumped down in a chair, exhausted from a fourteen-hour day. Before she steps through the screen door, Ulee says, "Remember -- curfew is 12 o'clock." His granddaughter stops at the far end of the living room, turns, and says with a face that is half sneer, half smile, "I'd like to see you make me get home by twelve." The screen door slams behind her and Ulee knows she is right. He is powerless to make her do much of anything anymore.
One of the popular images of Jesus in many religious circles is that he is a man who can do anything. Walk on water. Turn a couple fish and a few loaves into a feast for thousands. Even raise the dead. "That's our Jesus, he can do anything."
Today's Gospel lesson is a rather loud refutation to that popular claim. Jesus can do many impressive things. I'll not argue that. But one thing he cannot do is make us love him. He cannot legislate love nor control human will. "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 cannot do just anything. He has tried to gather this particular flock many times. "Often," he says. It's a strange thing to say out loud, but Jesus failed at that. Struck out. He'll walk out of a tomb in a few days, but apparently he can't walk into our hearts without permission. "How often have I desired to gather you and you were not willing."
I suspect Ulee knows exactly how Jesus feels. I suspect anyone who has loved someone deeply and knows they can't shelter them from harm's way understands the pain in Jesus' lament over the city. Jesus can do a lot of amazing things. But he can only watch as his sons and daughters go through the screen door saying, "I'd like to see you make me." His will cannot overpower our wills. He is off the chart with a lot of things. But Jesus is powerless at that.
Unrequited love is tough enough one time around. Jesus was about this "often." I daresay he still is. It's tough to put any type of love on the line and have that love rejected. I remember this woman: a blond co-ed at Clemson University in the winter of 1977 who attracted my attention and infatuation like no other that year. I was smitten.
At first I was subtle: smiles in the lunch line, hellos on the way to class. And then bolder: a phone number was secured, we dated a few times. And then overbearingly mushy: on a park bench in the middle of campus, on Valentine's Day almost 25 years ago, I nauseatingly poured out my heart in a speech that rivaled a Shake-spearean sonnet. It even makes me gag when I think about it now. Well, it was not to be. I got the drift eventually. She was never home when I called. We never passed each other on the way to class anymore. Word got back that she was dating someone else. Unrequited love for a nineteen-year-old is as close to the end of the world as one may ever come.
Jesus' desire for us, no doubt, is a bit different than my desire for that young woman. But it is similar in this regard: Jesus is willing to make a fool of himself to get our attention. He likens himself to a hen. To a chicken. Out of all the animals that Jesus could have chosen, a veritable Noah's ark of biblical metaphors, he chooses a chicken.1 He could have chosen the powerful eagle of the book of Exodus (19:4). "I bore you on eagles' wings." There is a cagey leopard prowling through the pages of Hosea (13:7). God is likened to a lion elsewhere. But a chicken? Really now, what kind of confidence does a chicken instill? When we send our children out the screen door to face the perils of this world, wouldn't you prefer "God the ravening lion" at your child's side rather than Jesus "the mother hen"?
"How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings." What kind of chance is this hen going to have against the likes of a fox such as Herod? Some friendly Pharisees warn Jesus this morning that Herod wants to kill him. No surprise there. Herod has already chopped off the head of John the Baptist at a wild party where anything went. A chicken's head won't matter much. Put it on the chopping block and be done with all this squawking about peace and poor people. How annoying. Herod, by the way, was a character with a notorious reputation for bizarre immorality and rather raunchy party-going. The very last person you'd want your daughter to date. Curiously, the Greek word for "fox" that describes Herod is here rendered in the feminine, which, according to Frederick Buechner, "may or may not be an allusion to some of Herod's more exotic proclivities."2 Jesus probably bugged the living heck out of Herod.
But this is the world we live in. Foxes have always had a certain allure over God's children, in this or any century. They may not be quite as bizarre and murderous as Herod, but foxes still slyly woo away the hearts of God's brood. And this is the thing: Jesus is powerless to stop it. He can walk on water and raise the dead, but he cannot make us love him. He desires such love, but he cannot force it. Cannot keep us from slamming the screen door in his face, defenseless against the many Herods waiting in the shadows. One of the hardest things in life is loving someone you know you can't shelter or protect.
So what is Jesus' plan? What's he going to do now? Strangely, his plan is to keep offering the love of a mother hen. Keep spreading his wings. He will offer his life to Herod on our behalf. He will follow us into the darkness we have chosen for ourselves, over and over again. He will place himself between that darkness and us.
And if you look closely at this man hanging on the cross, his arms eternally outstretched, the span of his reach on that wood will begin to resemble the loving wings of a mother hen, gathering up her chicks in a love that doesn't make sense but breaks our hearts if we look long enough.
Jesus does not count on the world ever seeing or understanding such love. And even as he hangs there with wings nailed to a tree, he cannot make us love him. Cannot make us accept his love.
But his desire for us is there. Always, eternally there. "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 said that 2,000 years ago. He says that today.
Jesus was a powerful teacher. A worker of miracles. A prophet who shook this world to its foundations. But you know what? I've decided that he is not all-powerful. That may sound shocking and even unorthodox, but he's not. There is one little thing that Jesus needs of you. One thing that he desires but cannot (or will not) control.
He desires your will. Your proud, defiant control over your destiny. To relinquish that is both the hardest and the sweetest thing we'll ever do.
Every day we start again.
____________
1. I am indebted to Barbara Brown Taylor for pointing out the curious choice of this metaphor (given other biblical options) in "As a Hen Gathers Her Brood" The Christian Century (February 25, 1986), p. 201.
2. Frederick Buechner, Peculiar Treasures: A Biblical Who's Who (Harper-SanFrancisco, 1979), p. 54.
But what really causes Ulee to worry is his daughter and her children. His daughter is in and out of drug treatment facilities and long ago left three children with Ulee and his wife. Now that his wife is dead, it's only Ulee. His daughter phones about twice a year. I recall one scene where the oldest girl, around sixteen, is about to leave on a date with her older boyfriend. A rather fresh argument still hovers in the room. Ulee has worried about her for weeks, not knowing exactly what to do, remembering his own daughter's rebellion at about the same age. A car is honking in the background. Ulee is slumped down in a chair, exhausted from a fourteen-hour day. Before she steps through the screen door, Ulee says, "Remember -- curfew is 12 o'clock." His granddaughter stops at the far end of the living room, turns, and says with a face that is half sneer, half smile, "I'd like to see you make me get home by twelve." The screen door slams behind her and Ulee knows she is right. He is powerless to make her do much of anything anymore.
One of the popular images of Jesus in many religious circles is that he is a man who can do anything. Walk on water. Turn a couple fish and a few loaves into a feast for thousands. Even raise the dead. "That's our Jesus, he can do anything."
Today's Gospel lesson is a rather loud refutation to that popular claim. Jesus can do many impressive things. I'll not argue that. But one thing he cannot do is make us love him. He cannot legislate love nor control human will. "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 cannot do just anything. He has tried to gather this particular flock many times. "Often," he says. It's a strange thing to say out loud, but Jesus failed at that. Struck out. He'll walk out of a tomb in a few days, but apparently he can't walk into our hearts without permission. "How often have I desired to gather you and you were not willing."
I suspect Ulee knows exactly how Jesus feels. I suspect anyone who has loved someone deeply and knows they can't shelter them from harm's way understands the pain in Jesus' lament over the city. Jesus can do a lot of amazing things. But he can only watch as his sons and daughters go through the screen door saying, "I'd like to see you make me." His will cannot overpower our wills. He is off the chart with a lot of things. But Jesus is powerless at that.
Unrequited love is tough enough one time around. Jesus was about this "often." I daresay he still is. It's tough to put any type of love on the line and have that love rejected. I remember this woman: a blond co-ed at Clemson University in the winter of 1977 who attracted my attention and infatuation like no other that year. I was smitten.
At first I was subtle: smiles in the lunch line, hellos on the way to class. And then bolder: a phone number was secured, we dated a few times. And then overbearingly mushy: on a park bench in the middle of campus, on Valentine's Day almost 25 years ago, I nauseatingly poured out my heart in a speech that rivaled a Shake-spearean sonnet. It even makes me gag when I think about it now. Well, it was not to be. I got the drift eventually. She was never home when I called. We never passed each other on the way to class anymore. Word got back that she was dating someone else. Unrequited love for a nineteen-year-old is as close to the end of the world as one may ever come.
Jesus' desire for us, no doubt, is a bit different than my desire for that young woman. But it is similar in this regard: Jesus is willing to make a fool of himself to get our attention. He likens himself to a hen. To a chicken. Out of all the animals that Jesus could have chosen, a veritable Noah's ark of biblical metaphors, he chooses a chicken.1 He could have chosen the powerful eagle of the book of Exodus (19:4). "I bore you on eagles' wings." There is a cagey leopard prowling through the pages of Hosea (13:7). God is likened to a lion elsewhere. But a chicken? Really now, what kind of confidence does a chicken instill? When we send our children out the screen door to face the perils of this world, wouldn't you prefer "God the ravening lion" at your child's side rather than Jesus "the mother hen"?
"How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings." What kind of chance is this hen going to have against the likes of a fox such as Herod? Some friendly Pharisees warn Jesus this morning that Herod wants to kill him. No surprise there. Herod has already chopped off the head of John the Baptist at a wild party where anything went. A chicken's head won't matter much. Put it on the chopping block and be done with all this squawking about peace and poor people. How annoying. Herod, by the way, was a character with a notorious reputation for bizarre immorality and rather raunchy party-going. The very last person you'd want your daughter to date. Curiously, the Greek word for "fox" that describes Herod is here rendered in the feminine, which, according to Frederick Buechner, "may or may not be an allusion to some of Herod's more exotic proclivities."2 Jesus probably bugged the living heck out of Herod.
But this is the world we live in. Foxes have always had a certain allure over God's children, in this or any century. They may not be quite as bizarre and murderous as Herod, but foxes still slyly woo away the hearts of God's brood. And this is the thing: Jesus is powerless to stop it. He can walk on water and raise the dead, but he cannot make us love him. He desires such love, but he cannot force it. Cannot keep us from slamming the screen door in his face, defenseless against the many Herods waiting in the shadows. One of the hardest things in life is loving someone you know you can't shelter or protect.
So what is Jesus' plan? What's he going to do now? Strangely, his plan is to keep offering the love of a mother hen. Keep spreading his wings. He will offer his life to Herod on our behalf. He will follow us into the darkness we have chosen for ourselves, over and over again. He will place himself between that darkness and us.
And if you look closely at this man hanging on the cross, his arms eternally outstretched, the span of his reach on that wood will begin to resemble the loving wings of a mother hen, gathering up her chicks in a love that doesn't make sense but breaks our hearts if we look long enough.
Jesus does not count on the world ever seeing or understanding such love. And even as he hangs there with wings nailed to a tree, he cannot make us love him. Cannot make us accept his love.
But his desire for us is there. Always, eternally there. "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 said that 2,000 years ago. He says that today.
Jesus was a powerful teacher. A worker of miracles. A prophet who shook this world to its foundations. But you know what? I've decided that he is not all-powerful. That may sound shocking and even unorthodox, but he's not. There is one little thing that Jesus needs of you. One thing that he desires but cannot (or will not) control.
He desires your will. Your proud, defiant control over your destiny. To relinquish that is both the hardest and the sweetest thing we'll ever do.
Every day we start again.
____________
1. I am indebted to Barbara Brown Taylor for pointing out the curious choice of this metaphor (given other biblical options) in "As a Hen Gathers Her Brood" The Christian Century (February 25, 1986), p. 201.
2. Frederick Buechner, Peculiar Treasures: A Biblical Who's Who (Harper-SanFrancisco, 1979), p. 54.
