Hens and Foxes
Sermon preached by the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham, Rector
St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas
February 28, 2010; 2 Lent, Year C
Episcopal Revised Common Lectionary
(Luke 12:31-35) – Some Pharisees came and said to Jesus, "Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you." He said to them, "Go and tell that fox for me, 'Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work. Yet today, tomorrow, and the next day I must be on my way, because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem.' 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! See, your house is left to you. And I tell you, you will not see me until the time comes when you say, 'Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.'"
______________________________________________
St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas
February 28, 2010; 2 Lent, Year C
Episcopal Revised Common Lectionary
(Luke 12:31-35) – Some Pharisees came and said to Jesus, "Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you." He said to them, "Go and tell that fox for me, 'Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work. Yet today, tomorrow, and the next day I must be on my way, because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem.' 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! See, your house is left to you. And I tell you, you will not see me until the time comes when you say, 'Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.'"
______________________________________________
"Go and tell that fox..." Jesus sets his face for Jerusalem, "the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it."
When I first met him, Bob Hood wouldn't give me the time of day. He was a professor. An Oxford educated African American. I was just a seminarian. But his dismissive air toward me seemed more than mere rank. It had an edge, I thought.
One day we were seated at the same lunch table, and I was cutting up a bit. Sometimes I do that. Dr. Hood looked at me and said, "Grisham. I don't believe I've ever sat with you. You're pretty clever." "Yes, Dr. Hood," I said. "I've been pretty clever for nearly two years here, but you've never noticed because I'm a white boy from Mississippi and you're a black racist." Then I grinned real big. After the sharp intake of breath around the table, he said, "I'm going to have to get to know you better. I'll have you over for sherry some afternoon." "I'd like that very much," I said.
He did. And we became fast friends. When he knew me well enough, when we had built some trust and affection, Bob told me why he had ignored me so intentionally. "It was your accent. When I heard you speak, it brought back memories. Bad memories. I was afraid of your voice."
Then he told how he had been sent to Mississippi as a young person with the civil rights movement. Bob was sent to Philadelphia, Mississippi in 1964 to replace one of three voting rights workers who were missing there. No one knew yet what had happened to them.
Bob told me stories of diving to the floor when gunshots came through the window during one of their meetings. Of lying on the floor for more than an hour, hearing sounds through the blown second story window, listening to a mob, a mob with fire, deciding whether or not to torch the house. He told of being picked up when he was alone, taken to a windowless, underground jail cell in a nearby town. No one knew where he was. This was how people disappeared. Unaccountably, they let him make one phone call. The Harvard Law School had an 800 number he had memorized. A few hours later one of their graduates showed up on his behalf and he was released.
My voice, my accent frightened Bob Hood. No wonder.
Bob didn't live to see a black man elected president, but when I saw the faces of his generation watching the inauguration with tears and wonder, I remembered Bob and imagined his joy.
What makes a young person, any person, move intentionally into the face of danger?
"Get away from here [Jesus], for Herod wants to kill you." Tell that fox that I'm going to keep on confronting the demons. I'm going to do my work of healing until I finish, and I'm coming straight for the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it.
For thirty years the Mothers and Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo walked around the plaza for a half hour every Thursday to bear witness to their missing children, grandchildren, brothers, sisters, aunts, and uncles who disappeared in Argentina during that military regime's Dirty War from '76 to '83. They had no hope of finding their loved ones, they only believed that asking for the truth is a way to resist violence, oppression and despair.
I spoke with a woman here in Fayetteville who told of the incredible courage of a friend who left every security she knew, with nothing more than the clothes on her back, to get away from an abusive spouse and to file charges against him.
Friday night I heard a story of a friend who had her graduate research stolen by her professor who planned to publish it under the teacher's name without crediting it to the student. My friend confronted the teacher and turned her in. I've heard similar stories of teachers victimizing international students who felt too insecure to seek justice, afraid they would be deported if they accused a professor.
I know a man who left his tenured, named chair at a prestigious University to work full time with a non–profit trying to curb carbon emissions. I know someone who left the fast track on the corporate ladder for a low-paying job with less stress and more time for family.
I know a mother who insisted on getting her teenager drug tested and into therapy despite the threatening resistance of her husband who said it would be too embarrassing. I know of a young person who risked violent reprisal to help police bust a drug ring that was supplying children and teens. I know someone who left a gang. I know someone who gave up drinking even though it felt like the only balm for his sad and anxious life. I know someone who confronted his boss for the boss's unethical behavior, knowing it would cost him his job.
I've heard two theories about why people take action in the face of danger. Some say we do so when we feel there are no other options, we feel must act or speak a truth because there is nothing else we can do. Others say that we are more likely to take a risk when we feel safe enough to let go of the known in order to embrace the unknown.
There is something about Jesus that speaks to both of those motivations. Jesus give us an ethical foundation on which we can stand when we see threat or wrong. Jesus' ethic of compassion and love forces us to recognize when things are not of love and compassion, when things are damaging or oppressive. Jesus helps us to see them for what they are. And the resurrection power of Jesus endows us with a certain security that can embolden us to face the threat, to speak the truth, to risk to act in order to bring life and light, because we know we are loved and safe in Christ.
My friend Bob Hood was so incensed by the injustice of racism and segregation that he felt he must act to oppose it. His training for activism and his faith gave him strength enough to leave the safety of his Northern home to go to Mississippi in 1964, facing the possibility that he too might disappear like James Cheney, Michael Schwerner, and Andrew Goodman. Thanks in part to their courage, our nation passed the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965, against determined opposition from those who were fearful of such generous change.
"Jerusalem, Jerusalem...! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!" There's an old story of a sudden fire in a barnyard that caught everything by surprise. When the fire had finished the farmer surveyed the damage. There was a mother hen, her wings spread out, feathers black and charred. She was dead. When the farmer picked up her body, six young chicks ran out safely from beneath her.
In this world there are hens and there are foxes. Jesus shows us how to confront the foxes, to speak truth to power, to walk courageously into danger for the sake of good. He is our model. We are the Body of Christ. We are to continue his work of casting out demons. We are to continue his work of healing. We do that in his Spirit, knowing that he is with us. Jesus does not leave us alone to face our threats.
We are to be brave hens, who spread our wings to gather all who are threatened or afraid under the security of the truth and light that Jesus manifests.
Stand up to wrong. Stand up to wrong when you can't take it any more. Stand up to wrong because you are safe and strong. You are empowered with God's life and light. Tell all the foxes that we are continuing Jesus' work to confront the demons, to bring healing to all, and to gather the vulnerable under the wings of his everlasting arms.
When I first met him, Bob Hood wouldn't give me the time of day. He was a professor. An Oxford educated African American. I was just a seminarian. But his dismissive air toward me seemed more than mere rank. It had an edge, I thought.
One day we were seated at the same lunch table, and I was cutting up a bit. Sometimes I do that. Dr. Hood looked at me and said, "Grisham. I don't believe I've ever sat with you. You're pretty clever." "Yes, Dr. Hood," I said. "I've been pretty clever for nearly two years here, but you've never noticed because I'm a white boy from Mississippi and you're a black racist." Then I grinned real big. After the sharp intake of breath around the table, he said, "I'm going to have to get to know you better. I'll have you over for sherry some afternoon." "I'd like that very much," I said.
He did. And we became fast friends. When he knew me well enough, when we had built some trust and affection, Bob told me why he had ignored me so intentionally. "It was your accent. When I heard you speak, it brought back memories. Bad memories. I was afraid of your voice."
Then he told how he had been sent to Mississippi as a young person with the civil rights movement. Bob was sent to Philadelphia, Mississippi in 1964 to replace one of three voting rights workers who were missing there. No one knew yet what had happened to them.
Bob told me stories of diving to the floor when gunshots came through the window during one of their meetings. Of lying on the floor for more than an hour, hearing sounds through the blown second story window, listening to a mob, a mob with fire, deciding whether or not to torch the house. He told of being picked up when he was alone, taken to a windowless, underground jail cell in a nearby town. No one knew where he was. This was how people disappeared. Unaccountably, they let him make one phone call. The Harvard Law School had an 800 number he had memorized. A few hours later one of their graduates showed up on his behalf and he was released.
My voice, my accent frightened Bob Hood. No wonder.
Bob didn't live to see a black man elected president, but when I saw the faces of his generation watching the inauguration with tears and wonder, I remembered Bob and imagined his joy.
What makes a young person, any person, move intentionally into the face of danger?
"Get away from here [Jesus], for Herod wants to kill you." Tell that fox that I'm going to keep on confronting the demons. I'm going to do my work of healing until I finish, and I'm coming straight for the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it.
For thirty years the Mothers and Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo walked around the plaza for a half hour every Thursday to bear witness to their missing children, grandchildren, brothers, sisters, aunts, and uncles who disappeared in Argentina during that military regime's Dirty War from '76 to '83. They had no hope of finding their loved ones, they only believed that asking for the truth is a way to resist violence, oppression and despair.
I spoke with a woman here in Fayetteville who told of the incredible courage of a friend who left every security she knew, with nothing more than the clothes on her back, to get away from an abusive spouse and to file charges against him.
Friday night I heard a story of a friend who had her graduate research stolen by her professor who planned to publish it under the teacher's name without crediting it to the student. My friend confronted the teacher and turned her in. I've heard similar stories of teachers victimizing international students who felt too insecure to seek justice, afraid they would be deported if they accused a professor.
I know a man who left his tenured, named chair at a prestigious University to work full time with a non–profit trying to curb carbon emissions. I know someone who left the fast track on the corporate ladder for a low-paying job with less stress and more time for family.
I know a mother who insisted on getting her teenager drug tested and into therapy despite the threatening resistance of her husband who said it would be too embarrassing. I know of a young person who risked violent reprisal to help police bust a drug ring that was supplying children and teens. I know someone who left a gang. I know someone who gave up drinking even though it felt like the only balm for his sad and anxious life. I know someone who confronted his boss for the boss's unethical behavior, knowing it would cost him his job.
I've heard two theories about why people take action in the face of danger. Some say we do so when we feel there are no other options, we feel must act or speak a truth because there is nothing else we can do. Others say that we are more likely to take a risk when we feel safe enough to let go of the known in order to embrace the unknown.
There is something about Jesus that speaks to both of those motivations. Jesus give us an ethical foundation on which we can stand when we see threat or wrong. Jesus' ethic of compassion and love forces us to recognize when things are not of love and compassion, when things are damaging or oppressive. Jesus helps us to see them for what they are. And the resurrection power of Jesus endows us with a certain security that can embolden us to face the threat, to speak the truth, to risk to act in order to bring life and light, because we know we are loved and safe in Christ.
My friend Bob Hood was so incensed by the injustice of racism and segregation that he felt he must act to oppose it. His training for activism and his faith gave him strength enough to leave the safety of his Northern home to go to Mississippi in 1964, facing the possibility that he too might disappear like James Cheney, Michael Schwerner, and Andrew Goodman. Thanks in part to their courage, our nation passed the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965, against determined opposition from those who were fearful of such generous change.
"Jerusalem, Jerusalem...! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!" There's an old story of a sudden fire in a barnyard that caught everything by surprise. When the fire had finished the farmer surveyed the damage. There was a mother hen, her wings spread out, feathers black and charred. She was dead. When the farmer picked up her body, six young chicks ran out safely from beneath her.
In this world there are hens and there are foxes. Jesus shows us how to confront the foxes, to speak truth to power, to walk courageously into danger for the sake of good. He is our model. We are the Body of Christ. We are to continue his work of casting out demons. We are to continue his work of healing. We do that in his Spirit, knowing that he is with us. Jesus does not leave us alone to face our threats.
We are to be brave hens, who spread our wings to gather all who are threatened or afraid under the security of the truth and light that Jesus manifests.
Stand up to wrong. Stand up to wrong when you can't take it any more. Stand up to wrong because you are safe and strong. You are empowered with God's life and light. Tell all the foxes that we are continuing Jesus' work to confront the demons, to bring healing to all, and to gather the vulnerable under the wings of his everlasting arms.
________
God's infinite grace, acceptance and love.
For information about St. Paul's Episcopal Church and it's life and mission, please contact us
P.O. Box 1190, Fayetteville, AR 72702, or call 479/442-7373
More sermons are posted on our web site: www.stpaulsfay.org
Visit our web partners at www.explorefaith.org
posted by Lowell @ 3/01/2010 06:40:00 AM
2 comments
2 Comments:
This sounds dangerously close to inciting revolution. The republicans never said anything this potentially dangerous and yet the dems have accused them of inciting dangerous activities. Kinda weird.
Dear Greg,
Our nation was founded by a revolution. The issue here is having courage to take a stand for goodness and for truth, even in the face of opposition. It took great courage to stand up against segregation and racism in the 1960's. You could be killed for that. Many saw it as treasonous, threatening to our nation's laws and orders, potentially catastrophic to our future. Thanks to people like Bob, we are a freer, more just nation today.
Lowell
Post a Comment
<< Home