O Jerusalem
Genesis 15
Philippians 3:17-4:1
Luke 13:31-35
I can remember very clearly my first spiritual experience. I don’t remember when it happened, but I was in a car, and my mother was driving. My sister was beside me, and one of my aunts, I can’t remember which one, was sitting beside my mother. It was an ordinary, gray Ohio day, probably in late fall or early spring, judging from the landscape as I remember it. We were on the highway, and I have no idea where we were going. I was staring out the window, half-listening to the adult talk in the front seat, when this feeling of longing and love came over me. I thought to myself, I don’t know any of the people in any of the houses we’re passing, but somehow, we’re all connected. Somehow I love them anyway.” It wasn’t exactly a peaceful feeling. I wanted to jump out of the car and put my arms around the entire city of Akron, state of Ohio, nation, world. I felt a sadness because I could not do this, but also a sense of deep wonder and belonging. I don’t know that I have ever felt quite this way again, though the feelings I have when I am truly present in any moment are similar.
When I read today’s gospel, I think that Jesus must have had the same feeling when he spoke these beautiful words. They’ve always been among my favorite in the new testament. Jesus was often pragmatic, full of one-liners and stories that focused on what people did and not on how they felt. But here, Jesus is poetic, his words beautiful and rich and sad. “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those who sent you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing! Look, your house is left to you desolate. I tell you, you will not see me again until you say, ‘Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.’”
I love the image of Jesus as the great hen, trying to coax her chicks to come under her wings. I want to be protected like that, loved that completely, but like the people of Jerusalem who could not accept Jesus’ message, I am not always able to respond to the invitation to be loved in that way. But Jesus also implies here that he is not capable of protecting all of the people in the way he wishes. He is sorrowful that they will have to face pain, grief, fear, separation, as all of us do.
In today’s reading from Philipians, St. Paul tells Jesus’ followers to focus on what is coming after this life. I’ve always had trouble with this idea of focusing on the afterlife—first of all, I’m not sure what I believe about the afterlife exactly, but more importantly, I think focusing on what comes next can be dangerous, excusing people from doing the hard work of love, peace, and justice that the world so desperately needs. Jesus seems to be saying the same thing Paul says—that the people of Jerusalem will never be fully connected until they second coming. I am not a Biblical scholar, nor can I read the original Greek, but it seems to me that this could be a misreading of this text. Jesus says, after all, You will not see me again until YOU say, “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.” If we open our hearts and recognize Jesus’ message for what it is, we see Jesus. We are able to gather under the wings of the hen and feel Jesus’ love and act in response to that love.
The reading of Genesis calls us also to the idea of thinking beyond the present moment. Jesus tells Abraham everything that will happen. He will have many descendants. His people will get a great tract of land, then lose it and become slaves, then gain it again. He is telling a story that spans generations. I don’t know how I feel about God literally knowing what will happen in the future, but I do like the idea of being able to see the long view. On that highway drive in northeastern Ohio, I sensed a connection I could not fully grasp. I sensed a love larger than the love I had for sister, mother, and aunt, for people I knew well. I touched the past, present, and future all at once. God’s love is like that. We may not know what will happen in the way Abraham did. We may not be actively turning away from Jesus’ message in the way the people of Jerusalem did, may not want to silence him. But we are connected to all of the people mentioned in these passages, connected to the Jews who were enslaved and found their freedom, the people in Jerusalem who wanted Jesus dead, the people in the early church who were losing hope, who needed to be reminded by Paul that they believed in something larger than the present moment of their lives and that this “something larger” was what made their lives and work important.
Teach us, God, to find our way to the sacred, loving place beneath the wings of the hen who gathers her children to her. Teach us, God, to remember our connectedness to all those who came before and will come later, and to act out of that understanding of deep connection. Amen.
Philippians 3:17-4:1
Luke 13:31-35
I can remember very clearly my first spiritual experience. I don’t remember when it happened, but I was in a car, and my mother was driving. My sister was beside me, and one of my aunts, I can’t remember which one, was sitting beside my mother. It was an ordinary, gray Ohio day, probably in late fall or early spring, judging from the landscape as I remember it. We were on the highway, and I have no idea where we were going. I was staring out the window, half-listening to the adult talk in the front seat, when this feeling of longing and love came over me. I thought to myself, I don’t know any of the people in any of the houses we’re passing, but somehow, we’re all connected. Somehow I love them anyway.” It wasn’t exactly a peaceful feeling. I wanted to jump out of the car and put my arms around the entire city of Akron, state of Ohio, nation, world. I felt a sadness because I could not do this, but also a sense of deep wonder and belonging. I don’t know that I have ever felt quite this way again, though the feelings I have when I am truly present in any moment are similar.
When I read today’s gospel, I think that Jesus must have had the same feeling when he spoke these beautiful words. They’ve always been among my favorite in the new testament. Jesus was often pragmatic, full of one-liners and stories that focused on what people did and not on how they felt. But here, Jesus is poetic, his words beautiful and rich and sad. “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those who sent you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing! Look, your house is left to you desolate. I tell you, you will not see me again until you say, ‘Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.’”
I love the image of Jesus as the great hen, trying to coax her chicks to come under her wings. I want to be protected like that, loved that completely, but like the people of Jerusalem who could not accept Jesus’ message, I am not always able to respond to the invitation to be loved in that way. But Jesus also implies here that he is not capable of protecting all of the people in the way he wishes. He is sorrowful that they will have to face pain, grief, fear, separation, as all of us do.
In today’s reading from Philipians, St. Paul tells Jesus’ followers to focus on what is coming after this life. I’ve always had trouble with this idea of focusing on the afterlife—first of all, I’m not sure what I believe about the afterlife exactly, but more importantly, I think focusing on what comes next can be dangerous, excusing people from doing the hard work of love, peace, and justice that the world so desperately needs. Jesus seems to be saying the same thing Paul says—that the people of Jerusalem will never be fully connected until they second coming. I am not a Biblical scholar, nor can I read the original Greek, but it seems to me that this could be a misreading of this text. Jesus says, after all, You will not see me again until YOU say, “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.” If we open our hearts and recognize Jesus’ message for what it is, we see Jesus. We are able to gather under the wings of the hen and feel Jesus’ love and act in response to that love.
The reading of Genesis calls us also to the idea of thinking beyond the present moment. Jesus tells Abraham everything that will happen. He will have many descendants. His people will get a great tract of land, then lose it and become slaves, then gain it again. He is telling a story that spans generations. I don’t know how I feel about God literally knowing what will happen in the future, but I do like the idea of being able to see the long view. On that highway drive in northeastern Ohio, I sensed a connection I could not fully grasp. I sensed a love larger than the love I had for sister, mother, and aunt, for people I knew well. I touched the past, present, and future all at once. God’s love is like that. We may not know what will happen in the way Abraham did. We may not be actively turning away from Jesus’ message in the way the people of Jerusalem did, may not want to silence him. But we are connected to all of the people mentioned in these passages, connected to the Jews who were enslaved and found their freedom, the people in Jerusalem who wanted Jesus dead, the people in the early church who were losing hope, who needed to be reminded by Paul that they believed in something larger than the present moment of their lives and that this “something larger” was what made their lives and work important.
Teach us, God, to find our way to the sacred, loving place beneath the wings of the hen who gathers her children to her. Teach us, God, to remember our connectedness to all those who came before and will come later, and to act out of that understanding of deep connection. Amen.
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