Isaiah 25:1-9

On this mountain the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples
   a feast of rich food, a feast of well-matured wines,
   of rich food filled with marrow, of well-matured wines strained clear.
And he will destroy on this mountain
   the shroud that is cast over all peoples,
   the sheet that is spread over all nations;
he will swallow up death for ever.
Then the Lord God will wipe away the tears from all faces,
   and the disgrace of his people he will take away from all the earth,
   for the Lord has spoken.
It will be said on that day,
   Lo, this is our God; we have waited for him, so that he might save us.
   This is the Lord for whom we have waited;
   let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation.

O Lord, you are my God;
   I will exalt you, I will praise your name;
for you have done wonderful things,
   plans formed of old, faithful and sure.
For you have made the city a heap,
   the fortified city a ruin;
the palace of aliens is a city no more,
   it will never be rebuilt.
Therefore strong peoples will glorify you;
   cities of ruthless nations will fear you.
For you have been a refuge to the poor,
   a refuge to the needy in their distress,
   a shelter from the rainstorm and a shade from the heat.
When the blast of the ruthless was like a winter rainstorm,
   the noise of aliens like heat in a dry place,
you subdued the heat with the shade of clouds;
   the song of the ruthless was stilled.

It was Friday, July 17, 2015. I was in Chicago, Little Village if you know the neighborhoods. Every Friday I went to the Marie Joseph’s house of hospitality and spent time with the men who lived there. All of them were immigrants awaiting court dates and paperwork, waiting for the right kind of visa or documentation. Some had lived in the house for a couple years, waiting; others just a few weeks.

When I walked into the house on that Friday, my mouth watered at the smells coming from the kitchen. This was a regular occurrence; Food was always being made and shared. I followed the delicious scent of spices and smoke coming from the kitchen that filled the house. Habbi, who is from Rwanda, was standing over a hot stove. I asked how I could help and the only thing he wanted me to do was test the food, which was fine by me. I started to realize, though, the vast amount of food Habbi was preparing; pounds of chicken, a giant pot of beef in a thick stew, multiple pots of rice, salad with vegetables from the garden out back. Habbi was a big man, but there was no way that was all for him!

So I asked him, “Habbi, what’s all this for?” With sweat gleaming from his brow he told me that today was the beginning of Eid, the celebration that occurs at the end of Ramadan, a month of fasting and prayer for Muslims. He continued, “many in the house went downtown to pray and they will be hungry when they return.” The food was almost complete when the men who were Muslim in the house came back, drenched in sweat, and in obvious need of water and food. To their surprise, Habbi, a Christian from Rwanda, had prepared a feast big enough for the whole house to join.

I sat at the table with 12 or so men from at least 10 countries: Every shade of brown; Christian, Muslim, Buddahist, and nothing. All sitting around the table, enjoying a feast I won’t forget.

Nothing provides comfort or gives us hope, even, like a feast. They help us celebrate major holidays, weddings, funerals and everything in between. What was the last feast you had? What was served? Who was there? What was the celebration? Yet there doesn’t feel like too much to celebrate these days. If you haven’t seen the images and heard the reports about what’s happening between Israel and Hamas, it’s harrowing.

The brutality is unforeseen in the region. Hamas using hostages of all ages as shields and bargaining chips, the indiscriminate killing, the lack of concern for civilian life is nothing short of evil. The blockade on water/electricity/food is inhumane. Israel will continue to be relentless in their response, as a ground invasion is prepped at the Gazan border. The pictures I can’t get out of my head are of parents, tears streaming down their faces, wondering where their children are and if their alive.

And because of this, all week I’ve struggled with the violence that abounds in this text. Isaiah praises God for laying waste to a city, destroying it till it’s a heap, never to be rebuilt. Undoubtedly many have tried or will try to make a connection between this text and the strife in the Holy Land. Some even will say this is good news.

Yet, context is always helpful. This passage is often called an apocalyptic text, meaning it deals with the end of time, because it doesn’t refer to a specific event or moment in time. And while there is no explicit reference to what city is laid ruined, the text is clear; it was one that was ruthless against those who were weak, poor, and vulnerable. That’s why God stepped in, to shelter those who needed refuge.

However, what follows the destruction is the vision of hope and promise of peace our weary world needs now more than ever. After God brings low and humbles the ruthless and proud; God also raises them up to the mountain top, where God has prepared a feast. “On this mountain” Isaiah says, “The Lord will make for all peoples a feast” full of the best food and drink imaginable.

But if it's a feast, what's the celebration? It’s that War, violence and death are no more! The veil of mourning that weighs down all people and nations, God has finally removed. And while guests open wide their mouths to eat the finest of food, God does the same, swallowing up death forever. And those same people with tears streaming down their face because they don’t know if their child, spouse, or loved one is dead or alive, God sits beside them at the table, wiping the tears until they fall no more.

It is this promised feast that gives us hope in such times of unthinkable violence. You might say “that sounds too good to be true! It’ll never happen.” And in our lifetime it may not.

But I know for certain that hospitality and fellowship between radically different people is possible; Habbi’s feast showed me that. We all know that true acts of love and forgiveness are possible through Jesus Christ; we’ve seen and experienced them firsthand. So I have to believe that somehow, the grace and love of God, made known to us in Jesus Christ, will one day bring together Israelis and Palestinians, Russians and Ukrainians, people of all nations at a feast where food and fellowship abound and tears and death are no more. It seems too good to be true, but it’s that how the grace and love of God work?

So until that day, what can we do over here, in the safety and privilege that we have. I can think of three things:

First, as Paul suggests, in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God: requesting an end to the violence, liberation for those held in bondage, and justice for all. In the words of Rabbi Sharon Brous, we must “dare to hold the humanity, the heartache, and the need for security of the Jewish people while also holding the humanity, the dignity, and the need for justice of the Palestinian pe

ople. For too long, these two have been set up as incompatible, but this is a false binary. The only liberation will be a shared liberation. The only justice is a justice for all.” So for all of that, we pray.

Secondly, give to Lutheran World Relief or Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Services. Aid is needed and the need will grow. People will flee from both Palestine and Israel and need a place to go. These organizations help in both those areas.

And lastly, protest all of this violence and war with a feast! Practice what it will be like at that great banquet on the mountain. Invite and sit with people who are different from you. Make lavish meals full of good food as signs of hospitality and abundance. Come to this feast that Christ has prepared for you in which we experience the fullness of his grace and receive a foretaste of the feast to come.

There are too few feasts and far too many wars. And had it not been for that feast in Chicago on a hot Friday afternoon, I would say the promised feast in Isaiah is too good to be true.

But there I experienced a portion of what it might be like when God makes that feast for all people and we sit together in peace with tears wiped away saying, “this is the Lord for whom we have waited; let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation.”

Amen.

Luke 13:31-35

At that very hour some Pharisees came and said to him, “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, yet 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.’ ”

This notion of God – in Jesus – as a mother hen who gathers her brood under her wings doesn’t get as much play as the other images we have of Jesus from Scripture. The Good Shepherd, The Bread of Life, The Light of the World, The Lamb of God…all of these are more common, more popular, it seems to me – more appealing, perhaps – than the idea that Jesus is like a chicken. Not a dove – white, clean, and pure like the Holy Spirit. Not a pretty red cardinal or the first robin of spring, either. But a chicken. Poultry. But a chicken, at least, who cares for her brood like a loving, protective, faithful mother does.

For some reason, this is not a text I’ve preached on very often – or at least not in the last nine years, from what I could tell – so I’ve never taken advantage of the opportunity to show off my pictures of the hens and chicks I’ve taken in Haiti, which make me think about this text every time I see them. Because I’ve seen them do their mother-hen-protecting-her-brood-under-her-wings-thing on more than one occasion when I’m there. So I was glad to go on a wild goose chase through my pictures to find what I could. Unfortunately, this is all I could come up with:

You can’t tell much, thanks to my bad timing, thanks to the quick-footed baby chicks, and thanks to that mother hen who does just what Jesus describes – which is kind of the point of my pictures. You can’t tell much because the mother hen is doing her job. So, you’ll just have to believe me - there is a flock of baby chickens under there. Something like this:

Gathered together. Well-protected. Safe and sound from the American human with his camera, safe from the dogs that are never too far away on the hillsides of Haiti, and safe from whatever or whoever else might be waiting to do them harm or turn them into breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

And it’s no mistake that Jesus compares himself to a mother hen so soon after he calls King Herod a fox. Jesus has been making his way around Galilee doing his thing – casting out demons and curing the sick as he says. So when the Pharisees tell him he needs to am-scray, because Herod is out to kill him, Jesus isn’t surprised; he isn’t scared; and he’s not deterred, either.

“Tell that fox that I have things to do,” he says. “I have demons to drive out. I have sicknesses to cure. I have people to love.” And not only that, Jesus lets whoever is listening know that he knows what’s to come for him. He’s been making his way to Jerusalem for some time now, it seems, and he’s not running from Herod – that fox who’s out to get him. Jesus is running toward his demise in the city … toward his crucifixion … which he knows can and will only take place in Jerusalem, if what the scriptures say is true.

“I must be on my way,” he says, “because it’s impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem.” In other words, “I’ll get there …” “I’m on my way …” “I am, in fact, the prophet to be killed.” “Don’t you worry about it, and don’t tell me what to do or when…” “I have work to do first, but I’m headed to Jerusalem so that, when the time comes – on the third day, as a matter of fact – my work will be accomplished.”

In other words, Jesus is the mother hen headed into the fox hole, toward the fox’s den, ready to take one for the team. And all of it points to the lengths God, in Jesus Christ, goes to for the sake of God’s chickens … I mean for the sake of God’s children.

Speaking of heading to the city, staying in the city, and taking one for the team, Ukraine’s President Zelensky isn’t Jesus, but he has headed toward and stayed in the city of Kyev and dared “that fox,” Vladimir Putin, to come for him while he tends to and protects his people. When given the chance to escape, Zelensky stayed because he had work to do, too.

And the Russian people, the ones protesting the war in Russia, aren’t Jesus, either, but they are risking their freedom and maybe their lives, allowing “that fox,” Vladimir Putin, to arrest and imprison and punish them in who-knows-how-many-ways, for who-knows-how-long, as they stand up for their neighbors, their family, and their friends in Ukraine.

And those moms in Poland aren’t Jesus, but the ones who left their strollers, lined up at the train station for Ukrainian refugees to find when they arrive after whatever hell they’ve endured to escape their homeland, are like so many mother hens themselves: opening their arms, spreading their wings, welcoming into their fold, the most needy and desperate and vulnerable in their time of great need.

So, I wonder if God isn’t calling us to be more like hens and chickens this morning and in these sad, scary days when the proverbial “fox” of war and death and empire and sin threaten so many of God’s chickens … I mean so many of God’s children, in this world.

In a world, still convinced that “power” looks like might in the form of tanks and rockets and weapons of mass destruction – Jesus reminds us that God’s kind of power comes in the form of a mother hen’s feathered wings that don’t stand a chance, really, against the teeth and claws of the fox.

In a world where “strength” looks like aggression and force and violence and bloodshed – Jesus reminds us that sacrificial love is stronger than all of that and that our God is one who sheds blood, too.

In a world – and in this war – where winning might be determined by who can count the most dead bodies, in the end – Jesus reminds us that one dead body matters most, because it will be raised again on the third day – as hope for all the others – when God’s work of resurrection is finished.

Like so many mother hens – as the body of Christ in the world – we are called to the same kind of power in weakness, the same kind of sacrificial love, and the same kind of humble service. And we’re called to the same kind of new life we will find – on this side of heaven – when we lay down our lives however we’re able, for the sake of the world where we live.

Jesus, like a mother hen, is vulnerable, so that we can be too. Jesus, like a mother hen, gives up his life, so that we might sacrifice something of ourselves, just the same. Jesus gives love and forgiveness and grace and new life, so that we will offer the promise of those blessings to others, too. He calls us “beloved” and gathers us together so that we’ll go out – as people of the Church – sharing grace and gathering others to know the new life that belongs to us because we belong him, to this one who comes – for the sake of the whole world – in the name of the Lord.

Amen

A Feast for a Weary World

Jesus, the Mother Hen