May 21, 2006
Text: Romans
12:3-8
Playing Every Base
The Gospel as Opposed to The Little Red Hen
Christian
formation – that slow and careful bending of the human will and way – its mind
and spirit – around the form of Christ. It
doesn’t happen in an instant, somewhere deep in the baptismal waters. Indeed, we might say it takes more than a
lifetime. But little by little, with
intentionality and attention, the shape of our lives takes on new form.
Over
the next few weeks, I plan to examine some of the turns in that formational
work, using some familiar stories as jigs for our bending. Along with biblical counterpoints, we’ll
review three stories from our childhood – on Pentecost Sunday we’ll look again
at the tale of Chicken Little who was
absolutely, confidently but incorrectly convinced that the sky was falling;
next week we will hear afresh the story of Rapunsel,
that damsel in distress locked in a castle tower; and today, the story of The Little Red Hen – all examples of how
not to live the Christian life. And so…
Once upon a time, the Little Red Hen
was scratching in a field, and she found a grain of wheat.
"This wheat should be planted," she said. "Who will plant
this grain of wheat?"
"Not I," said the Duck.
"Not I," said the Cat.
"Not I," said the Dog.
"Then I will," said the
Little Red Hen. And she did.
Soon the wheat grew to be tall and
yellow.
"The wheat is ripe," said the Little Red Hen. "Who will
cut the wheat?"
"Not I," said the Duck.
"Not I," said the Cat.
"Not I," said the Dog.
"Then I will," said the
Little Red Hen. And she did.
When the wheat was cut, the Little
Red Hen said, "Who will thresh the wheat?"
"Not I," said the Duck.
"Not I," said the Cat.
"Not I," said the Dog.
"Then I will," said the
Little Red Hen. And she did.
When the wheat was threshed, the
Little Red Hen said, "Who will take this wheat to the mill?"
"Not I," said the Duck.
"Not I," said the Cat.
"Not I," said the Dog.
"Then I will," said the
Little Red Hen. And she did.
She took the wheat to the mill and had
it ground into flour. Then she said, "Who will make this flour into
bread?"
"Not I," said the Duck.
"Not I," said the Cat.
"Not I," said the Dog.
"Then I will," said the
Little Red Hen. And she did.
She made and baked the bread. Then
she said, "Who will eat this bread?"
"Oh! I will," said the Duck.
"And I will," said the Cat.
"And I will," said the Dog.
"No, No!" said the Little
Red Hen. "I will do that." And she did.
That is one busy Hen! She does it all. She sweeps, she mows, she shops, she mops,
she cooks, she does the laundry, she washes the dishes and dries them, too; she
sews, she hoes, she reaps, and she grinds, she bakes and finally, at long, long
last, she eats. No doubt she also repairs
her own car, invests her own retirement funds, does her own taxes, and owns her
own business. She is the quintessential
whiz hen. I picture a baseball team,
with only one player who is first, second and third baseman, catcher, pitcher,
short-stop, outfielder and bat boy, all-in-one.
It
isn’t an uncommon affliction. Last
weekend, Lori and I attended a retreat connected with Parker Palmer’s “Courage
to Lead” program. In one of my small
groups, an elementary school teacher spoke with some frustration about the
guilt she feels taking time away for herself.
In addition to her work and responsibilities at the school, she has a
husband and kids who “depend on me,” she said.
“I know even Jesus took time away by himself to pray and be renewed, but
I just feel so guilty putting anything down.”
It
is the exact same frustration author Sue Monk Kidd voices about the Little Red
Hen operational in her own life: “The
martyr structure in my life was most evident in my role as the dutiful wife,
sacrificing mother, and ambitious career woman.
In years past I had resisted the need to get away for a couple of days
to replenish myself and listen to the unique music deep in my soul. I said such things as, ‘Go off on a retreat
alone? But who would care for my
family? Who would cook for them? They would surely starve. And what about the project I’m working
on? I can’t leave it now!’ In other words, ‘I’ll do it myself.’” [1]
And
it doesn’t only happen to teachers, writers and farm fowl. One day Moses, in the midst of the Wilderness
Wanderings of the Exodus, hit a wall.
People came to him morning to night to settle their arguments, and learn
the ways of God. His father-in-law told
him, “You can’t keep this up. You are
spread too thin. You can’t do it
all. Appoint elders who will share the
burden of leadership with you. You can
do your part, and they can do the rest.” [2]
One of my pastoral heroes
is Eugene Peterson, author of the recent biblical translation, The Message, but also 20 or so books
about Christian living. In one of a
series of books he wrote for ministers and their vocation, he speaks
confessionally about functioning as a Little Red Hen in his congregation. In fact, after his four-year-old daughter at
the time announced to him that he had been away from home attending church
meetings for 38 nights in a row, he realized his life had gotten out of
whack. Frustrated and desperate, he went
to his church Board and resigned. Bewildered,
they asked, “What do you want to do?” Peterson
answered, “I want to study God’s word long and carefully so that when I stand
before you and preach and teach I will be accurate. I want to pray slowly and lovingly, so that
my relation with God will be inward and honest.
And I want to be with you, often and leisurely, so that we can recognize
each other as close companions on the way of the cross and be available for
counsel and encouragement to each other.’
One
elder said, with some astonishment, ‘If that is what you want to do, why don’t
you do it? Nobody told you you couldn’t,
did they?’ And I, with a touch of anger,
said, ‘Because I have to run this church.
Do you realize that running this church is a full-time job? There is simply no time to be a pastor.’
Another
elder said, ‘Why don’t you let us run the church?’ I said, ‘You don’t know how.’ He said, ‘It sounds to me like you don’t know
how to be a pastor either. How about you
let us learn how to run the church and we let you learn how to be a pastor?’
It
was,” recalls Peterson, “one of those wonderful moments in the life of the
church when the heavens open and the dove descends.”
But
even then it wasn’t all that easy. A
couple of weeks later, Peterson dropped in on a finance committee meeting,
“just to lend his moral support,” the elder in charge interrupted the
proceedings and asked, ‘Pastor, what are you doing here? What’s the
matter? Don’t you trust us?’”
Peterson
felt the sting of the truth, realizing – perhaps for the first time – that deep
down, he didn’t. But he would
learn. He left the meeting and never
interrupted another committee meeting again. [3]
I’m
still learning that lesson – that the church doesn’t depend upon me to stay
hinged together and running. Or any
single one of us, for that matter. It
takes all of us, doing our part. Which
is, at least in part, the point Paul was trying to make to the Romans in the
passage we read earlier: one body, many members, different functions
and gifts. The Little Red Hen’s problem was not lamenting that as a finger,
she wasn’t as good as the foot. She
tried to get by as if none of the other parts were necessary, seeing, hearing,
blowing and talking, reaching and grabbing and walking all by herself.
But
part of the Christian life, it seems to me, is learning how to be the best
finger or tooth or toe that I can be, and being it with enthusiastic glee, allowing
the eyes and ears and elbows and nose to be what they can be, honoring the
organic whole of God’s intention. To do
what is yours to do – with integrity, faithfulness, passion, and grateful joy –
is enough. You don’t have to play every
base with the Little Red Hen. It is
enough to be the best you that you
can be – an integral part of the whole body of Christ that relies on the many
gifts of the many to finally be complete.
What
a relief!