little red hens by jonny
	Last fall I was sitting in the grass with my baby boy Huck, enjoying just about everything, when two of my least favorite people spotted me. Since these little guys are under the age of 12, I gave myself a good talking to and put on a friendly smile as I motioned them over. They’re brothers who go to my church and have been slowly driving me crazy for years now as I’ve attempted to teach them Bible lessons. They remind me of cranky 50 year old men trapped in the bodies of ten year olds, complaining about everything and always worried. Whenever I’m with them I secretly pray that someone or something will call me away. Like a fire or tornado. I’m really not a very good Sunday school teacher. A while back I was walking my dog through this very park, again enjoying just about everything, when I stumbled upon these brothers yelling terrible things to some other boys across the way. When they saw their Sunday school teacher they began defending themselves, insisting that the other kids started it and had said much worse things to them. I encouraged my young pupils not to go down to that level, to rise above it and be the better … I think that’s all I got out before they rolled their eyes and ran off. I sighed and continued my walk, only this time my shoulders were slumped. That might be when I officially quit liking them. So there I was again, in my favorite spot wishing these boys were somewhere else, when the older one asked me very seriously, “Do you think life is like a game of chess?” I sighed, “How so?” He explained that his father had warned them that life was exactly like chess. One wrong move and it’s all over. “Like if a man kills another man he goes to prison and his life is over,” he explained. I began looking around, hoping that someone needed me elsewhere. Wishing my baby would begin crying or a loud ambulance would come whizzing by and distract us. But there was no siren, no crying, no tornados in sight. The anxious brothers stared at me with large, tired eyes, waiting for my answer. I told them I didn’t agree with their father. The older one raised his eyebrows. His little brother began studying the grass very closely while Huck began eating it and giggling. I told them I thought life was full of chances and that one wrong move didn’t have to ruin everything. It could mess things up, but it didn’t have to end the game. Checkmate wasn’t inevitable. I stopped there since I don’t really know anything about chess and my analogy was beginning to confuse me. Over the years I’ve heard this boy quote his dad a lot, and every single time I get a shiver down my back. I remember the time they got a brand new puppy and had to get rid of it a few days later because it wasn’t potty trained. “Our dad said he was a bad dog,” they told me. One wrong move and that puppy was out. No wonder the two of them always have a stressed out look on their faces, as if they’re coming off an all night shift and haven’t slept in a few days. These boys and I live in New York City, and our Washington Heights church is on a very busy urban corner where Starbucks drinkers and homeless people pass each other all day long. Having been raised in a small town in the middle of America with no Starbucks or homeless people, I’m witnessing a whole different kind of childhood here. There seem to be some survival skills taught to these kids that I never learned. Some Sunday mornings are spent just trying to convince them not to kill each other, and when I talk to them about Jesus I sometimes get skeptical looks and sassy hands on the hips. One third grade Sunday school class taught me the radical and even offensive nature of Jesus’ words about loving and forgiving your enemy. I was politely sharing this good news when several of the boys got really mad. One of them shouted, “Are you telling me that if someone kills my mother I’m supposed to love them? I’m supposed to forgive them?” I wasn’t expecting this outburst and was surprised when the whole room erupted into angry outcries of the ridiculousness of such a command. An idea that I’ve always thought was pretty understandable was nearly causing a riot. Suddenly I pictured someone hurting or even killing one of my loved ones and the message took on a whole new meaning. Loving and forgiving my enemies is nearly impossible and certainly not something I practice very often. All of a sudden I wasn’t sure why I thought I was qualified to be teaching this crazy stuff. Do you know the story of “The Little Red Hen?” I think it may be partially to blame for why Jesus sometimes seems out of touch with reality. It’s a children’s story about a hard working chicken who asks her neighborhood animal friends if they want to help her make some bread. Each animal tells her, “Not I!” when asked to help, so that eventually she gives them what they deserve by refusing to let them eat the delicious loaf of bread she made all by herself. My son has been given three copies of this book. He’s not even one yet and already they’re trying to turn him into a self righteous chicken. To avoid this life lesson, I always improvise my own ending when reading the book. In my best cheerful hen voice I say something like, “Well, that’s okay! Even though you weren’t able to help, you can still have some bread! Sit down! Let’s eat!” And then the dog feels guilty and sweetly offers to do the dishes. The goose and the cat grab dish towels and start drying while The Little Red Hen smiles at her friends and prepares dessert. That’s the kind of Red Hen I want to be, but just like the whole loving-and-forgiving-my- enemies thing, it doesn’t come very naturally. Look at my attitude towards these boys. I’m pretty sure I would love them more if they laughed at my jokes, quit rolling their eyes at me and were less grumpy. Most of the time I’m like the dog, goose and cat, happy to live my comfortable life without the burden of others, lounging on the sofa and shouting, “Not I!” to nearly everyone. God puts up with my complacency every time, welcoming me to his table, sharing his bread with me, hoping I’ll invite some people along. Rather than giving us what we deserve, Jesus says he longs to gather his children together as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings. I have rules for who gets my love and undivided attention, so it’s hard to understand this never ending grace that’s promised to us and expected of us. It’s an absurd idea that no human could have invented. Here’s what we come up with: You get what you deserve. You have to work for your rewards. Giving mercy to people is being too easy on them. Forgiving someone over and over again is foolish. Puppies who pee on the rug are bad and get sent to the pound. Life is like a game of chess. And we’re all a bunch of Little Red Hens eating our bread alone. But on that day in the park I was not alone. I wanted to be, but instead I was sitting there in the grass playing the wise old woman to three innocent boys waiting for answers. The brothers looked bored and cynical. Really, I don’t know why they keep bothering with me. Huck was drooling and hung on my every word, hoping for a kiss. The older boy interrupted the silence to ask, “Do you need a babysitter? Because our mom babysits.” He pointed to her, sitting over on a bench with a couple of strollers parked nearby. We waved to each other, and I realized for the first time that they have a mother who loves them. The brothers saw some friends with a ball, muttered a quick goodbye and ran off, finally leaving me alone with my boy. I felt the emptiness that comes from an unfinished conversation as I scooped him up and gave him that kiss. I thought about how my Heavenly Mother sees my furrowed brow and tension headaches and grudges and complaints and still loves me even more than I love my child. The two of us watched the kids play and it felt like we were being watched, too. As if Jesus was somewhere very close clucking like a hen with her wings wide open.