Most of you may not know that I was raised on a farm in Central Illinois. We had about 200 acres of land that we farmed, but in fact the major commodity that we produced on this farm was eggs. It was a poultry farm, and when in full operation there were 25,000 chickens (more or less) that needed daily care and tending. And let me tell you, back in the 1950’s and 60’s, before automation, that was a lot of eggs to gather…not to mention a lot of stuff to shovel that came out of the same end of the chicken as did the eggs!
But those adult chickens all came to us at the start of their lives as baby chicks. Now as most of you probably know, baby chicks are among the cutest of God’s creatures. Have you ever tried to tell one fluffy, yellow baby chick from another? Newly hatched, these little balls of down are intentionally designed to be as alike as possible. Their identical sizes, uniform pigmentation, round shape; and quickly imprinted behaviors make a joke of the notion of “cloning” – because what would be the point?
Every now and again, however, some baby chick has the misfortune to “stand out” in some way. Perhaps it has a distinct dark or light spot in its feathers. Perhaps it is smaller than the rest. Perhaps a run-in with a sharp stick or a bit of fencing gives it a red scratch or a slight limp. Whatever the distinguishing mark may be, it is almost certainly a mark of death.
The other chicks, despite their adorable, cuddly appearance, are programmed pitilessly to peck and persecute any chick in their midst who appears to be somehow different. A tiny scratch will become a beacon attracting the savage pecks of all the others in the flock. The off-colored feathers will be plucked out, and then the bald spot itself attacked. The small will be shoved, beaten back, and driven away at every opportunity. The flock mentality of these “birdbrains” declares that anyone different must be driven out or destroyed.
Although we tend to romanticize the notion and time of childhood into an age of innocence, it would probably take each one of us about 10 seconds to recall a time when we felt like one of those blighted, berated baby chicks. Children can be magnificently cruel and vicious to anyone in their midst or their “flock” who is different.
Which one were you? The “fat” kid, the “slow” kid, the “dumb” kid, the “gimp” kid, the “poor” kid, the “ugly” kid, the “short” kid, the “smelly” kid the “brace-face” kid, the “overdeveloped” kid, or the “bad” kid? Whatever the weakest, most indefensible spot in your spirit, there was always at least one strutting chick that could find it and start up the pecking by all the others. Today, we call this bullying.
As Christians in America, perhaps we find it doubly hard to hear a shocking, scandalous message that is slowly reaching out to the church. We pride ourselves on a purposeful heritage of religious freedom and toleration. We feel secure in the knowledge that much of our nation’s history was predominantly written by Christian men and women whose personal faith directly influenced our national character.
But we need to remember that we declare that our salvation is found in the utter rejection, the malicious torture, the gruesome crucifixion and the agonizing death of the one who was the “Anointed One,” the Messiah, the “Son,” the “Beloved.” Our identity comes from the one who suffered persecution to the point of death, despite the fact that he enjoyed the fullest measure of God’s pleasure.
If death on the cross was the experience of God’s Son with whom God was “well pleased,” it seems reasonable to expect that both persecution and pain might be a part of our Christian experience as well. To experience “God’s pleasure” doesn’t mean one will experience a life that is all pleasure.
As Jesus discovered throughout his life, being participants in “God’s pleasure” doesn’t guarantee any of us safe passage, unscathed passports and unscarred portals through this life. What we are guaranteed, however, is God’s unswerving love, steadfast faithfulness and poured-out presence throughout all of our days.
We are ultimately destined for the safe haven of the granary. But the fires that consume the chaff may scorch us along the way.
Robert Hensley
St. John’s Episcopal Church
The opinions expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views or opinions of The Kewanee Voice.
