Preached on Palm Sunday, March 28, 2010 at First Congreagational Church of Tallmadge, UCC.
Audio of the sermon is available here
Luke 19:28-48
Dedicated to the Confirmation I Class; and always to the glory of God.
As the crowds of pilgrims made their way to Jerusalem from every direction for the Passover festival, imagine the voices of the disciples rising above the noise, shouting and singing “blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” The gospel according to Luke recounts this day and tells us that they shouted for him these words of the psalms because of “all the deeds of power that they had seen.” Think of what they had seen in their time with Jesus. Here was a king they could get behind, one who was bringing about the kingdom of God, in which people received healing and mercy regardless of their wealth or purity or social status. Everyone was welcome by this king, and so they sang for him on the way to Jerusalem, and today we join in singing for him too. We also sing for the king who brings in God’s kingdom, who teaches that the grace of God meets us wherever we are and gives us new life. What a joyous day is this Palm Sunday! Who cares about the warning?
The warning is that we had better not get too carried away in our faith in Jesus, because it will cost too much. In fact, we had better just keep quiet about it all. The warning comes from some concerned Pharisees, who tell Jesus to make his disciples stop with the singing and shouting. Earlier in the gospel of Luke, when Jesus was up north in Galilee, some Pharisees had warned him there that the local Roman governor was looking to kill him. Now they are warning him again, because they know full well that you can’t ride into town with people singing “blessed is the king.” Jerusalem only recognizes the rule of Caesar, the Roman emperor, and his local stand-in Pontius Pilate. They’re in charge, and those who challenge them are not long for this world. Jesus himself had recently heard the reports of the men who had been killed by Pilate’s order in the Temple court. Pilate is a cruel and unjust ruler, but what can be done but to submit? It’s better to accept the way things are than to allow our faith to get us into trouble. “So, Jesus, if we could just get the disciples to stop.”
That warning has been repeated again and again to the followers of Christ. In the first centuries, people were warned not to admit being Christian during the Roman persecutions, because it might get you killed. You and I don’t have to worry about that anymore. In 16th century, people were warned not to own a Bible in translation, or worship in a Protestant community, because those might get you killed, and we don’t have to fear that either. In the middle of this last century, people were warned not to allow their faith to get them involved in demonstrations against the evils of segregation, because it only caused trouble and invited violence or prison. A group of white ministers asked Martin Luther King, Jr. to make them stop and be quiet, but he wrote them a letter from a Birmingham jail and told them why they could not be silent. We don’t have to worry about that danger either. But we might be warned in other ways not to go overboard with this whole business of following Christ. Some of those things he said, for instance, might really get in the way of life as we know it: his teachings about loving our enemies, and overcoming them with generosity, or turning the other cheek, carrying someone’s load the extra mile, being willing to drop our fishing nets, give away all that we have, pick up our cross, and follow him. These words are as clear as they are troubling. As someone once said, “it’s not the parts of the Bible I don’t understand that bother me. It’s the parts I do understand.” We had better stop our celebration before it costs us something we don’t want to give.
Which is what the Pharisees are recommending. But Jesus tells them that if the disciples were silent, the very stones would cry out. In other words, there is no chance of silence. The disciples might stop singing about a new king and a new kingdom, but what about those stones in the Temple court that are stained with blood? Will they keep silent about the need for the kingdom of God and the peace that it brings? And what about the stones of other cities, bearing witness to war and oppression, torture and apartheid? You can’t pretend that everything is all right in Jerusalem when the stones have blood on them. And that’s why Jesus has come, to proclaim a different kingdom in which the rich and the poor, the healthy and the sick alike are invited to share in the riches of God’s world, where curing the sick is more urgent than religious ceremony, and feeding the poor is more important than our own wants. He has come as a different kind of king, to confront all that is not right in the name of love. And it will cost him, and it will cost those who follow him, but you can’t sit by when the stones cry out. There are some things that cry out to us no matter how much we ignore them or try to silence them.
I wonder what cries we try to silence. Perhaps it is the photograph of a brother or a daughter that you’ve hidden in a drawer because you don’t want to repair a relationship broken by anger and hurt? And yet it cries out from the drawer. Is it that email from a friend asking for some money for an agency in Africa that’s helping people to become educated and support their villages – they just need a bit of your support, but you can’t deal with one more thing, and so you’ve let the message get buried in your inbox? And yet it cries out to you still. Is it the road you drive by, where someone you know is very ill, but you are nervous around hospitals and nursing homes, so you decide that a visit from you isn’t really very important? The road cries out each time you pass it.
We don’t have time, we can’t solve anything ourselves, we’re too small to make a difference. With those words, many religious people in Jerusalem had learned to live with the blood on the stones. It was just the way things were, and in time, they stopped noticing. They didn’t weep over their city the way that Jesus came and wept over it, lamenting that its people did not know the things that make for peace.
Sometimes it takes a new eyes to see what we have become used to. This is what happened to Kevin and Joan Salwen one day when their daughter upended everything that they had tried to do as parents. The Salwens were a successful, and they had been able to provide many good things for their two children: music lessons, baseball camps, and a big house in a nice neighborhood, with plenty of room for sleepovers and games in the yard. They knew that the house was a bit over the top, but they were able to use it for good causes, like fundraisers for Habitat for Humanity, and they’d even taken in a family from New Orleans for a couple months after the hurricane, so they kind of got used to living in their dream house and didn’t think much of it.
One day, while Kevin was driving his daughter home, they pulled up at one of those intersections where the traffic is always backed up, and there on the roadside was a man holding a sign that said “homeless. hungry. please help.” Then a brand new Mercedes pulled up beside them: black, convertible. Hannah looked at the car and looked at the man with the sign, and she said “if that man had a less nice car then that man could have something to eat.”
Now, these are important moments for a parent, and so Kevin said “well honey, if we had a less nice car then that man could have something to eat.” You really have to watch what you say to your kids, because this stuck with Hannah, and she talked about it that night at dinner, and then a few days later she brought it up again and said that she didn’t want to be a family that talked about things, she wanted to be a family who did things. So her mom decided to test her conviction, which was kind of like the warning of the Pharisees about not getting carried away. She asked Hannah “would you be willing to sell our house and buy a smaller one so that we could give half of the money to the poor.” Hannah said “yes. That is absolutely what we should do.” And that’s what they did. We should not underestimate the willingness of people to accept the cost of acting when they see that something is not right in the world. (The Salwen story is told by Kevin and Hannah in The Power of Half).
And we should not underestimate ourselves. We are invited to join the joyful procession of Palm Sunday, following Jesus Christ, even though we are fully aware that he will give his life at the end of this journey, and that following him will cost us something too. But what is the alternative? Even if the procession is silenced, still we will hear the stones cry out, still we will hear the voice from somewhere deep inside us that calls us to do our little part for the kingdom of God. There’s no chance of silence.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
Reflections on faith in the Oscar nominees
The Oscars will be presented this week, which is my annual excuse to use this space to comment on the intersection of movies and religion.
This year, Avatar is the big story, with its innovative effects and its box office records. I enjoyed Avatar, although I don’t think it deserves the best picture award. One aspect of the story that interests me is the issue of the human character’s incarnation as a Nav’i, the alien species who inhabit the distant moon. Our Christian story tells of the word of God becoming incarnate as a human out of God’s love for us. In Avatar, the protagonist becomes incarnate for rather mixed motives. At first, he means the Nav’i harm, but he is changed by his actual encounter with them, and he finally becomes instrumental in their survival. This is a complex incarnation, but it does show us the importance of actually experiencing life from the point of view of another person (or species).
I haven’t seen all the nominees, but my favorite is the Pixar animated movie Up. There is a magical quality to Mr. Fredricksen’s house flying away from the city, lifted into the air by hundreds of brightly colored balloons. It speaks to the complex emotional ties we all have to home, and to our things, especially when those things are attached to important memories and strong emotions. In this case, everything in the house is attached to his wife, who has recently died. In a metaphoric way, many of us move through life carrying our history with us.
One of the real joys of Up is the way in which Mr. Fredricksen is transformed by his engagement with the needs of the young boy Russell. He is reluctant to get involved at first. He is set in his ways. And yet, because he is stuck as the temporary caretaker of this young boy, he develops a fondness and love for him in the course of his unwanted obligation. His change speaks a truth about how we are often changed. Sometimes we have to do the compassionate thing before we have the feeling of compassion. Sometimes it is the fulfillment of our duty that leads us to a new way of feeling, thinking, and viewing the world. We act our way into a new way of thinking, rather than the other way around.
This year, Avatar is the big story, with its innovative effects and its box office records. I enjoyed Avatar, although I don’t think it deserves the best picture award. One aspect of the story that interests me is the issue of the human character’s incarnation as a Nav’i, the alien species who inhabit the distant moon. Our Christian story tells of the word of God becoming incarnate as a human out of God’s love for us. In Avatar, the protagonist becomes incarnate for rather mixed motives. At first, he means the Nav’i harm, but he is changed by his actual encounter with them, and he finally becomes instrumental in their survival. This is a complex incarnation, but it does show us the importance of actually experiencing life from the point of view of another person (or species).
I haven’t seen all the nominees, but my favorite is the Pixar animated movie Up. There is a magical quality to Mr. Fredricksen’s house flying away from the city, lifted into the air by hundreds of brightly colored balloons. It speaks to the complex emotional ties we all have to home, and to our things, especially when those things are attached to important memories and strong emotions. In this case, everything in the house is attached to his wife, who has recently died. In a metaphoric way, many of us move through life carrying our history with us.
One of the real joys of Up is the way in which Mr. Fredricksen is transformed by his engagement with the needs of the young boy Russell. He is reluctant to get involved at first. He is set in his ways. And yet, because he is stuck as the temporary caretaker of this young boy, he develops a fondness and love for him in the course of his unwanted obligation. His change speaks a truth about how we are often changed. Sometimes we have to do the compassionate thing before we have the feeling of compassion. Sometimes it is the fulfillment of our duty that leads us to a new way of feeling, thinking, and viewing the world. We act our way into a new way of thinking, rather than the other way around.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Sermon Audio
In a bold new experiment, audio files of our sermons at First Congregational Church of Tallmadge, UCC, are available on the website, at least for now. You can listen or download an mp3 file right here.
Since I'm also still posting the text of the sermons, I should explain that the text is more or less what I had prepared to preach, and the audio is the record of what I actually preached.
Since I'm also still posting the text of the sermons, I should explain that the text is more or less what I had prepared to preach, and the audio is the record of what I actually preached.
Sermon - The Fox and the Hen
Preached on February 28, 2010, the second Sunday in Lent, at First Congregational Church of Tallmadge, UCC
Luke 13:13-35
The fox and the hen are both fierce animals. The fox is fierce in its pursuit of power and gain, and the mother hen is fierce in her love and protection of her children. But when the fox meets the hen, it’s not much of a contest, is it? We all know that the hen isn’t getting out of there alive. You and I know it. Those concerned Pharisees knew it, when they warned Jesus that he had better knock off his ministry and get out of town or Herod would kill him. Even Jesus knew it. He knew that even when he left town and went to Jerusalem, they would kill him there anyway. In a struggle that positions the strength of violence against the strength of love, the fox against the mother hen, we know the outcome. It’s just common sense. It’s the conventional wisdom, the kind of thing that everyone knows. And when Jesus died, that conventional wisdom looked really good for about two days. And then came Easter, when God overturned our conventional thinking about where true power lies. The Episcopal priest Barbara Brown Taylor put it this way: It was the “cosmic battle of all time, in which the power of tooth and fang was put up against the power of a mother's love for her chicks. And God bet the farm on the hen” (“Chickens and Foxes” in Bread of Angels).
Let’s back up a bit to that warning about Herod. ‘You better get out of Galilee, Jesus. Herod killed John the Baptist, and it looks like you’re next.’ That’s when Jesus called Herod a fox. In the past century, and especially in recent decades, we have rediscovered a lot about the history of first century Israel that helps us to understand what’s happening in the gospels. Herod was not the ruler of Galilee by popular vote or the anointing of a prophet. He had been appointed ruler by the Roman emperor, because Israel was one of the eastern most holdings in the empire. And maybe you remember how Roman emperors ruled from history class, or from Shakespeare, perhaps. These guys plotted and killed to be emperor, and that kind of power struggle went all the way down the chain of command. Herod’s father, Herod the Great, had killed people in his own family who were threats to his power. He ruled at the time when Jesus was born, and he was the one who killed all the infants in Bethlehem because the wise men told him about a newborn king of the Jews, which was another obvious threat. Thirty years later, his son Herod rules Galilee in the north, and Rome has installed Pontius Pilate in the south over Jerusalem. They’re both foxes, and Jesus knows he’s in for it in either place.
To get an idea of the power of the Roman empire, the best example would be the colonial powers of places like England, Spain, France, and Belgium. Those were distant rulers with superior military might who expanded their wealth on the backs Africans, and the natives of the Americas, and the Africans who were brought to the Americas. That’s what the Roman empire was like, and places like Nazareth, and Capernaum, and all those little towns where Jesus went to teach and to heal, were bled dry by tributes paid to Rome. That’s why tax collectors are always the sinners in the world of the gospels. They weren’t collecting taxes for the welfare of Israel; they were extorting money for the emperor. And the priests of Israel, who should have demanded justice and spoken for their people, were put out of business. The High Priest at the temple in Jerusalem was supposed to be a lifelong position, but Herod and Pilate went through dozens of priests. If they didn’t tow the line, they were fired.
It is into this history that Jesus comes, proclaiming the kingdom of God here among us, instead of the kingdom of Rome. Jesus feeds the hungry, heals the sick, and proclaims forgiveness from God, which were all things that a good ruler and a good high priest should have been doing. His very ministry was a confrontation with those foxes, and that’s why they wanted to kill him.
Did you know that people used to call the Roman Emperor the prince of peace, the son of God, and even Lord? Those were all names for Caesar. So when those names turn up in the early church and in the writings of the New Testament, it means that they are choosing the power of a mother hen over the power of the fox.
Now, here’s the amazing thing about this confrontation between the fox and the mother hen. From the mother hen’s point of view, even the foxes are misguided chicks who need to be swept up in the love and grace of God. Jesus laments over Jerusalem, sheds tears over the very city that will betray him. That is the depth of a mother’s love. Even when the soldiers carry out orders to crucify him, he forgives them, saying that they don’t know what they’re doing. Even when it seems the darkest, even when he doubts in the garden of Gethsemane, he trusts that the power of the mother hen’s love is stronger than the power of the fox.
We were reminded of this by Martin Luther King, Jr., who always taught that the violence of discrimination could not be overcome by violence, but only by love. And they stood firm, even when it looked like is wasn’t working, when they were met with dogs and firehoses, beatings and arrests, even murders. They saw the struggle through the eyes of Easter, and trusted that power of love would overcome. We were reminded of this again when South Africa finally threw off the burden of apartheid without violence and without retribution for the criminal acts of the people who had enforced apartheid for so many years. And we were reminded by the Amish community in Pennsylvania, after a man murdered their children in a schoolhouse and took his own life, when they chose to see him not as a predator, but as a misguided chick who needed the shelter of God. They attended his funeral, and cared for his family, even as they mourned the death of their own children.
It often seems that this is a world in which the fox succeeds, but only if you take the short view. God bet the farm on the hen. “O Jerusalem” Jesus cried, “how often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings.” He said it of Jerusalem, but he may as well have said it about any of our cities, yours and mine, or any place around the world. God’s love for you is as fierce and passionate as that of a mother for her children. God’s love for us shows us a different kind of power.
I need to tell you about Robi Damelin and Ali Abu Awwad. Robi is a Jewish woman who lives in Israel. Her son, David, was killed by a Palestinian sniper. Ali is a Palestinian Muslim who lives in the West Bank. One day, his brother Yousef was shot and killed by an Israeli soldier. Usually, these are the kinds of losses that increase each side’s anger and desire for vengeance. But Robi and Ali took a different path. They are a part of an organization that brings together Israelis and Palestinians to meet, often for the first time, someone on the other side of the conflict. They understand that they share the same pain. Ali, who is about the same age age as Robi’s son, now tries to care for her as a son in David’s place. Their message to us, and to the rest of the world, is to stop taking sides in the Israeli/Palestinian conflict. It will not end by one side winning and the other losing. It will only end when people look across the divide and see in the faces of stranger the faces of their own children, their own parents. (From an interview on the radio program Speaking of Faith, 2/18/2010 ).
When Jesus calls us to take up our own cross and follow him, he is asking us to follow his way, which is different from the way of the empire, the way of the fox. He asks us to take on the kind of love that a mother has for her children. There’s a wonderful example of this in the novel Plainsong, by Kent Haruf. Plainsong tells the story of a small town in rural Colorado and the lives of its people, including two brothers, who lived together as bachelors on their cattle farm. Never married and happy about it, they used their dining room table as a work station for tractor parts in need of repair. Then, one day, a thoughtful teacher at the town’s high school asks them to take in girl from the school who is pregnant and without a home or caring family. When they ask the teacher why she chose them, she says “I know it sounds crazy. I suppose it is crazy. But that girl needs somebody and I’m ready to take drastic measures. She needs a home for these months. And…you need somebody too.” “You’re going to die someday without ever having had enough trouble in your life. Not of the right kind, anyway. This is your chance” (Plainsong, page 109).
The right kind of trouble: that sounds about right. Jesus said to tell that fox that he was going to keep healing and teaching, because it was the right kind of trouble. Parents keep being there for their children because it’s the right kind of trouble. We keep showing up when someone is sick, we keep giving a little bit more when tragedy strikes, we keep volunteering to try something new for the sake of others because those are all the right kinds of trouble. Maybe it won’t make us more comfortable, maybe it will cost us something, but those are not the concerns of a mother hen. The fox and the hen meet all the time. And the hen always prevails.
Luke 13:13-35
The fox and the hen are both fierce animals. The fox is fierce in its pursuit of power and gain, and the mother hen is fierce in her love and protection of her children. But when the fox meets the hen, it’s not much of a contest, is it? We all know that the hen isn’t getting out of there alive. You and I know it. Those concerned Pharisees knew it, when they warned Jesus that he had better knock off his ministry and get out of town or Herod would kill him. Even Jesus knew it. He knew that even when he left town and went to Jerusalem, they would kill him there anyway. In a struggle that positions the strength of violence against the strength of love, the fox against the mother hen, we know the outcome. It’s just common sense. It’s the conventional wisdom, the kind of thing that everyone knows. And when Jesus died, that conventional wisdom looked really good for about two days. And then came Easter, when God overturned our conventional thinking about where true power lies. The Episcopal priest Barbara Brown Taylor put it this way: It was the “cosmic battle of all time, in which the power of tooth and fang was put up against the power of a mother's love for her chicks. And God bet the farm on the hen” (“Chickens and Foxes” in Bread of Angels).
Let’s back up a bit to that warning about Herod. ‘You better get out of Galilee, Jesus. Herod killed John the Baptist, and it looks like you’re next.’ That’s when Jesus called Herod a fox. In the past century, and especially in recent decades, we have rediscovered a lot about the history of first century Israel that helps us to understand what’s happening in the gospels. Herod was not the ruler of Galilee by popular vote or the anointing of a prophet. He had been appointed ruler by the Roman emperor, because Israel was one of the eastern most holdings in the empire. And maybe you remember how Roman emperors ruled from history class, or from Shakespeare, perhaps. These guys plotted and killed to be emperor, and that kind of power struggle went all the way down the chain of command. Herod’s father, Herod the Great, had killed people in his own family who were threats to his power. He ruled at the time when Jesus was born, and he was the one who killed all the infants in Bethlehem because the wise men told him about a newborn king of the Jews, which was another obvious threat. Thirty years later, his son Herod rules Galilee in the north, and Rome has installed Pontius Pilate in the south over Jerusalem. They’re both foxes, and Jesus knows he’s in for it in either place.
To get an idea of the power of the Roman empire, the best example would be the colonial powers of places like England, Spain, France, and Belgium. Those were distant rulers with superior military might who expanded their wealth on the backs Africans, and the natives of the Americas, and the Africans who were brought to the Americas. That’s what the Roman empire was like, and places like Nazareth, and Capernaum, and all those little towns where Jesus went to teach and to heal, were bled dry by tributes paid to Rome. That’s why tax collectors are always the sinners in the world of the gospels. They weren’t collecting taxes for the welfare of Israel; they were extorting money for the emperor. And the priests of Israel, who should have demanded justice and spoken for their people, were put out of business. The High Priest at the temple in Jerusalem was supposed to be a lifelong position, but Herod and Pilate went through dozens of priests. If they didn’t tow the line, they were fired.
It is into this history that Jesus comes, proclaiming the kingdom of God here among us, instead of the kingdom of Rome. Jesus feeds the hungry, heals the sick, and proclaims forgiveness from God, which were all things that a good ruler and a good high priest should have been doing. His very ministry was a confrontation with those foxes, and that’s why they wanted to kill him.
Did you know that people used to call the Roman Emperor the prince of peace, the son of God, and even Lord? Those were all names for Caesar. So when those names turn up in the early church and in the writings of the New Testament, it means that they are choosing the power of a mother hen over the power of the fox.
Now, here’s the amazing thing about this confrontation between the fox and the mother hen. From the mother hen’s point of view, even the foxes are misguided chicks who need to be swept up in the love and grace of God. Jesus laments over Jerusalem, sheds tears over the very city that will betray him. That is the depth of a mother’s love. Even when the soldiers carry out orders to crucify him, he forgives them, saying that they don’t know what they’re doing. Even when it seems the darkest, even when he doubts in the garden of Gethsemane, he trusts that the power of the mother hen’s love is stronger than the power of the fox.
We were reminded of this by Martin Luther King, Jr., who always taught that the violence of discrimination could not be overcome by violence, but only by love. And they stood firm, even when it looked like is wasn’t working, when they were met with dogs and firehoses, beatings and arrests, even murders. They saw the struggle through the eyes of Easter, and trusted that power of love would overcome. We were reminded of this again when South Africa finally threw off the burden of apartheid without violence and without retribution for the criminal acts of the people who had enforced apartheid for so many years. And we were reminded by the Amish community in Pennsylvania, after a man murdered their children in a schoolhouse and took his own life, when they chose to see him not as a predator, but as a misguided chick who needed the shelter of God. They attended his funeral, and cared for his family, even as they mourned the death of their own children.
It often seems that this is a world in which the fox succeeds, but only if you take the short view. God bet the farm on the hen. “O Jerusalem” Jesus cried, “how often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings.” He said it of Jerusalem, but he may as well have said it about any of our cities, yours and mine, or any place around the world. God’s love for you is as fierce and passionate as that of a mother for her children. God’s love for us shows us a different kind of power.
I need to tell you about Robi Damelin and Ali Abu Awwad. Robi is a Jewish woman who lives in Israel. Her son, David, was killed by a Palestinian sniper. Ali is a Palestinian Muslim who lives in the West Bank. One day, his brother Yousef was shot and killed by an Israeli soldier. Usually, these are the kinds of losses that increase each side’s anger and desire for vengeance. But Robi and Ali took a different path. They are a part of an organization that brings together Israelis and Palestinians to meet, often for the first time, someone on the other side of the conflict. They understand that they share the same pain. Ali, who is about the same age age as Robi’s son, now tries to care for her as a son in David’s place. Their message to us, and to the rest of the world, is to stop taking sides in the Israeli/Palestinian conflict. It will not end by one side winning and the other losing. It will only end when people look across the divide and see in the faces of stranger the faces of their own children, their own parents. (From an interview on the radio program Speaking of Faith, 2/18/2010 ).
When Jesus calls us to take up our own cross and follow him, he is asking us to follow his way, which is different from the way of the empire, the way of the fox. He asks us to take on the kind of love that a mother has for her children. There’s a wonderful example of this in the novel Plainsong, by Kent Haruf. Plainsong tells the story of a small town in rural Colorado and the lives of its people, including two brothers, who lived together as bachelors on their cattle farm. Never married and happy about it, they used their dining room table as a work station for tractor parts in need of repair. Then, one day, a thoughtful teacher at the town’s high school asks them to take in girl from the school who is pregnant and without a home or caring family. When they ask the teacher why she chose them, she says “I know it sounds crazy. I suppose it is crazy. But that girl needs somebody and I’m ready to take drastic measures. She needs a home for these months. And…you need somebody too.” “You’re going to die someday without ever having had enough trouble in your life. Not of the right kind, anyway. This is your chance” (Plainsong, page 109).
The right kind of trouble: that sounds about right. Jesus said to tell that fox that he was going to keep healing and teaching, because it was the right kind of trouble. Parents keep being there for their children because it’s the right kind of trouble. We keep showing up when someone is sick, we keep giving a little bit more when tragedy strikes, we keep volunteering to try something new for the sake of others because those are all the right kinds of trouble. Maybe it won’t make us more comfortable, maybe it will cost us something, but those are not the concerns of a mother hen. The fox and the hen meet all the time. And the hen always prevails.
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