Mar 07 2010
A Sermon in Yellow Down
Today, after church, we spent a healthy chunk of the Lord’s Day engaged in something that would definitely not have fallen under the Old Testament Sabbath rules: cleaning poop off of our week-old chicks. Newly-hatched birds, you see, often wind up with a problem called “pasting up.” This means, essentially, that their excrement clings to their rear end and eventually seals the exit off. Left alone, pasting up can lead to death and expose the vulnerable chick to all manner of mean-spirited teasing.
To remove the offending material, we pinch at the mass with a damp cloth, hoping to soften it sufficiently that it’ll fall off. Unfortunately, this process can often end by pulling the baby down out of the bird’s little rear, exposing it to all manner of mean-spirited teasing. This seems to be a no-win situation.
With this round of chickens, we had only a few significantly pasty butts. Several of them, however, were monstrous, as if the chicken were trying to grow a second head. We did our best to gently pull the offending mass off without dousing the shivering little critters in water. We failed. At present, we have four birds struggling to recover from the trauma we inflicted on them. They’re sequestered in a plastic basket to keep the others from trampling them. I’ve provided them with a bit of feed, but they’re showing no interest in eating. Periodically, I pick each one up and give it a drink of water. I’m hoping that time and a nearby heatlamp will allow these four to rejoin the flock.
As I watch these four kids, heads slouching and eyes half closed, I’m all too aware of my inability to sustain life. Yes, I can provide the heat, food, water, and protection that these chicks require to have a shot at recovery, but I cannot make the heart continue the beat, the lungs continue to respire, or the life force to stay within that little feathery form. I’m reminded of Hebrews 1:3Hebrews 1:3
English: World English Bible - WEB
3 and the knowledge that Christ sustains all things with his powerful word. Part of me would like to believe that I’ve brought these birds into the world, that I’m responsible for their growth, their productivity, the eggs they’ll eventually lay, and so forth. I’d like to believe that, but then I recognize my own inadequacy, my own dependence.
In their Wilderness experience, the people of Israel learned time and again not to rely on their own capabilities but to trust in God. They couldn’t swim the Red Sea or fight Pharaoh’s army, but they could rely on God’s protection. They couldn’t feed themselves in the desert, but they could eat God’s manna, even receiving a double portion on the sixth day of the week. They couldn’t fight in their own power to take the land of promise, but they could (and eventually did) go into the land in the power of God to sweep across the land like a tidal wave.
What does all of this mean? Does it mean that I should go turn off the brooder lamps for my chickens? I don’t think so. Does it mean I should leave the chicks to their own devices when the perils of pasting up start to mount? Definitely not. I think it just means that I need to recognize that, despite my own hard work caring for my flock, the true miracles–the miracles of white meat, brown eggs, and little yellow chicks–will be worked by God.
I’ll let my Sabbath-breaking guilt go now. After all, pasting up is probably the poultry version of your ox falling into a ditch. But I won’t let this message go today.
If you’ve read my previous postings over the past few weeks, you’ll know that I’ve been pretty well consumed with the arguments within Hillaire Belloc’s The Servile State. The thumbnail version of this book goes something like this: capitalism being naturally unstable, it will tend to transform into a system where the non-owners are legally required to work for the owners, while the owners are obligated to provide for the well being of the non-owners.