O Jesus, Brooding Hen,
I long for the naiveté of a chick
who sees the nest as its whole world and
the hen’s wing as a sure defense against the fox.
But I have imagined the threatening fox
into mythical proportions that even
a nervy hen cannot restrain.

How I have limited you, O Loving Christ, in power & mystery!

O Jesus, you would
nurture my roots and strengthen me
to bear fruit to your glory, but I cannot stand
the smell of Manure so I satisfy myself with stunted growth.
I have limited and rejected you, I confess.

You invite me
to dip my toes into ocean foam
and to allow the undertow’s rhythm to reorient
my perspective, but I much prefer dry land to the vast Ocean.
I have turned away from you, I know.

You encourage
saying, “This way,” and delight my soul
with possibilities, but I see that the Door is narrow
and have I told you how good the food is around here?
I have preferred extra pounds to svelte faith.

Ah Brooding Hen, Sweet Manure!
O Vast Ocean, Narrow Door!
Expand my sense of you.
Deepen the mystery
of my faith.
Amen.

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