A tale about a Chicken

Dear friends, 

About two months ago, our family was gifted two precious little chicks by one of the wonderful ladies in our fellowship. Although we had some initial trepidation about receiving a gift that could neither feed itself nor clean up after itself (since we already have three of those living with us), the chicks soon crept into our hearts. Of course, we gave them solid biblical names: Hazalelponi and Oholibama (yes, they are in the Bible—look it up). Our children, Rebekah and Noah, quickly chose a chicken each, and from day one the chicks were nearly loved to death—quite literally. Those poor creatures had no idea what a hug was! Rebekah would pick up her chicken and carry her all over the garden, singing worship songs while pointing out all the plants. I’m not sure the chicken loved it, but I know Rebekah did.

Last week, the story took a tragic turn when a grey mongoose snatched the head right off Rebekah’s Hazalelponi. Thankfully, I was the one who stumbled upon the remains first and could break the news to her gently. What followed was one of the greatest mercies I have ever experienced: being able to have the conversation about death only because a chicken had died. What struck me most were the questions Rebekah asked before bed that night. With tears in her eyes, she asked:

• “Why my chicken, and not Noah’s?”
• “Where is Hazalelponi now?”
• “Will I see her again?”
• “Why didn’t Jesus protect Hazalelponi from the mongoose?”

Two weeks earlier, I had been sitting in the living room of a neighbour whose daughter had just been raped in East London. He was asking the exact same questions.

I think many of us have asked these “whys.” I think many of us are asking them. And I think many of us will ask them again.

There is a wonderful yet frustrating tension in the Gospel: the Kingdom of Heaven is both “now” and “not yet.” I am so comforted by the fact that in Psalm 23 the Lord does not promise that there will be no valley of the shadow of death. Instead, He promises to be with us in it. He doesn’t say, “Even though I face the valley of the shadow of death, I will not pass through it.” Rather, He says He will walk with us there. The God of the universe—Almighty God, Jesus Himself—promises to be right there. During His time on earth, Jesus often referred to the Spirit as the parakletos, a Greek word meaning “one called alongside”—there. Hebrews takes it a step further:

“For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathise with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin.” (Hebrews 4:15)

He sees us and walks with us, knowing exactly what it is like.

This would have been a good end to the story—except it wasn’t. Two days after Hazalelponi’s death, I went to throw our garbage at the landfill. The Lord has given us a heart for His people there, so we always share the Gospel and bread with our brothers. After eating his piece of bread, one man started sorting through our rubbish. He pulled out a blue plastic bag and discovered Hazalelponi’s carcass. His face lit up as he began plucking the feathers.

“NO!” I shouted, telling him the chicken had been dead for two days without refrigeration. He only laughed and said, “The skin is still yellow—it is good for eating.”

I was deeply struck by this. In Afrikaans, we say, die een se dood is die ander se brood (“one’s death is another’s bread”). I was seeing that proverb come to life before my eyes. It was humbling to witness what is normal reality for many in our beautiful country: joy in discovering what I considered trash. It was incredible to see Hazalelponi’s journey end in such an unexpected way. And it was incredible to be sharing the Gospel while a man was de-feathering my daughter’s chicken.

Friends, Jesus knows us. He knows what we are walking through. And in the same way, I want to say: there is treasure in the seemingly trashy circumstances this world throws at us—if only we are receptive to see it.

In the words of John the Baptist: “Behold the Lamb of God!”

God bless you.