Chickens in the Kingdom of God

By Kathy Luder

“Chickens don’t just die,” Grandpa said. He was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee. “When you cut off their heads, their bodies shake.”

I was staying with Grandma and Grandpa for the weekend. The night before, they’d served rabbit for dinner. I tried to be polite, but I couldn’t eat it. Grandma was in the garden. Grandpa and I were alone at breakfast. He continued, “Uncle Jack and I kicked the chicken, back and forth, like a soccer ball, while it spasmed in the dirt. We were laughing at it.” He looked up, his eyes misty. “That’s when Dad showed up. He wasn’t amused.” He was staring out the window, but his eyes were unfocused.

“Because you were wasting food?” I asked. That was Grandma’s complaint against me the night before.

“I suppose that was part of it,” he said. “But the bigger part was that we were disrespectful.”

“Of chickens?” I asked.

“Yeah, of chickens. I never knew Dad was such an ecologist,” he said with a grunt. “Pesticides and insecticides were just coming in, and he loved them. He never wept or seemed in the least bit bothered by slaughtering animals. He was gruff with us when we fussed.”

He paused. He looked into his cup and said quietly, “I think that’s why Jack and I were acting like we did. We hated slaughtering. It was messy, and it was sad. We even felt bad for the mean chickens. But we wanted to be tough, like Dad.”

“And that was disrespectful?” I said, incredulous. “You were killing the chickens anyway! Its body was spasming, but it was already dead. You weren’t hurting it.”

“No, we weren’t hurting it,” he said. “We knew enough not to do that. Dad said we were making light of the sacrifice, that the chicken was giving its life for ours, and that it came from God. We were disrespectful of the gift.”

Grandpa looked me in the eye and said, “We got a terrible spanking that day. But he never spanked us without an explanation. He never did it in anger. He did it because there was a price to be paid, and he wanted to seal the lesson on our bodies. Boy, was that a whipping,” he said, laughing.

“You’re not mad?” I asked.

“No, I’m not mad. I’m proud of that. It worked. I learned my lesson,” he said, now sounding mad. His voice then softened as he wiped his eyes, “Anyway, your great-grandfather was an armchair theologian, like you. He read the Bible and a book of Luther’s sermons in German every day. He liked to preach to us. Mama called him ‘Preacher’ as a joke. It was sometimes tiresome.” He sighed and said, “Now, I wish I could remember more of what he said. But for all I’ve forgotten, I remember that sermon.”

“What was it?” I asked, scooting forward on the chair.

“It was that idea of the chicken making a sacrifice. The day after the incident, Jack and I were pretty sheepish, ashamed. After breakfast, Dad usually went right back into the fields. But that day, he sat with us, like I am sitting here now, and talked about how God provides for us in this fallen creation.”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding.

“Remember what happened after the Fall? The Lord provided skins to cover Adam and Eve,“ he said, raising his eyebrows.

“Right,” I said, wishing he’d get to the point.

“That was the first sacrifice. Those innocent animals died in Adam’s place. They provided an immediate service. They gave their skins for clothing. Adam would have never needed clothing if he hadn’t sinned. His sin made their death necessary. But they also showed the kind of ransom that the Lord would provide to forgive Adam’s sins. In order for Adam to be spared, someone had to die. And it couldn’t be Eve or anyone infected with sin, because that person could only die for his own sins. It had to be someone innocent.”

I said, “It was Jesus.”

“Right. It was Jesus,” Grandpa said.“God became a man in order that He might die. Because He was innocent, His death was a worthy payment for Adam’s sins.”

I finished it for him and said, “Because He was also true God, His death was also a worthy payment for Eve’s sins and everyone’s, for the whole world’s.”

“Right,” he said, pausing. “But I hadn’t realized how the animals played into that. They died because of our sins also. But unlike the Lord, they didn’t want to.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “All animals are scared of humans. That’s because they are the sacrifices. Even though we caused it, and they suffer for it, mankind still has dominion over creation. But now we can’t be trusted. We aren’t good shepherds.We’re the masters of chickens, but we’re not like the Lord. We don’t lay down our lives for them. They lay down their lives for us, and by it, we live. We eat their flesh and have strength to carry on,” he said.

“But when Jesus laid down His life,” I responded, “He did so willingly so that even though we caused that, He isn’t scared of us or angry. He loves us.”

“Ever the theologian,” he said with a big smile. “You’re right. The animals don’t love us. But they do love God. Even if it is grudgingly, they lay down their lives for us.”

“So we should respect them, treat them with dignity, honor the gift, receive it with thanksgiving,” I said, seeing where this was going.

“Exactly,” he replied. “And if we were without sympathy, if we took their sacrifice lightly, then we would also take the sacrifice of our Lord lightly.”

I interrupted, “Because they’re both our fault, and they both give us life.”

“Right,” he said, sitting back.

I let it hang there for a minute. Then I said, “There is one other thing.”

“What?” he asked, surprised.

“We will be reconciled to animals in heaven,” I said.

He scrunched his eyebrows. “We are already reconciled to God.”

“Yeah, but I never thought of this before. Great-Grandpa’s sermon made me think of it,“ I said, excited.

“I don’t get it,” he said. I went on, “The ceremonial sacrifices of the Old Testament have been fulfilled in Christ. But we still eat meat, and animals still eat each other. But in heaven, it will be like Eden. ‘The wolf and the lamb shall feed together and the lion shall eat straw.’ We will be at peace with the animals again.”

“I guess you’re right,” he said. “I wonder if Dad realized that.”

“Even though they are not commanded in the Law, their deaths are still ceremonial,” I said.

Grandpa grinned.“Well, you are a theologian! Of course they are. And thanks to Dad and to you, I don’t think I’ll ever say grace before supper in quite the same way again.”

Kathy Luder strives to be the best poultry shepherd she can be. It's gone well, except for that one dream where the chickens got their revenge. Now that was creepy.