The Crowing of a Rooster
Sermon
SOUNDS OF THE PASSION
A SERMON Series FOR LENT
I sat with a farm family a few weeks ago for the noonday meal. The scene outside the kitchen window was typical of rural eastern North Carolina. There were open fields where this particular farmer grew corn. Leftover husks lay where he had broken the land for spring planting.
While we were eating, one family member called our attention to a flock of birds that had landed in the field out back. We all turned to look, and the area was covered with blackbirds. "I'll bet there are five thousand birds out there," the farmer remarked, and then he added, "They could strip a crop of corn in three minutes flat."
His wife confessed her fear of birds, which led some other members of the family to confess their fear, not of the birds, but of what could happen when a flock invades a field. That brief conversation gave me the freedom to confess my fear, not only of birds, but of chickens as well.
"Me, too!" the wife replied. "I'm glad to know somebody else feels that way about chickens. My mother and I used to water and feed the chickens on my father's farm. Every time we went out to gather eggs those dumb things would go into orbit, cackling all over the place. They should have been used to us, for we fed them every day. But no! They have no brains at all!"
I knew exactly how she felt. When I was twelve, I spent a summer on a chicken farm and never got used to the beasts. They pecked at me, not only as I gathered their eggs, but even when I took food to them.
Most of us live in an urban society. Perhaps not many of us have heard a bunch of hens cackling in a barnyard or a chicken house. Probably even fewer of us have heard a rooster crowing, but we do know that hens cackle and roosters crow. During kindergarten days, I remember a song we sang about a rooster.
I love my little rooster, my rooster loves me.
I love my little rooster by the cottonwood tree.
My little rooster goes cock-a-doodle-do,
Dee-doodle, dee-doodle, dee-doodle-dee-do.
Have you ever thought of the sound of a rooster crowing as one of those unique, yet ordinary, sounds associated with the passion of Christ? Have you ever thought that something so commonplace as the crowing of a rooster might have significance for us? The importance of this sound originated on Thursday evening of Holy Week, just as Jesus and his disciples left the upper room where they had had supper together.
As they entered the city park called Gethsemane, Jesus told the disciples that they would lose their faith in him, desert him. Peter resented that statement and challenged Jesus. "These others may run, but not I!" he declared. "They may be a bunch of cowards, but you can count on me to stick with you to the bitter end." That's when Jesus told Peter to listen carefully the next morning, "for when you hear the rooster crowing, you will realize that you have denied even
knowing me."
I'm not sure Peter remembered the next morning what Jesus had said earlier. We all have a tendency to deny anything that makes us face ourselves. We also have a knack for verbalizing or affirming what we know is basically good and right. If, however, the suggestion is made that we are not living up to our proclamations, we either push it to the back of our minds or begin to rationalize.
Peter had declared his loyalty. He had affirmed his willingness to die, if necessary. He had made a commitment and he swore that he would live up to it. His appearance the next morning in the yard outside the court of the high priest was evidence that he meant what he said. All the other disciples, except John, had disappeared after Jesus was arrested. They were fearful for their lives, knowing that if they were identified as his followers, they would have to answer some uncomfortable questions. Peter might be ready to put a noose around his neck, but they weren't! They scattered all over the city, hiding in the homes of friends. Only Simon Peter and perhaps one other, as John's Gospel suggests, followed Jesus to court.
Peter stood outside, waiting to hear the verdict. The night air was cool so he sat down around a fire with some folks he didn't know. We can imagine that there was little conversation as they all waited to see what the religious court decided.
Peter's troubles began when one of the servant girls, looking at his face in the light of the fire, said, "I recognize you. You were with Jesus. I saw you a number of times with him." "I don't know what you are talking about," replied Peter. His denial accepted, he slowly drifted out of the light of the campfire, away from the quizzical glances of the bystanders. It looked darker by the main entrance, so he ambled over that way. Before he got there, however, some other
servant girl, pointing her finger at him, declared, "She's right! He was with the Nazarene." This time Peter thought an oath would assure those within earshot that the silly girls were mistaken. "I swear I don't know the man!" he blurted out. I am sure that by the time he made this second denial, his voice had gotten a little louder, so that most of the people in the courtyard overheard him.
The men began to mutter among themselves, wondering why the stranger was so insistent. "He does have an accent," they must have said among themselves. "He sounds like a northerner, like he came from the area around the Sea of Galilee. And isn't that where most of the Nazarene's followers came from?" They went over to Peter. "Those girls are right," they confronted him, "for we can tell by the way you speak." Again Peter resorted to an oath and added a vow. "God in heaven knows that I am not acquainted with the man! May he strike me dead if I am not telling the truth!"
Using the name of God in a vow always assured any Jew that his word was considered good. The courtyard gang was finally convinced that the stranger was telling the truth. He didn't know Jesus.
"I've convinced them," Peter must have thought to himself. "Now they'll leave me alone and I can wait for the verdict without being threatened with guilt by association."
Just as Peter settled comfortably, secure in his lies, the sound of a rooster crowing broke the stillness before dawn. Certainly this was an ordinary sound to those in the courtyard who could tell by the eastern sky that morning was about to come. A rooster crowing was a normal morning sound, something they heard every day, but for Simon Peter it was an awful reminder. Grief-stricken and appalled, he ran out of the courtyard and wept bitterly in repentance. We
know, from reading the Book of Acts, that he experienced forgiveness and was changed and never came close to denying Jesus again.
The sound of a rooster crowing can mean for any of us repentance and change and a new beginning. Repentance. When was the last time any of us heard the word "repentance"?
"Repent! Repent! Repent, you sinners, and be saved!" That's the kind of admonition we expect to hear from an Elmer Gantry, or in an old-timey tent meeting, or from some Sunday morning radio evangelist. The word "repentance" may bring to mind images of hellfire and brimstone and the end of time.
There seems to be a stigma attached to the idea of repenting. We may even avoid using the word because it makes us feel like "bad" people. Our experience with it may be entirely negative. I think we need to clear away any negative feelings. Perhaps this sound of a rooster crowing may help us do so.
Erich Segal's novel, Love Story, was popular reading some years ago and was made into a movie which became a box office hit. There is one scene in which the two main characters, Oliver and Jenny, recently married, have an argument. Jenny rushes out of the apartment. After a while, Oliver goes out looking for her and finds her on the front steps of a classroom building. In a very moving and touching way, Oliver apologizes to Jenny. She responds, "Love means never having to say 'I'm sorry!' "
That is a nice-sounding ideal. I'd like to believe it, but I don't. The human personality makes recognizing and acknowledging our hurtful behavior important, even necessary. Saying, "I'm sorry," is a beginning.
There is a little island in the Mediterranean Sea located to the south of France and west of Italy. The only thing I recall from my school days about the Island of Corsica is that Napoleon was born there. I've since learned that it has been shifted back and forth between France and Italy and is now under French rule. Every year on Good Friday in the Corsican village of Sartene, the drama of Christ carrying his cross is reenacted. This reenactment, I understand, has been going on since the Middle Ages and always draws a big crowd of islanders and tourists.
Three years ago, Newsweek Magazine carried a feature story on this dramatization, calling it "one of the world's most brutally powerful Easter week processions." The report gave a very graphic description of what happened.
"A man, barefooted, with a hood over his head, staggered under the weight of a massive oak cross. He dragged a thirty-one pound chain that was attached to his right ankle. He grunted and puffed as he bore the cross along a mile and a half route. As he stumbled along dirt paths and cobbled streets, his feet began to bleed. Three times he fell under the burden. Each time, the man playing the part of Simon of Cyrene whispered: 'Get up! You asked for this!' "
The man who portrayed Christ that year was a conscience-stricken Frenchman. He was hooded, unknown to anyone except the local Roman Catholic priest. Whoever he was, wherever he was from, the man was there voluntarily to atone for his sins, to say "I'm sorry." He felt he could do so by reenacting the role of Christ making his way to Golgotha. So popular is the part that it is booked solid for the next forty years, with applicants from all over the world.
That is a very dramatic and unusual event, but it serves as an indication of our spiritual and psychological need to say "I'm sorry." We need the opportunity to face our shortcomings, our sins, our failures, and our prejudices. When the Scripture says that Peter remembered and wept, it is telling us that Peter said, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Jesus, that I denied you."
The word repentance means to be regretful, to be sorry for one's behavior. The act of repentance goes further. It means that we make a genuine effort to change. This is painful. It is even more painful than saying, "I'm sorry." It involves having to face up to our relationship with God and our relationship with others and do something about those relationships.
The story is told of two brothers convicted of stealing sheep. The brutal punishment of that day required that the letters "ST" be branded on their foreheads so they would be known forevermore as sheep thieves. One of the brothers, unable to stand the stigma, tried to lose himself in a foreign land. Whenever he was asked about the letters on his forehead, his only answer was to leave the area immediately. Thus he wandered for the rest of his life from one country to another. He died full of bitterness and hatred and resentment.
The other brother repented of his thievery. He said to himself, "I cannot run away from the fact that I stole sheep. I will stay here and try to make amends for what I have done. I will stay and win back the respect of my neighbors and my own self-respect." As the years passed he did establish a reputation for respectability and integrity. One day a stranger in the town saw the old man with the letters "ST" branded on his forehead. He asked someone what the letters signified, and why they were branded on the man's face. After thinking for a little while, the citizen responded: "That happened so long ago that I have forgotten the particulars. But I think the letters are an abbreviation of SAINT." The one who was a saint in the eyes and minds of his fellow citizens accepted the invitation to repent, to change his direction.
To repent means to say "I'm sorry," and to change, to walk into the beginning of a new day. When Peter heard the rooster crowing, he remembered. He changed. He began a new day.
Listen to this passion sound - the crowing of a rooster. Let it do for you what it did for Simon Peter!
While we were eating, one family member called our attention to a flock of birds that had landed in the field out back. We all turned to look, and the area was covered with blackbirds. "I'll bet there are five thousand birds out there," the farmer remarked, and then he added, "They could strip a crop of corn in three minutes flat."
His wife confessed her fear of birds, which led some other members of the family to confess their fear, not of the birds, but of what could happen when a flock invades a field. That brief conversation gave me the freedom to confess my fear, not only of birds, but of chickens as well.
"Me, too!" the wife replied. "I'm glad to know somebody else feels that way about chickens. My mother and I used to water and feed the chickens on my father's farm. Every time we went out to gather eggs those dumb things would go into orbit, cackling all over the place. They should have been used to us, for we fed them every day. But no! They have no brains at all!"
I knew exactly how she felt. When I was twelve, I spent a summer on a chicken farm and never got used to the beasts. They pecked at me, not only as I gathered their eggs, but even when I took food to them.
Most of us live in an urban society. Perhaps not many of us have heard a bunch of hens cackling in a barnyard or a chicken house. Probably even fewer of us have heard a rooster crowing, but we do know that hens cackle and roosters crow. During kindergarten days, I remember a song we sang about a rooster.
I love my little rooster, my rooster loves me.
I love my little rooster by the cottonwood tree.
My little rooster goes cock-a-doodle-do,
Dee-doodle, dee-doodle, dee-doodle-dee-do.
Have you ever thought of the sound of a rooster crowing as one of those unique, yet ordinary, sounds associated with the passion of Christ? Have you ever thought that something so commonplace as the crowing of a rooster might have significance for us? The importance of this sound originated on Thursday evening of Holy Week, just as Jesus and his disciples left the upper room where they had had supper together.
As they entered the city park called Gethsemane, Jesus told the disciples that they would lose their faith in him, desert him. Peter resented that statement and challenged Jesus. "These others may run, but not I!" he declared. "They may be a bunch of cowards, but you can count on me to stick with you to the bitter end." That's when Jesus told Peter to listen carefully the next morning, "for when you hear the rooster crowing, you will realize that you have denied even
knowing me."
I'm not sure Peter remembered the next morning what Jesus had said earlier. We all have a tendency to deny anything that makes us face ourselves. We also have a knack for verbalizing or affirming what we know is basically good and right. If, however, the suggestion is made that we are not living up to our proclamations, we either push it to the back of our minds or begin to rationalize.
Peter had declared his loyalty. He had affirmed his willingness to die, if necessary. He had made a commitment and he swore that he would live up to it. His appearance the next morning in the yard outside the court of the high priest was evidence that he meant what he said. All the other disciples, except John, had disappeared after Jesus was arrested. They were fearful for their lives, knowing that if they were identified as his followers, they would have to answer some uncomfortable questions. Peter might be ready to put a noose around his neck, but they weren't! They scattered all over the city, hiding in the homes of friends. Only Simon Peter and perhaps one other, as John's Gospel suggests, followed Jesus to court.
Peter stood outside, waiting to hear the verdict. The night air was cool so he sat down around a fire with some folks he didn't know. We can imagine that there was little conversation as they all waited to see what the religious court decided.
Peter's troubles began when one of the servant girls, looking at his face in the light of the fire, said, "I recognize you. You were with Jesus. I saw you a number of times with him." "I don't know what you are talking about," replied Peter. His denial accepted, he slowly drifted out of the light of the campfire, away from the quizzical glances of the bystanders. It looked darker by the main entrance, so he ambled over that way. Before he got there, however, some other
servant girl, pointing her finger at him, declared, "She's right! He was with the Nazarene." This time Peter thought an oath would assure those within earshot that the silly girls were mistaken. "I swear I don't know the man!" he blurted out. I am sure that by the time he made this second denial, his voice had gotten a little louder, so that most of the people in the courtyard overheard him.
The men began to mutter among themselves, wondering why the stranger was so insistent. "He does have an accent," they must have said among themselves. "He sounds like a northerner, like he came from the area around the Sea of Galilee. And isn't that where most of the Nazarene's followers came from?" They went over to Peter. "Those girls are right," they confronted him, "for we can tell by the way you speak." Again Peter resorted to an oath and added a vow. "God in heaven knows that I am not acquainted with the man! May he strike me dead if I am not telling the truth!"
Using the name of God in a vow always assured any Jew that his word was considered good. The courtyard gang was finally convinced that the stranger was telling the truth. He didn't know Jesus.
"I've convinced them," Peter must have thought to himself. "Now they'll leave me alone and I can wait for the verdict without being threatened with guilt by association."
Just as Peter settled comfortably, secure in his lies, the sound of a rooster crowing broke the stillness before dawn. Certainly this was an ordinary sound to those in the courtyard who could tell by the eastern sky that morning was about to come. A rooster crowing was a normal morning sound, something they heard every day, but for Simon Peter it was an awful reminder. Grief-stricken and appalled, he ran out of the courtyard and wept bitterly in repentance. We
know, from reading the Book of Acts, that he experienced forgiveness and was changed and never came close to denying Jesus again.
The sound of a rooster crowing can mean for any of us repentance and change and a new beginning. Repentance. When was the last time any of us heard the word "repentance"?
"Repent! Repent! Repent, you sinners, and be saved!" That's the kind of admonition we expect to hear from an Elmer Gantry, or in an old-timey tent meeting, or from some Sunday morning radio evangelist. The word "repentance" may bring to mind images of hellfire and brimstone and the end of time.
There seems to be a stigma attached to the idea of repenting. We may even avoid using the word because it makes us feel like "bad" people. Our experience with it may be entirely negative. I think we need to clear away any negative feelings. Perhaps this sound of a rooster crowing may help us do so.
Erich Segal's novel, Love Story, was popular reading some years ago and was made into a movie which became a box office hit. There is one scene in which the two main characters, Oliver and Jenny, recently married, have an argument. Jenny rushes out of the apartment. After a while, Oliver goes out looking for her and finds her on the front steps of a classroom building. In a very moving and touching way, Oliver apologizes to Jenny. She responds, "Love means never having to say 'I'm sorry!' "
That is a nice-sounding ideal. I'd like to believe it, but I don't. The human personality makes recognizing and acknowledging our hurtful behavior important, even necessary. Saying, "I'm sorry," is a beginning.
There is a little island in the Mediterranean Sea located to the south of France and west of Italy. The only thing I recall from my school days about the Island of Corsica is that Napoleon was born there. I've since learned that it has been shifted back and forth between France and Italy and is now under French rule. Every year on Good Friday in the Corsican village of Sartene, the drama of Christ carrying his cross is reenacted. This reenactment, I understand, has been going on since the Middle Ages and always draws a big crowd of islanders and tourists.
Three years ago, Newsweek Magazine carried a feature story on this dramatization, calling it "one of the world's most brutally powerful Easter week processions." The report gave a very graphic description of what happened.
"A man, barefooted, with a hood over his head, staggered under the weight of a massive oak cross. He dragged a thirty-one pound chain that was attached to his right ankle. He grunted and puffed as he bore the cross along a mile and a half route. As he stumbled along dirt paths and cobbled streets, his feet began to bleed. Three times he fell under the burden. Each time, the man playing the part of Simon of Cyrene whispered: 'Get up! You asked for this!' "
The man who portrayed Christ that year was a conscience-stricken Frenchman. He was hooded, unknown to anyone except the local Roman Catholic priest. Whoever he was, wherever he was from, the man was there voluntarily to atone for his sins, to say "I'm sorry." He felt he could do so by reenacting the role of Christ making his way to Golgotha. So popular is the part that it is booked solid for the next forty years, with applicants from all over the world.
That is a very dramatic and unusual event, but it serves as an indication of our spiritual and psychological need to say "I'm sorry." We need the opportunity to face our shortcomings, our sins, our failures, and our prejudices. When the Scripture says that Peter remembered and wept, it is telling us that Peter said, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Jesus, that I denied you."
The word repentance means to be regretful, to be sorry for one's behavior. The act of repentance goes further. It means that we make a genuine effort to change. This is painful. It is even more painful than saying, "I'm sorry." It involves having to face up to our relationship with God and our relationship with others and do something about those relationships.
The story is told of two brothers convicted of stealing sheep. The brutal punishment of that day required that the letters "ST" be branded on their foreheads so they would be known forevermore as sheep thieves. One of the brothers, unable to stand the stigma, tried to lose himself in a foreign land. Whenever he was asked about the letters on his forehead, his only answer was to leave the area immediately. Thus he wandered for the rest of his life from one country to another. He died full of bitterness and hatred and resentment.
The other brother repented of his thievery. He said to himself, "I cannot run away from the fact that I stole sheep. I will stay here and try to make amends for what I have done. I will stay and win back the respect of my neighbors and my own self-respect." As the years passed he did establish a reputation for respectability and integrity. One day a stranger in the town saw the old man with the letters "ST" branded on his forehead. He asked someone what the letters signified, and why they were branded on the man's face. After thinking for a little while, the citizen responded: "That happened so long ago that I have forgotten the particulars. But I think the letters are an abbreviation of SAINT." The one who was a saint in the eyes and minds of his fellow citizens accepted the invitation to repent, to change his direction.
To repent means to say "I'm sorry," and to change, to walk into the beginning of a new day. When Peter heard the rooster crowing, he remembered. He changed. He began a new day.
Listen to this passion sound - the crowing of a rooster. Let it do for you what it did for Simon Peter!
