As a Hen Gathers by Elanur Williams

In the early years of my childhood, my family lived for a short time on a poultry farm in Bandırma. Hens wandered freely, unconfined. The contours of that land have long since changed, replaced by refrigerated depots and industrial freezers that hum along the highways, the relentless march of capital. In the Gospels of Luke and Matthew, Jesus laments: “How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing.” These days, I find myself returning to the image of the mother hen—a figure who embodies a special wisdom that is seldom named, yet deeply and instinctively known.

Although I did not have a religious upbringing, I grew up embracing aspects of many faiths. My spiritual background is Alevi, and after inviting the Presbyterian faith into my life following my marriage, I find these layered identities influence each other in ways that are both intricate and transformative. In her sermon Who Is Jesus? Mother Hen, Reverend Agnes Norfleet lingers on the vulnerability of the mother hen metaphor, questioning what strength a hen can possibly offer in the face of the fox—Herod—and, more broadly, in the face of violence at large. Reverend Norfleet asks why Jesus does not invoke a more forceful or fiercer maternal figure—a lion, perhaps, or a bear? What does this choice imply for our activism and understandings of leadership? What unique wisdom does the mother hen offer?

I’m not a theologian or a biblical scholar—I am a mother and a teacher—and yet, the image of the mother hen provides me with a nuanced meditation on how attention, love, care, creativity, and vulnerability move and guide my life’s daily unfolding. It gestures toward a faith not of certainties, but of presence: a way of showing up, of bearing responsibility in these liminal, delicate, and precarious hours. Every day and during each long night, my experience as mother to an infant requires deep attentiveness and profound reserves of energy. At every moment, I must remain poised for interruption, my consciousness stretched across a multitude of simultaneous concerns. I’ve long chased abstract signposts—“healing,” “connection,” “authenticity,” and in being a parent, my spirit discovers its full expression and experiences the joyful humility of its mysterious unfolding.

Jenny Odell suggests that when we resist arcs of linearity and the “grand narrative” of success or outward achievement, we can make space for a vision of ourselves that regenerates, that is not dependent on a particular version of success. The value I place on relationships and interconnectivity is central to the meaning and wisdom I find in caring for a baby—and, by extension, in all forms of care work, whether it involves children, the sick, or the elderly. Yet even within systems of care, power dynamics persist, shaping who is recognized, who is heard, and whose labor is legitimized. This type of work—and the labor it entails—has historically been rendered invisible and undervalued within outward-facing capitalist systems that value competition, rugged individualism, the pursuit of status, productivity, profit, and quantifiable measures of success and achievement. I did not thrive in those spaces, and only later did it occur to me that my desire to hold on to my sensitivity was an act of resistance to a world in which disposability, hostility, violence, and carelessness run rampant.

In The Mother Artist, Catherine Ricketts explores the intersection between labor, motherhood, and creativity: “We need artists who have tamed their egos enough to care for others, then revived their ambitions to be generous with their talents.” At this chapter in my journey, I cherish my creativity—but even more so, I am unapologetic about my deeper ambition: to love with an open heart. To love requires its own kind of rigor and labor; I believe that in loving, we have the potential to disrupt, and interrupt generational patterns and systems rooted in trauma, pain, and violence, where love has been withheld and denied. 

At this point in his ministry, Jesus risks attack and loss of life. A delicate tension emerges—deep sorrow amid profound conflict, and a longing to unite people, even as he knows that his words, intentions, and actions may be dismissed or misunderstood. This kind of love honors free will and embraces risk. It is given freely, without needing to be earned, yet it always makes space for choice. As Barbara Brown Taylor writes, “If you have ever loved someone you could not protect, then you understand the depth of Jesus’ lament. All you can do is open your arms. You cannot make anyone walk into them. Meanwhile, this is the most vulnerable posture in the world – wings spread, body exposed – but if you mean what you say, then this is how you stand.” When Jesus confronts his own vulnerability on the cross, he, too, is bare breasted, his arms outstretched like wings.

Reverend Cara B. Hochhalter offers these insights: “It is said that Jesus looked down from a hill above Jerusalem in his final days, filled with sadness over the oppression and injustice inflicted on the people by Roman rule. Despite the violence, Jesus tenderly expresses the desire to gather them all as a hen gathers her brood. There is a beautiful chapel on this hill today called ‘The Church of Dominus Flevit’ (where Jesus wept). The dome of the church is shaped like a tear drop. I believe Jesus longed for the people to come together peacefully within the love of an inclusive God.”

It’s not uncommon for metaphors about motherhood to be approached with skepticism. I believe it’s important to be critical about the ways in which we talk about motherhood, to examine the weight of our metaphors, and their implications. Although Jesus’ metaphor may not seem fierce enough when confronted with the despair and violence being experienced in our communities today, the mother hen offers a unique kind of vision and posture that may bring us nearer to the inner heart of the God(s) of our understandings, if we suspend our judgements long enough to listen. When we gather under the wings of the mother hen, we are held. I have found that courage often takes this open, vulnerable posture, and hope itself becomes strongest when called upon in times of extreme volatility and uncertainty. During times like these, we may feel keenly aware of our vulnerabilities. We may sense that we, along with our loved ones—both those we know and those we have yet to meet—are vulnerable to harm and hurt. This awareness may lead us to yearn for a quieter, kinder existence, or it may provoke feelings of defensiveness and aggression. No matter which way we feel, we are all seeking shelters of some kind; however, the mother hen cannot stop the danger, nor can she offer full safety from it. What she gives is instead is unconditional love—a love that respects choice, and boundaries. There was once a time when I wanted to be tough as nails. I wanted to show the world I, too, had convictions. But I have since learned that in my defenselessness, my courage lies. Perhaps we may be emboldened when we take the posture of the mother hen, and when we try to approach each other, and the world, through her maternal vision.

A note on terminology: I use the words “mother,” “maternal,” and “mothering.” In my use of these terms, I wish to acknowledge the limitations of language and the full spectrum of reproductive experiences. The ways we talk about motherhood can be deeply alienating; the term “mother” cannot, and should not, be confined to a female who births a child, and I am committed to gender inclusivity. I affirm this vision is accessible to all, regardless of whether one identifies as “mother.”

References and Further Reading:

Art in the Christian Tradition, As A Hen Gathers by Cara B. Hochhalter:

Agnes Norfleet, “Who Is Jesus? Mother Hen”

Bio: Elanur Williams writes from New York City, where she lives with her husband and daughter. A teacher by profession, she has taught in elementary and adult education contexts, specializing in reading and writing instruction.