How to be a Chicken

16 November 2003

First UU Church of Austin

4700 Grover Ave., Austin, TX 78756

www.austinuu.org

Listen to the sermon by clicking the play button below.

STORY: The Prince Who Was a Chicken

Once there was a kingdom where almost everything was perfect. The king was perfect, the queen was perfect, and the prince – who was only four years old – was being trained to be perfect. He had to become perfect, because one day he would become king.

Each day, the young prince would be brought into the great hall and dressed in a small crown, a junior-sized king’s robe, and seated in a very small but kingly throne. And for thirty minutes every day, he had to stand in front of a full-length mirror, looking at himself dressed up like a little king, and say over and over again “I am the king, I am the king, I am the king.”

It was a pretty silly thing to make a four-year-old prince do. And it didn’t get any less silly when he was five, six, seven, or ten. Every time he grew a little, they would increase the size of his crown, his kingly robes, and his throne. And every day, for more days than he could or wanted to count, he stood in front of that mirror, dressed up in his crown and robe, saying “I am the king, I am the king, I am the king.”

It went on for so many years! Then one day, when the prince was about sixteen, he did a very odd thing. Coming into the great hall, he didn’t walk over to the tailors waiting to fit him with today’s kingly crown and robe. Instead, he went over to the great banquet table, took off all of his clothes, and crawled under the table.

The king and queen were shocked and disturbed, to say the least! “What are you doing?” the king shouted at him. “You’re a prince, you’re going to be a king. What are you doing? Put your clothes on and sit at the table for dinner!”

The prince looked at his father with kingly confidence, and said, “I am a chicken. Chickens don’t need clothes. And chickens don’t eat from plates.”

Never in the history of the kingdom had such a ridiculous thing been heard. “You are not a chicken!” the king yelled. “You’re a prince and a future king!”

“No,” said the prince from under the table, “I am a chicken. And I am hungry. I want food brought and thrown on the floor so I can eat.”

Well, as ridiculous as this was, the servants couldn’t let the young prince starve. So they brought his food and put it on the floor, and he began pecking at it, much like a chicken might.

The king and queen were nearly crazy with this idea that their son was going to be a chicken. They sent for experts in “strange and terrible diseases infecting the minds of young princes,” and several showed up. But they got nowhere. To every assertion to the contrary, the young prince would calmly reply “I am a chicken.” And he would peck at his food on the floor, and that would be the end of it.

One day an old farmwoman came to the king, and told him she could cure his son. The king laughed: “You’re not an expert! You’re just an old farmwoman. Do you know anything about the mental demons that have invaded his mind?” She allowed as how she did not know of any such things. “Then why do you think you can help him?”

“Because,” the old farm woman said calmly, “I understand chickens.” Well, the queen said, they hardly had anything left to lose, so she might as well try.

She entered the great hall, took off all her clothes, crept under the table, and sat down next to the prince. The prince said nothing. In a while, a servant entered and scattered a few handfuls of food, and when the prince began to eat, the old woman also pecked at the food. Even though the prince had been practicing this new way of eating for weeks, she was immediately better at it than he was. She really did understand chickens. They sat together in silence for some time longer. Finally the prince said to the old woman, “Who are you?”

“And you?” she replied. “Who are you?”

“I am a chicken,” said the prince.

“Ah,” said the old woman. “I am a chicken, too.”

The prince thought about this for several days. Gradually he began to talk to the old woman about the things that are important to chickens, things that are different from the things important to kings and queens. She understood as only another chicken could understand. They spoke not about the world as it is but about the world as it could be. They became friends.

After several weeks, the old woman called to one of the serving girls and told her to bring some clothes. When the clothes arrived, she dressed herself. The prince was horrified. “You have betrayed me!” he shouted. “You told me you were a chicken! You’re no chicken!”

“But I am a chicken,” she said. “I can wear clothes and still be a chicken.” The prince thought about this for some time. Then he turned to the pile of clothing and dressed himself also. They continued their conversations as before and ate their food from the floor together as before. (This eating food from the floor wasn’t as bad as it sounds. The floors in the great hall were so clean you could … well, you know.)

After a few days more, the old woman called to one of the serving girls and told her to bring a fine meal and set it on the table. When the meal arrived she crawled out from under the table and, sitting in a chair, began to eat. The prince was appalled. “You have lied to me!” he shouted. “You told me you were a chicken!” “But I am a chicken,” said the old woman. “I can sit at a table and eat from a plate and still be a chicken.” The prince thought about this for some time. Then he, too, crawled out from under the table and joined the old woman. They ate in silence for some time. Then the prince began to laugh.

The prince went on to become a wonderful king. Under his rule, freedom grew in the kingdom much the way that peaches and potatoes had grown in the past. Each person became free to be the person that they were meant to be, and the people who had once been productive and happy became wise.

And all over the kingdom, wherever he went, the people said to him “You are the best king ever!” And so he seemed to be.

But you know, there were stories…. Some people said – though not where anyone from the castle could hear them, of course – that sometimes, on bright moonlit nights, they swore they saw someone who looked a lot like their king, running naked through the fields and shouting “But really … I am a chicken!”

(Adapted from a story told by Rachel Naomi Remen in My Grandfather’s Blessings, pp. 285-287.)

PRAYER

We gather here as faithful people seeking truth that can make us free, love that can bind us together, and spiritual nourishment to sustain us during our journey.

We lose our way so easily.

We stumble over the difference between the transient and the permanent, the illusory and the real.

We accept roles, which enslave us rather than empowering us.

We need truth, yet are too often seduced by habit and convention.

We seek warmth, acceptance, and love – how many times we settle for so much less!

Life is so short, so precious, those we love and those who love us seem to pass so quickly.

We would clarify our thinking, educate our wanting, and harmonize the yearnings of our mind with the longings of our soul. This is the miracle we seek.

We confess our imperfections, our failings, our sins of commission and of omission, and seek the saving truth: the truth that in spite of our human failings, we are children of God, children of the universe, and the world is more blessed because we are in it. If we can live out of that simple but abiding truth, other saving graces will be revealed to us as well. This we believe; this we know.

Amen.

SERMON: How to be a Chicken

This begins, as so much begins, with a story. Years ago, I was a combat photographer and Press Officer with the Army in Vietnam. Besides covering the war, I usually spent a couple days a week in Saigon, making the rounds of war correspondents: the Associated Press, UPI, LIFE Magazine and so on, trying to get them interested in doing some feature stories on my unit. As a result, I knew Saigon fairly well, including some of its fine French and Chinese restaurants, and whenever I came in from the field, I usually visited one.

You could tell what the restaurant owners thought of Americans just by looking at their menu. If they weren’t interested in attracting Americans, they wouldn’t print the menu in English. On this particular trip into Saigon, I visited a new French restaurant called Le Cave. It was pretty ritzy, but the menu was printed only in French, which was like posting a sign saying, “Chinese and Americans stay out!”

I went anyway. Since I couldn’t read French, the menu was a challenge. The food was supposed to be good – it was very pricey – but I had no idea what the food actually was. I recognized a couple famous words, like Chateaubriand and Pomme Fritz, but not enough to make a meal. Finally, I decided to order one item from each section of the menu, thinking they’d probably fit together into some kind of a gourmet meal. As I picked a salad, soup, an entree, a side dish and a dessert, I looked for famous words, thinking if I recognized the word – even if I didn’t know what it meant – the food would probably be great.

This made the whole dinner kind of an adventure. The waiter brought out the salad I had ordered. I didn’t know what it was, but I liked it.

Then they brought the soup. I ate one spoonful, and couldn’t believe it! I waved for the waiter, and pointed to the bowl: “The soup’s cold.”

The expression on his face was a combination of shock and revulsion. “Monsieur,” he tried to explain in a polite but revolted way, “It is Vichyssoise!”

“It’s cold,” I said. “Please take it back and heat it up.”

He looked at me like I was the one who had done something weird! “But Monsieur” – it was a desperate, pathetic pleading voice now – “It is Vichyssoise!”

Now, I’d tried to be polite and all, but we’d been over this already, and I was hungry. “Look,” I said: “I understand you: it’s Vichyssoise! But it’s cold Vichyssoise! Now take it back and cook it!”

The waiter disappeared into the kitchen with my bowl of cold soup. When he returned, the soup was steaming. It was very good. Once it was properly heated up, I realized that heck, Vichyssoise is just potato-leek soup! The waiter was very quiet and polite for the rest of the meal. I figured he was probably pretty embarrassed over having served cold potato soup, so I left him a big tip to show there were no hard feelings.

Back in the field a couple weeks later, I was in the Officers’ Club having some drinks with our Colonel and his staff. We had just finished a major combat operation, and the Colonel was talking about going into Saigon for some high-level meetings – and to sneak in a couple days’ relaxation. I was telling him about the good hotels, bars and steam baths, when he took a slip of paper out of his pocket. Somebody had recommended a new French restaurant named “The Cave” to him. He had lived in France, spoke the language fluently, and wanted to know if I’d heard of this place.

What a coincidence! I told him I’d been there just two weeks ago, that I had had a great salad, French-Fries, an excellent Chateaubriand and my first Crepes Suzettes. In fact, the only complaint I’d had was that my waiter tried to serve me cold Vichyssoise. They were all very attentive, so I told them the story.

Suddenly the Officers’ Club got very quiet. My Colonel had an expression just like that waiter had had. He looked very sad. He told me he didn’t think I should be allowed to leave the base camp any more. The other Colonel asked me if I’d ever read the book The Ugly American. Then they told me that Vichyssoise is always served cold, that the French actually think it’s supposed to be eaten that way! Amazing!

I’ll admit that after my Colonel tried to give me that lesson in culture, I thought of my experience in the French restaurant somewhat differently. And I never went back to that restaurant. But I’ve never looked at that story the way my Colonel did, or that waiter.

Instead, the word “Vichyssoise” became a metaphor for me. And the story has always reminded me of how easily we get confused by the difference between matters of fact and matters of taste.

We human beings always operate out of at least two different kinds of identity, which we seem to have trouble keeping straight. We have our individual identity, that’s marked by our innovations, our differences from others. Those are the things that make us “chickens,” like the prince in the story. And we have our group identities, our regional, national, or religious character. And these group identities are defined not by our innovation but by our imitation, by how faithfully we adopt the customs and tastes of others, whether they make sense to us or not.

It’s not that group tastes and identities are senseless. It’s just that they are arbitrary. They’re matters of taste, not matters of truth. They’re matters of fashion, not matters of fact. And that’s a distinction we have always had a hard time making.

Whether you like your potato-leek soup hot or cold is an issue of food preferences, not right and wrong. It’s your soup; you can eat it any way you like. If you want it cold, go to a French Restaurant. If you want it hot, order it that way. The French aren’t being more correct by serving their potato soup cold; they’re just being more French.

Once you start looking at things like this – like a chicken – everything looks different.

For instance, Protestants aren’t more correct by rejecting Catholic sacraments and authority – that just makes them Protestants. Catholics aren’t more “true” by rejecting Protestantism, Buddhism and other religions; that’s just what defines them as Catholics. The same is true of Democrats, Republicans, and all other religious, political and social identities. Their list of certainties and prohibitions identify the terms of membership in their club, their group identity. That’s all. This isn’t about Truth; it’s about convention. And one of the most important tasks of religion is to help us tell the difference between Truth and Vichyssoise.

I want to try and persuade you to think of this word Vichyssoise as a metaphor for matters of personal taste that pretend to be matters of truth. It’s a good word, it has a funny sound, and I want to make that funny sound memorable for you this morning.

So to help expand the meaning of this word, I have brought you a couple Vichyssoise stories that don’t involve food.

My favorite example of Vichyssoise in religion comes from a tract in the form of an election ballot printed by the Moody Bible Institute in the 1920s. At the top of the ballot is the question “Will You Be Saved?” Then it says “God has voted YES; Satan has voted NO – A Tie! Your vote must decide the issue.” And below there is a place for you to make your X with God or the Devil. Now this may sound a little silly, and the ballot looked even sillier, but it’s the basic recipe for Vichyssoise, because the “Yes” meant you had to affirm their particular way of cooking religion. (Data taken from George M. Marsden, Fundamentalism and American Culture, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1980, p. 100.)

A second bowl of Vichyssoise is a musical example. Some of you may know of Wanda Landowska, who was a brilliant and very opinionated harpsichordist whose favorite composer was Bach. Once another musician quarreled with her interpretation of Bach and argued that there were, after all, many possible interpretations of the master. Wanda’s response could have come from a Moody Bible Institute tract: “You play the music your way,” she snapped, “and I’ll play it Bach’s way!”

That’s Vichyssoise!

Since there are dozens of different recordings of the master, Bach-lovers can usually find someone who plays it their way, and so Wanda Landowska’s fundamentalism just added some sparkle to her character, without doing much harm. But that’s not always the case. Sometimes the authoritative suppression of divergent views has important and far-reaching consequences. Rules, laws, religions are to enhance life, not enslave it. When we forget that, we’re serving Vichyssoise.

Nearly every major religious figure in history has made their name by saying that what their listeners had been taught as God’s word was not necessarily sacred after all. They were chickens, and the greatest of them helped turn others into chickens, too. Jesus ate and worked on the Sabbath, the holy day of his people. We weren’t made to serve the Sabbath, he said; the Sabbath is made for us to use. And all the teachings to the contrary — which they held sacred — were just arbitrary teachings without authority. He would say “You’ve been taught such-and-such, but I say unto you…” and then dismiss their teachings as Vichyssoise.

You could say that Martin Luther started the Protestant Reformation in 1517 by saying that the Catholic Church was serving its own recipes, which no Christian really had to swallow. When the Unitarians began a couple decades later, they rejected two-thirds of the Trinity as bad food.

I would say that religion is about learning to tell the difference between Vichyssoise and Truth, between customs and wisdom.

Betty Skwarek, our Director of Religious Education, and I recently finished an eight-week adult education course on religion. As part of it, we talked about the fact that some sociologists of religion have studied the way in which we fool ourselves into thinking that opinions are facts. It’s part of the way that we “create reality.” (One of the classic books here is named The Social Construction of Reality, by Peter Berger and Thomas Luckmann.) It’s the recipe for making Vichyssoise, and it’s pretty simple. It has just three steps, but the whole scheme depends on your forgetting the first step:

1. Somebody comes up with an idea: God, women’s roles, acceptable sexual orientations, the requirements of patriotism, the right way to believe, cold potato soup, and so on. Somebody has an idea; that’s where it starts. “The word of God” doesn’t begin when some chap sits down with a regal, glowing fellow named God and takes notes. It begins when a poet, a prophet, or a demagogue has an idea that something feels so important that it is, they’re sure, just the sort of thing God would say if God could talk. So they write the words “Thus saith the Lord,” and it begins with their idea.

2. The second step is that this idea gets projected out onto a really powerful word or symbol, like God, Nature, America, Justice or Love. Then we forget the human origin of the idea, and we are told that God said this, or it’s a law of Nature, or part of being a True American, or that Justice or Love demand this – or because potato soup is always served cold, as though the idea really had an authority from some other realm.

3. Then, since the idea comes from God, Nature or Tradition, we feel that we and others must obey it, so that it will be “on earth as it is in heaven.”

That means that all such absolute rules present us with a dilemma. If we forget the first step and pretend that the rule really came from God, Nature, etc., we lose our creative role in the process, and the rule begins to enslave us rather than enrich us. Then we’re conformed not confirmed. Our soul and our mind are relinquished, not replenished, because somebody has served us Vichyssoise and passed it off as Truth. On the other hand, if we acknowledge that this rule, like all rules, had its origin in someone’s idea, someone’s personal opinion, then the whole idea of a “transcendent authority” vanishes. The idea of “God” vanishes, because Toto has pulled the curtain back, showing that God was, after all, a projection of the dreams, ideas, beliefs and fears of ordinary people. (This three-part process of “creating truths” comes from Peter Berger’s classic little book The Sacred Canopy. It was an elaboration of the theme that Berger and Thomas Luckmann had developed earlier in the even more classic The Social Construction of Reality. I think both books are necessary parts of any adequate education in religion, politics or science.)

Do you see how tricky, this is? And we’re not just the victims in this very human game. We’ve all served up our own kind of cold soup to others. It isn’t evil. It isn’t something deranged or malevolent. We do it with the very best of intentions. We learn our lessons of life, we collect what we take to be wisdom, and naturally we want to help others learn it. If our life became centered only after we had found Christ, we’ll tend to think that everybody’s life would be more centered if they could discover Christ as we have. If we finally found our sense of integrity only after dumping all kinds of mythic religion and putting our faith in science and rationality, we will probably be pretty sure that everybody else will be better off jettisoning their religion and becoming rational as we have.

It is such a hard lesson! We mean so well, we want so much for others to have a better life, to believe the kinds of things we know to be best. It’s so hard really to believe that life grows beyond even our grasp, that possibilities exist that we are unable even to imagine, that even those people we hate are worthy of love, that even those who disagree with us may well be right. It’s so easy to lose patience with those who can’t find our path, who can’t see what we see so clearly.

And so we stifle them. And so they stifle us.

How many times have you wanted someone just to let you be, to love or accept you even when you had to grow away from them? How often have we all felt alone and distraught because someone stood in judgment over us, and rejected us; because someone was sure there must be a command of God, a law of nature or an official recipe to prevent us from doing and being what we knew we must do and must be? How many times have we played God, and how many times have we had it played against us? And what an awful game it is, playing God! We believe it, so it must be true. And since it’s true, others must need to believe it too. That’s the recipe for Vichyssoise. And when you’re being served Vichyssoise that’s being passed off as truth, it’s time to think about becoming a chicken.

This isn’t to suggest that nothing is true, or that religion is just a matter of personal taste. Some things are, I believe, abidingly true, and necessary to live with hope, with integrity and authenticity. You recognize them when you hear them. Here are just a few things I would argue are really Truth, not convention:

We are all precious and sacred people, with a special gift we need to discover, cultivate, and offer to the world. And what is true of us is equally true of all others, too: including those we don’t like.

There is a peace that passes all understanding, even ours, and we need to leave room for it to enter our lives.

We are not perfect, and need to attend to our imperfections. But we are not condemned by our imperfections. They are part of being human. We are not called to be perfect. We’re called to be alive, awake, aware, and whole.

We should live in ways that open us to the mystery and miracle of life, that let us recognize all others as our brothers and sisters, and that try to make a positive difference in our world, each in our own way.

I think all these things are true. They are true whether we believe them or not. Our lives and our world are enhanced when we incorporate this wisdom in our lives. And the quality of our lives and our world is diminished to the extent that we can not live in obedience to the kind of wisdom embodied in such simple insights as these.

But not everything passed on to us in an authoritative voice is bread for the soul, truth for the mind, or health for the spirit.

When someone says you must accept Christ or God or Allah or you are damned, that is not true.

When you hear that certain types of people are second-class citizens, not qualified to be priests – or bishops – you have not heard the truth.

When you hear any message that judges and sorts people on the basis of their sex, race, sexual orientation, their beliefs, political affiliations, education, or wealth, when you hear anyone from anywhere restricting life to those who look, act or believe just the way they do, you have not been served a truth that can sustain life or cherish its precious mystery and variety.

That’s not truth. That’s Vichyssoise. Vichyssoise!

It’s a good word. Say it with me: Vichyssoise!

Let’s say it again: Vichyssoise!

And one more time, with great feeling: Vichyssoise!

Hallelujah – and Amen!