The Fire, the Chicken, and the Cross

“‘Ah, me! What I could have been in a better place. Such a wonderful somebody I should have been,’ he wept, ‘that it would have been a pleasure to look at. But this is the place, and this is the me.’"
— The Book of the Dun Cow by Walter Wangerin Jr.

If you didn’t end up becoming what you thought you would be when you grew up, it’s probably a result of a combination of the following: you had a childish dream for your adult life, and/or you did not possess the fortitude or capacity to manifest it. So, congratulations on your good fortune, and I’m sorry you’re a fool. I’m an English major who attempted to drop out, only to ultimately have scrapped together enough credits for a bachelor of science degree in general studies. With those enviable credentials, I managed to become a police officer in a small southern town in 2020 summer of burning love. I am, however, climbing up the social ranks by writing for a publication (my own) for a paying audience of approximately seven people, most of whom share my last name. It should go without saying, but everything I write is borderline inerrant.

Obviously, I am being facetious, but this is indicative of the millennial mindset. The presumption that we, like Ricky Bobby, piss excellence and house only novel genius in our heads, leaves us woefully unprepared for life’s inevitable trials and tragedies.

We were raised in a culture where every drawing went on the fridge, every season ended in a trophy, and every utterance from our mouths was “unique” or “important.” It is no small wonder that we presume everything we touch turns to gold and everything we say is brilliant. (Yes, I recognize the hypocrisy of both being a self-publisher on Substack and someone who criticizes the presumption of personal exceptionalism.)

When I look at Scripture, I often wonder: why am I not walking on water? Why am I not healing the sick? Why am I not being swallowed by a whale? I think the answer is simple—we are more often the recipients of God's graces and actions than the performers of His grand miracles. We are more likely to be NPC‘s than main characters. Had I been alive at the crucifixion, I would certainly not be the Messiah. I would probably not even be a disciple. In all likelihood, I would have been advocating for Barrabas.

Knowing this, why then do we assume that we ought to be the ones driving out demons and healing the sick? We are the sick and haunted ones. That is in no way to imply, for those of us who are in Christ, that His grace is insufficient to obliterate sin and death. His grace is complete, and it is finished. His death and resurrection wholly reconcile us to God. If therefore we have been reconciled unto God, and are a new creation, then it is truly only a matter of time before we humbly demonstrate that reality in our behavior.

If I am honest, in assessing my devotion and/or other exceptional qualities, I come to find that they are lacking. And perhaps I am more like the bleeding woman reaching for Christ’s tunic—or, if I am lucky, more like Lazarus (who, as best I can figure, found his way into our canon simply by being a good friend to the right person).

Being a good friend is an exceptional quality. Even being a good friend to an undeserving buddy carries its own merit. In King Lear, the King’s friend and loyal servant, the Earl of Kent, remains in the service of the King even as he descends into madness. Throughout the work, Kent is a portrait of honest, humble loyalty. He’s not really diplomatic, but he is faithful, even at great cost. At the very start of the play, Kent tries to warn Lear not to cast off his loyal daughter, saying:

“See better, Lear.” (Act I, Scene I)
“Think’st thou that duty shall have dread to speak
When power to flattery bows? To plainness honor’s bound
When majesty falls to folly.”

Kent sees clearly what Lear does not: that power has begun to blind him, and that true loyalty means speaking the hard truth, not indulging the king’s vanity. For this, Kent is banished. But he later returns in disguise, saying:

“If thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemned,
So may it come, thy master, whom thou lov’st,
Shall find thee full of labors.” (Act I, Scene IV)

Kent serves Lear not because he is treated well or even respected, but because he seems to know that there is an innate value in humility and servitude. Kent remains steady as the world unravels. His loyalty reaches its quiet peak at the end, after Lear dies. Kent is offered power and restoration, but he declines, saying:

“I have a journey, sir, shortly to go;
My master calls me, I must not say no.” (Act V, Scene III)

He is still following Lear, even in death, demonstrating a long obedience, which seems to merit scorn from the modern reader. Though it sounds unreasonable, Kent demonstrates a lack of ego that many bros my age try to emulate by doing jiu-jitsu and snacking on psilocybin. In my mind, Kent is the more aspirational character in this work (certainly, more than Lear). I doubt I’d do better. In fact, I suspect that, given the unchecked power and self-importance of Lear, I’d also collapse into madness and ruin. We don’t often do well with power.

We like to presume that we are more like God than we demonstrate with our behaviors—we behave less like divine image-bearers and more like self-serving creatures. There’s often more evidence of our shared instincts with primates in our interactions than in any fossil record. Consider our entertainment, the rise of tribalistic politics, and the obsession with status and gratification. As Theo Von said, “Where are all the middle monkeys?” They’re in Hollywood.

Honestly, I do not mock this tendency from a position of never having indulged in it. I have at times been known to reacquaint myself with my animalistic nature around a bonfire in the hours welcoming the sunrise.

Still, the Pareto distribution suggests that a very small number of people will become kings, geniuses, and heroes. And it is highly unlikely that we are among them. And even if you are a king, genius, or hero, you will likely be a wicked one if you fail to perform the duty of your office with fear and trembling, with conscious, authentic humility. A friend of mine once told me that the noblest goal of life was to find a master worthy of service, and serve. I suspect it would be a much more realistic task to find a worthy person or cause than to presume you are the one who ought to be followed.

And yet, within the church, we portray ourselves as heroes. We literally perform on stages with lights cast on us. We have reduced church life to TED Talks and concerts. We confuse platforms with altars. It’s no longer enough to be faithful. We must be compelling, charismatic, followed, and streamed, substituting anointing for applause.

It’s only taken a modest 39 years, but I am finally becoming acquainted with myself enough to know that I am probably not exceptional. And, I don’t mean that to be some pseudo-religious, artificially humble groveling, I mean that statistically speaking, in all probability, “I am not magnificent.” I do believe that my earnest prayers are better left unanswered. Surely, we have no idea what the consequences would be if God granted our desires, serving as the cosmic genie we often wish Him to be. I am better off serving than making requests.

We’d be wise to know our place and role within the Kingdom of God. Not all of us are destined to be performers or frontmen. Each of us has a role to fill: “male and female He created them.” In medieval society, this understanding was woven into daily life. People lived dutifully within the confines of their scheduled prayers, their days orbiting around the church at the town center. The canonical hours (Matins, Lauds, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, and Compline) structured their time, reminding them of their place in the divine order. This rhythm of life was about aligning oneself with a higher purpose, recognizing that created things have an innate purpose. By honoring that purpose, we honor the One who imbued them with it. As fire tends upward, so does the soul toward God.

In The Book of the Dun Cow, Walter Wangerin Jr. illustrates this through the character/medieval trope: Chauntecleer. The peaceable hens in the story find meaning and satisfaction in their daily routines, their chickenly duties taking on greater significance as they adhere to their bespoke purposes and traditions. From Lauds to Compline, Chauntecleer's crowing marks the passage of time and maintains order. As one reflection notes, "It gave their dirt-scratching, grub-hunting, cleaning, and sleeping greater meaning and consequently greater peace."

My wife loves staring at our chickens. It’s odd and adorable, but I have a theory: in the same way that I am captivated by fire, I think she admires her feathered brood. Her hens demonstrate the idea that by faithfully performing our designated roles, no matter how modest, we participate in a divine harmony.

And maybe that’s all I really am—someone who stays up through the night watching a fire, overindulging, slowly learning that the holiest life I can live is one where I know my place, embrace it, and let it point upward.

Chanticleer and Partlet by Arthur Rackham, 1920