The chapel is called Dominus Flevit, meaning 'the Lord wept'.  It recalls both today's gospel reading and an episode later in St Luke's gospel when Jesus wept over the city of Jerusalem.  It's a small chapel, reputedly built to resemble a teardrop and the view across the altar looks out over the old city of Jerusalem.  On the front of the altar is an image of a hen gathering her chicks under her wings.  It's an unusual image and one that struck me last Sunday during the Pilgrim Confirmation group.

During the session we reflected on the images we have of God. The ones we were brought up with and perhaps have rejected in favour of others as our faith has matured and developed.  I wonder what is your image of God?

On the face of it there don't seem to be very many feminine and nurturing images of God in the Christian tradition.  Many Christians have been brought up with a definite picture of God the Father, with the inevitable great white beard, sitting on a throne floating on a cloud.  The Holy Spirit is often seen without gender, although in the Old Testament and especially in the Book of Wisdom, God's wisdom is often referred to in the feminine.  Then there's Jesus. Well he's easily identifiable as a man because he was one.  As an historical fact that is not in dispute.  But perhaps there is an alternative way of imagining Jesus.

St Anselm was the 11th century Archbishop of Canterbury,  living in a brutal and bloodthirsty era in which life was short and often cheap.  Marriage was predominantly seen in contractual terms, with little emphasis on love and affection.  Anselm wrote that one of the highest forms of relationship was true friendship.  As a celibate monk, human affection was out of the question and so he reflected on the tenderness of God.  The picture he paints of Jesus is in stark contrast to many of the rather severe and masculine images we are used to.  He wrote this,

Jesus, like a mother you gather your people to you; 

you are gentle with us as a mother with her children.

Often you weep over our sins and our pride,  

tenderly you draw us from hatred and judgement.

You comfort us in sorrow and bind up our wounds,  

in sickness you nurse us, and with pure milk you feed us.

Jesus, by your dying we are born to new life;  

by your anguish and labour we come forth in joy.

Despair turns to hope through your sweet goodness; 

through your gentleness we find comfort in fear.

Your warmth gives life to the dead, 

your touch makes sinners righteous.

Lord Jesus, in your mercy heal us; 

in your love and tenderness remake us.

In your compassion bring grace and forgiveness, 

for the beauty of heaven may your love prepare us.

Even more than simply seeing the song in terms of the tenderness of the Saviour, the image of motherhood speaks to a much more profound truth, for it is also about risk.

When Anselm was writing child birth carried with it an especially high risk.  A frighteningly high proportion of women died during childbirth.  If there was a choice between the child or the mother, then the child always came first, for the husband could remarry.  The mother was seen in terms of being the pain-bearer; the life-giver.  New life came through pain, suffering, and frequently death.  "Jesus, by your dying we are born to new life; by your anguish and labour we come forth in joy."  These are words I often use at a funeral at the Commendation of the deceased person into the hands of their Creator.