Under The Shadow Of Your Wings
March 16, 2025 – The 2nd Sunday in Lent, Year C
Genesis 15:1-12,17-18; Philippians 3:17-4:1; Luke 13:31-35
Madder than a wet hen—have you ever used that phrase? Have you ever met someone who fits that bill? I’m not sure that Appalachian farmers actually dunked their broody hens in cold water to stun them long enough to collect their eggs, but I am sure that anyone who treats a hen like that had better scamper out of the chicken coop before that hen recovers.
I’ve been chased by chickens before. I’ve been pecked and squawked at. I’ve seen mama hens care for their chicks with the skillful balance of watchful protection and fatigued indifference that we’d expect from overworked human mothers. I’ve seen videos of chickens who fight off crows and snakes that threaten their chicks and who peck relentlessly at farmers who waited too long to collect their eggs, which resulted in a broody hen.
It's a strange way to put it, but that’s how Jesus loves us—like a mama hen who will peck and squawk and flap and claw at anyone who tries to take away her babies. In today’s gospel reading, we join Jesus on his long, deliberate journey to Jerusalem, and we hear him speak of his desire to protect the residents of that holy city, saying, “How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!” Jesus yearns to take care of them, he tells us, but they are not willing. The same is true of us. It is a battle of wills—Jesus’ and ours. He wants to shield us under the shadow of his wings, but we have something else in mind.
“Get away from here,” the Pharisees warn Jesus, “for Herod wants to kill you!” Herod Antipas was the tetrarch or Roman-installed leader of Galilee. He was the one who, a few years earlier, had John the Baptist executed. Now, it was being reported that Herod was coming after Jesus. The Pharisees may have been looking for an excuse to get Jesus to move along more quickly, or they may have been sympathetic to someone who had provoked the ire of a leader whom none of them respected. Either way, those religious leaders encourage Jesus to run along before trouble finds him.
But Jesus isn’t worried about trouble. In fact, he’s looking for it. He tells the Pharisees to go and say to Herod the fox that he’s not going anywhere until his work is finished. I’ll be right here, he says, casting out demons and performing cures, for the next three days. And after that, I’m going to Jerusalem because that’s the place where prophets meet their untimely death.
The Pharisees tell Jesus to run away because Herod is threatening to kill him, but Jesus responds by telling them that he isn’t going to run away from danger but right into it. That may sound to us like Jesus is flexing his muscles or showing some machismo, but he isn’t going to Jerusalem as a warrior or a superhero but as a mother hen—a broody and cantankerous chicken who wants to shelter us under something as wonderful yet vulnerable as his feather-covered wings.
Jesus didn’t have to describe himself as a mother hen. He could have likened his protection to that of a mama bear or a lioness, whose fierce love threatens to kill anyone who dares to come between her and her cubs. But, in this gospel moment, Jesus calls himself a mother hen, and he calls Herod a fox, and we know what foxes do to chickens and their chicks. Although ultimately it will be Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor, who will pronounce the death sentence on Jesus, Herod will sign off on it, too.
When it comes to keeping the people I love safe from harm, I don’t want a chicken. I want a mama bear or a mama lion to protect them, but what we need is a mother hen. That’s because it isn’t the earthly threats we should worry about but those forces that stand in the way of love, and Jesus shows us that those forces aren’t defeated by violence or strength but by vulnerability and compassion.
Jesus doesn’t promise to keep us safe from the dangers of this world. In fact, he promises us the exact opposite. He tells his followers that they will be handed over to the authorities, persecuted, tortured, betrayed, hated, and killed. There is nothing about belonging to Jesus that will make us immune to suffering in this life. The hope that Jesus gives us is not manifest in a triumph over our enemies. No, our hope is far more significant than that. Jesus promises to love us and shield us from anything and everything that could ever separate us from God and God’s love. That is our hope, and it comes in the form of a mother hen who is willing to die for her chicks.
It's not easy to make that our hope. It’s not easy to accept a God whose power and love come vulnerably and mercifully. It’s not easy to put our trust in a savior whose love and protection might be as fierce as a broody chicken yet in the end they are just as vulnerable as a hen to a fox. But that’s the hope of our faith—the greatest hope God has given us.
“Jerusalem, Jerusalem,” Jesus cries, “the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!” In ancient Israel, those who claimed to speak for the Lord in ways that were perceived to be antithetical to the Jewish faith were stoned to death as blasphemers. They may have gone to the holy city of Jerusalem to speak God’s truth to those in power, but their words were condemned as blasphemy, and their voices were silenced by stones. How often have we thrown stones at those prophets who dare to suggest that our God is to be found among the weak and the vulnerable instead of the rich and the powerful?
It costs us something to stand with Jesus—to seek protection under his wings. It costs us strength and security in this life, which we must give up in exchange for what awaits us in the life to come. If we choose to belong to Jesus, we must let go of our desire to be immune to the hardships of this life. We must accept the protection he promises us in place of the protection we wish he would provide.
“Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!” Jesus tells us that we won’t be able to see him until we say those words about him. Those words signify our willingness to identify Jesus as the one whom God has sent—the one who comes to do God’s work.
On Palm Sunday, we will join the crowd in saying those words as Jesus rides into the holy city because we expect him to ascend to the throne of King David. But, by Good Friday, our affection for the one who rode into Jerusalem will be lost. Our shouts of “Hosanna!” will become cries of “Crucify him!” because, instead of defeating our enemies, Jesus speaks out against us and our unholy desire for security and power.
“Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.” We also say those words every time we share Communion with one another, and they carry a different connotation when we say them in this sacred meal. In Holy Communion, we acknowledge the love that God has for us in the outstretched arms of Jesus. We recognize the cost that God’s selfless love incurs when it is brought to the world. We admit that God’s love is not the kind of love that keeps us safe in this life but the kind that brings us safely into the life to come.
Every time we gather at this table, we declare that Jesus is the blessed one—the holy one who comes to us in the name of God. In this feast of bread and wine become Christ’s body and blood, we partake in the sacrifice of the one who died for us and who protects us through his death. Here we see that our savior loves us like a mother hen, and we confess that that is the love we need most of all.
© 2025 Evan D. Garner
