St. John’s Lutheran Church
16 March 2025 + Lent 2c
Luke 13:31-35
The Rev. Josh Evans
It’s an ancient image,
rooted in the writings of the early church
and in scripture itself.
Anselm of Canterbury, writing in the 11th century,
speaks of Jesus as a mother who gathers us.
The medieval mystic Julian of Norwich writes
of Christ, our true mother, who bears us for joy and life.
And, closer to our time,
one 20th century hymn text – which we will sing this morning –
expands on Jesus’ own image:
“When twilight comes and the sun sets,
mother hen prepares for night’s rest.
As her brood shelters under her wings…” [1]
In a short essay on this gospel text, Episcopal priest and world religions scholar Barbara Brown Taylor sets the scene, quite vividly, against which Jesus’ lament is spoken:
“On the western slope of the Mount of Olives, just across the Kidron Valley from Jerusalem, sits a small chapel […] Inside the chapel, the altar is centered before a high arched window that looks out over the city. Iron grillwork divides the view into sections, so that on a sunny day the effect is that of a stained-glass window. The difference is that this subject is alive. It is not some artist’s rendering of the holy city but the city itself, with the Dome of the Rock in the bottom left corner and the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in the middle […]
“Down below, on the front of the altar, is a picture of what never happened in that city. It is a mosaic medallion of a white hen with a golden halo around her head. Her red comb resembles a crown, and her wings are spread wide to shelter the pale yellow chicks that crowd around her feet. There are seven of them, with black dots for eyes and orange dots for beaks. They look happy to be there. The hen looks ready to spit fire if anyone comes near her babies.
“But like I said, it never happened, and the picture does not pretend that it did. The medallion is rimmed with red words in Latin. Translated into English they read, ‘Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!’ The last phrase is set outside the circle, in a pool of red underneath the chicks’ feet: you were not willing.” [2]
***
It’s a poignant image –
one which our hymn text links to a yet more tender scene
in the very next stanza:
“One day the Rabbi, Lord Jesus,
called the twelve to share his last meal.
As the hen tends her young, so for them
he spent himself to seek and to heal.” [3]
Even in a time of crisis, fear, and uncertainty,
for himself as much as for his disciples,
still: Jesus, Mother Hen, shelters her brood –
caring for them – right up until the end.
***
“It is curious that Jesus chooses a hen,” Taylor goes on. (emphasis mine)
“What about the mighty eagle of Exodus, or Hosea’s stealthy leopard? What about the proud lion of Judah, mowing down his enemies with a roar? Compared to any of those, a mother hen does not inspire much confidence. No wonder some of the chicks decided to go with the fox.
“But a hen is what Jesus chooses, which—if you think about it—is pretty typical of him. He is always turning things upside down, so that children and peasants wind up on top while kings and scholars land on the bottom. He is always wrecking our expectations of how things should turn out by giving prizes to losers and paying the last first. So of course he chooses a chicken, which is about as far from a fox as you can get […]
“Jesus won’t be king of the jungle in this or any other story. What he will be is a mother hen, who stands between the chicks and those who mean to do them harm. She has no fangs, no claws, no rippling muscles. All she has is her willingness to shield her babies with her own body.” [4]
***
Jesus, our Mother Hen, laments with us
over the pain and brokenness of our world:
over seemingly endless bloodshed and violence –
in Ukraine,
in Gaza and the very land through he which he travels in the gospels,
and on our own city streets;
over our immigrant neighbors
who live, study, and work in our communities,
suddenly more afraid than ever to leave their homes
for fear of being detained
and separated from their loved ones;
over our transgender siblings
who struggle to access the gender-affirming care they need
in a country that is increasingly hostile to their right to exist
in their God-given identities;
over the experiences of pain and brokenness
closer to home, in our own lives –
which we know all too well.
Jesus, our Mother Hen, longs to gather her brood –
her wartorn and grieving brood,
her immigrant and refugee brood,
her transgender and nonbinary brood,
her newly diagnosed and terminally ill brood,
her lonely and afraid brood.
Jesus, our Mother Hen, longs to gather her brood –
whoever they are,
wherever they are,
whatever hell they’re going through –
and offer them shelter
from all the foxes that would seek to consume them –
“ready to spit fire,” to borrow Taylor’s phrase, if anyone comes near them.
Jesus, our Mother Hen, longs to gather us
under the safety of her wings,
inviting us into relationship,
inviting us into discipleship –
inviting us into the way of love –
to gather others as we are gathered,
to shelter others as we sheltered –
until all are safe,
until all are protected,
until all are loved.
[1] “When Twilight Comes,” Evangelical Lutheran Worship 566.
[2] Barbara Brown Taylor, “As a hen gathers her brood,” The Christian Century, February 25, 1998, 201, ATLA Serials.
[3] “When Twilight Comes.”
[4] Taylor, “As a hen gathers her brood.”
