Foxes and Hens

Luke 13:31-35

For us, now, Lent is an inward journey of the soul. But it also marks the outward journey of Jesus, 2000 years ago, to Jerusalem and to the cross. In some of the gospels, Jesus doesn’t seem to know exactly what is going to happen—he just has a general idea. Luke leads us to believe that Jesus knows exactly what the upcoming days will hold for him—knows that despite Herod’s threats, he will not be killed just yet, not until he has made it into Jerusalem, and he will not give into any threat, will just continue doing his work because he’s too busy to worry about his own life. When the Pharisees, acting on Herod’s behalf, try to get Jesus to stop healing and casting out demons, Jesus lets them know that he knows they’re working for Herod and asks them to pass along just how much he’s not intimidated by “that fox,” so much that he’s not even worried about insulting this puppet king. He channels other prophets like Uriah and Jeremiah who were murdered in Jerusalem when they dared to speak out against the kings of Israel. It is simply ridiculous for the Pharisees and Herod to suggest that Jesus will die before reaching the holy city.

At one time, Israel was a roaming people, people under the covenant of Moses. But eventually, they became a monarchy—with Jerusalem as their capitol of royal complacency—the favor of God evident by their power and military prowess, and not their special relationship with God. Jesus laments over this lost city, and even laments over the Pharisees who live within the holy city’s walls. He tells them he’s not a threat since the city is so unwilling to change, “you get to keep your house,” he says. Ultimately, Jesus is not a threat to them, because they and the people are not willing to let him—he knows he will not be able to save Jerusalem this time.

In case we think Jesus is so brave before a fox because he’s an even tougher beast who could eat that fox for dinner, Jesus reveals what type of animal he is: a chicken. And not just any chicken, but a female chicken. Can you imagine the fox getting a whiff of this? Ooooh, tough! But of course, Jesus is never who we really expect. The scriptures speak of God as an Eagle, able to soar and to protect, but Jesus doesn’t go for this image.

As always, Jesus’ concern is not for himself. The news that Herod wants to kill him is not news, especially since Herod’s father already tried to kill him as an infant. He moves on toward Jerusalem, not with fear and concern for his own life and death, but with sadness over the people—for this brood of baby chicks, who refuse to be gathered up in safety.

When I was little my uncle raised chickens in Rockingham County. Each chicken house had about 20K chickens, and when you’d walk in, the little chicks would scatter, like a moving, yellow carpet. They were surprisingly easy to step on, and yet difficult to catch. He didn’t have foxes to worry about, but he did have a few feral cats who were very good and sneaking their supper. And the chicks were largely unprotected, thousands of babies, and no mother hen.

The people of Jerusalem, like little yellow chicks, are unprotected, with at least one fox on the loose. Jesus is the mother hen, who cannot get to them, because they will not allow her to come close and gather them up in safety. She can protect them, and wants to so badly, but they scatter when she comes close—they do not know who or what is good for them.

Looking out for ourselves, loving ourselves, protecting our own self interest, looking out for number one, that’s the easy thing. Loving others, trying to save them, that’s the most vulnerable, helpless thing. When we stand with our arms open wide and welcoming, not really knowing how our gesture will be received, our heart and chest exposed, we are unable to block or defend ourselves—because this is how you stand when you mean it.

The fox is not welcoming or protective. He’s calculating, cunning, vicious, and a coward. He sends the Pharisees instead of going himself, but Jesus lets them know that he’s not playing that game. He won’t be scared away. But he also won’t put up a fight. Chickens are not known for bravery, do not have magnificent talons, are not even terribly attractive. But they care for their young. They sit patiently on their eggs, keeping them warm until they hatch, and they chase the chicks around making sure they stay where they are supposed to—the meanest ones can peck and scratch, but what is that compared to the chops of a fox?

Jesus longs to gather up the chicks—not just the few he has managed, but all of them. The fox offers is really just a power-hungry fool, and not all that powerful in the grand scheme of the Roman empire.

Jesus the hen, offers only protection with her own body. Medieval mistic, Julian of Norwich wrote of Jesus as our mother, only better than an earthly mother because he doesn’t feed us milk, he feeds us his body. If the fox wants to kill the chicks of Jerusalem, he’ll have to kill the mother hen. He sneaks up on her one night, while she and the chicks are sleeping in the coup, and when he snatches her in his teeth, the little yellow chicks scatter in 20K different directions. She dies, with her wings stretched wide, open, inviting, ready to gather her brood, and yet completely empty.

Something much bigger than the death of a hen is going on. The language of brooding is the same in Genesis, God the Creator “brooded” over the waters of creation, birthing the earth into existence. Jesus the son was present at this beginning, and it’s no accident that he broods over the people of Jerusalem—not with immediate success—but will eventually triumph with the creation of a new heaven and a new earth and a new Jerusalem. The time will come, says Jesus, when everyone will greet him as a king—not like a king Herod, but as the true king as we say “blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.”