A New Order

We are a chicken family. As you might guess, it all started as a COVID project. When life as we knew it came to a screeching halt, we thought it made perfect sense to carve out a space in our backyard for three chicks. Of course, it meant raising them for a time inside our house, that is, until they could survive on their own outdoors. And even since then, tending to chickens has meant maintaining a certain level of hypervigilance. Did one escape the yard and find its way into a busy street or the jaws of a passing dog? Did we leave the door to the coop ajar at night, exposing the birds to hungry nocturnal beasts? We’ve discovered that chickens are a delight, and that they are very vulnerable.

In other words, we’ve seen how the natural order is beautiful, and how it is cruel. On more than one occasion, we’ve grown our flock by adopting chickens from elsewhere. And the most recent adoption occurred in the wake of a tragedy. At one point, our neighbors were inspired by our experiment with hobby farming and decided to raise chickens of their own. They even followed our pattern of naming their birds after foods: Lemon, Olive, Blueberry, and so on. Electing to custom-build a coop, the neighbors made a little home for their new flock just on the other side of the fence. But unfortunately, the coop wasn’t secure enough, and they arrived one day to discover that the chickens had been attacked in the night, and only one had survived.

Understandably, they changed their minds about raising chickens after that, and asked us to receive their surviving hen into our flock. If you were to ask my family, they would tell you there was only one correct response to that request. For their part, the neighbor kids seemed relieved that they would no longer have to worry about safeguarding birds, but that they could come visit their chicken whenever they wanted. And in the end, little Apple Pie has integrated nicely into our flock, and she’s doing just fine. It’s a minor miracle.

Today’s Gospel from Luke has me thinking about chickens. “Jerusalem, Jerusalem,” Jesus laments, “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!” In one way, Christ as mother hen is consistent with other avian metaphors for God in the Bible. In Deuteronomy, for instance, God is pictured as a mother eagle, hovering over her young in the nest and bearing them up on the wing.[1]

But a chicken is nothing like an eagle. The eagle is a predator herself, and capable of protecting both herself and her young, even if it means flying away from danger with them. But as we and our neighbors so tragically learned, the chicken is defenseless against her predator.

That fact is not lost on Jesus. Why else would he liken the threat from King Herod to a predator’s attack? In response to the warning from the Pharisees, he says, “Go and tell that fox… ‘Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work….” Dangers notwithstanding, “I must be on my way….’”

If Jesus is like a hen, then Herod is like a fox. As one interpreter explains:

The image of the hen gathering chicks under her wings may warm the heart, but it’s hardly a comfort in the face of real threats….

At face value, the hen-versus-fox metaphor is absurd. That’s the point. There’s no scenario where the hen overpowers the fox. Instead, she absorbs his violent attack, satisfying his hunger before he reaches the chicks. Surely, the fox gets his fill and there’s a chance the chicks may survive, but it’s a really bad day for the hen….

History is littered with real people ([whom Jesus calls] “prophets”) who are killed in their efforts to protect the most vulnerable. And what Jesus reveals is something perhaps even more scandalous than the slaughter… [that is, the self-giving] love of a God who is a lot more like a hen than a fox, absorbing our violence and returning it with forgiveness.[2]

The reality of the natural order is that the hen doesn’t stand a chance against the fox. The way of the world is aggression; to prosper is to overpower weaker others. And that’s precisely why God initiates a new order. Christ the Mother Hen is bound to meet his end in Jerusalem, falling prey to a fox who is not Herod, but who is a fox nonetheless. Jesus has known all along how the story of his ministry would end.

But there’s a twist. Jesus is vindicated in resurrection; against all odds, the mother hen lives to care for her little ones in a manner we could never have anticipated. No longer subject to death, Christ mothers us into eternity.

Let that promise bear you up today, friends, and in times to come. Take heart in the enduring care of your mother hen, so beautifully affirmed in the words of the medieval mystic, Julian of Norwich. She writes:

We are brought again by the motherhood of mercy and grace into our natural place, for which we were created by the motherhood of natural love. A mother’s service is nearest, readiest, and surest. It is nearest because it is most natural. It is readiest because it is most loving. And it is surest because it is most true. We realize that all our mothers bear us for pain and for dying. But our true mother Jesus—all love—alone bears us for joy and for endless living, blessed may he be! He sustains us within himself in love and hard labor, until the fullness of time.[3]

[1] Deuteronomy 32:11.

[2] Street Psalms Lectionary Insights: Second Sunday in Lent (2025).

[3] Sundays and Seasons Day Resources for the Second Sunday in Lent (2025), members.sundaysandseasons.com/Home/TextsAndResources#resources.