This is the sermon I preached at Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., on Saturday and Sunday, Feb. 27–28, 2010, for the Second Sunday in Lent.

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Readings

Genesis 15:1–12, 17–18
Psalm 27 (antiphon v. 5)
Philippians 3:17–4:1
Luke 13:31–35

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Prayer

You call us to return to you, Lord God, and to leave behind all things that keep us from giving ourselves fully to serve you. Reach out to us with your Word, so that we may turn to face you and to give you glory; through your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

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Message

Otto von Bismark,
the German Prussian politician from the 1800s,
is known for an aphorism:
“Politics is the art of the possible.”
He means that it takes skill and craft
to navigate the tangle of personalities and priorities
that entwine themselves in the workings of a society.

But frequently and unfortunately,
politics becomes a game of force— sometimes deadly—
played by the ruthless practitioners
of threat and intimidation.
And it doesn’t matter whether the arena
is the civic one or the religious one.

Factions and alliances form and grow,

then square off in conflict,
sometimes just with words,
but other times with weapons.

And eventually, inevitably,
their members turn on one another and the groups disintegrate,
the victims of their own verbal and physical violence.

This makes the study of history
and the watching of the news
an often dreary exercise in repetition.
It doesn’t take long before we feel this nagging thought
in the back of our minds,
“This sounds familiar. I’ve heard this somewhere else before.”

How many times has the United States
supplied arms to some country somewhere?
We say we want to help that country with its security,
but really we desire to prop up that country
as a countervailing force
to some other country we perceive as a greater threat.

And then, oddly enough,
the country we armed
turns on us and becomes our newest threat
and most perilous enemy,
poised with the arms we supplied turned against us.

How many times has our Lutheran Church,
no matter what the acronym for its name might be at the moment,
gotten itself mired in conflicts
over what will be our authority,
over who is qualified to serve as ministers,
over what shape our witness will take,
even over times on the schedule,
paint on the walls and carpet on the floors?

We confess that we believe the Spirit gives us a Church
that is one and holy and catholic and apostolic.
But so quickly in our hands it becomes
many and profane and sectarian and adrift.

And what about the politics of our families?
How well do we fare at balancing conflicting needs and desires,
differing priorities for managing time and money,
varying views on boundaries and limits for teens?

What begins in a springtime glow of love
can wither in the harsh heat of summer’s work
and the shortened days of autumn,
and then grow dormant in the cold winter of life’s passing years.

And if all of this and more
makes up our experiences,
our personal lives,
the story of our communities of faith,
and the history of our nation,
is it any surprise that human nature plays itself out in today’s Gospel
with the same numbing familiarity
of the politics of force and threat,
of the push of one faction upon another?

Jesus receives friendly advice from the Pharisees
to watch out for Herod Antipas,
the ruler of Galilee and Perea.
Herod does not like the growing threat
he sees in this itinerant rabbi,
an exorcist and healer,
preacher and teacher,
friend of the meek and poor,
and thorn in the ample side of the rich and proud.

But Jesus does not fear political theatre or threats.
He does not shut down his ministry
and wait for the safe and noncontroversial time,
for the conflict to abate.
Instead, he labels Herod with his true nature,
a fox, a predator who thrives on surprise and speed.

And what’s most amazing,
Jesus turns the politics of power absolutely upside down.
In response to the threats of a fox,
he depicts himself as a mother hen,
pinned down on her nest by duty,
protecting a brood of defenseless chicks.

It’s the last way that we would think to respond to power.
Jesus does not meet fist with fist,
harsh word with harsh word,
threat with threat.

Instead, he defuses the tension and defangs the fox,
living by the Word he would later share with St. Paul:

“My grace is sufficient for you,
for power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:9, NRSV)

And sadly, poignantly,
Jesus leaves us with this loving and tender picture of himself,
feathered and warm, maternal and tender,
with protective wings ready to stretch over his people,
to shield them from the tooth and claw of the world’s foxes,
to protect them from the bite and scratch of power politics.

“But alas,” he mourns,
“Jerusalem, Jerusalem,
the city of the people of God,
the community of God’s chosen,
Israel and the Church,
then and now, there and here.”
How often has Jesus desired to gather us together
as a hen gathers her brood—her scattered flock—under her wings
and give us peace and security,
but we are not willing.

And we leave the nest and abandon Jesus’ protection,
because we trust in ourselves and our power and our ability
more than we are willing to rely on our Lord
in his perfect weakness, his feathered wings.

And so, in the end,
our Lord stretches out those wings, those arms,
and submits to the power of politics
and the hammer and the nail,
the crown and the spear.

He goes from the nest to the cross,
and there he roosts,
perfect in his weakness.
The wisdom of God outsmarts the foxes;
the endurance of our Lord outlast all enemies;
the power of the Father defeats the forces of sin and death and the devil;
the victory of our Lord Jesus Christ puts an end to the games we play.

This is how our Lord loves us.
He loves us in the face of death.
He dies that we may live.
He gives us life that we may love him and others.
And in that love, we may trust him—
our Lord and our mother hen—
to gather each of us into his nest on the last day. Amen.