Under the Wings of Love

When given the chance to compare himself to anything Jesus chose a mother hen!

 

Deuteronomy 26:1-11

Psalm 91:1-2, 9-16

Romans 10:8b-13

Luke 4:1-13

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

This sermon was inspired by the above readings and was preached on the Second Sunday in Lent at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL.

 

Holy God, may my words be your words, and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

 

Speaking of words, words are clumsy things.

 

Each week, I try to use them to describe the indescribable, to frame the infinite, to map the contours of a mystery far beyond us, yet infinitely near. 

 

One of my favorite comedians, states that priests and preachers weekly (or is it weakly—W-E-A-K-L-Y) get up to give a book report they’ve had 2,000 years to prepare. He’s not wrong. The words we have, and I use, for God—Lord, Rock, Shepherd, King, Redeemer, etc.—are like arrows launched toward something greater, but often they never quite land where I was aiming. Still, I try… we try… to wrap words around the Great Mystery that is the Divine intermingling with us humans. Like how we see the sacred and the mundane interweaving in today’s readings: 

 

Abram sees a vision in the night, and God speaks of descendants as countless as the stars. But have you ever tried counting the stars, really? It’s nearly impossible! So, how does one measure a promise that vast?

 

The Psalmist declares, The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear? But fear so often pervades our lives—lurking in shadows, whispering lies. What does it mean to trust in a God we cannot see, to believe in safety beneath wings we cannot touch with our hands?

 

Paul invites us to citizenship in heaven, but our feet are planted on earth. Do we get a dual passport—one from the nations of earth and one from the Kingdom of God?

 

And then there’s Jesus standing in the streets of Jerusalem, lamenting over the city, reaching for an image—something, anything—that might convey his longing, his love. And so, the Son of God reaches into his bag of analogies and calls himself… a mother hen.

 

A hen. Not a lion or an eagle or a mighty warrior, but a small, vulnerable creature with open wings, yearning to gather her children home.

 

If ever there were proof that we need poetry to speak of God, here it is.

So today, instead of my ordinary attempts at explanation—my grasping at theological coherence, my striving to box the Word of God into something neat and orderly, like Peter wanting to build booths on the Mount of the Transfiguration to house Jesus, Moses, and Elijah—instead of this, let us lean into the poetic.

 

Let us take these scriptures, these visions, these laments, and listen for something deeper.

 

Let us set aside our need to explain God, and instead simple experience God in the beauty of metaphor. 

 

“Under The Wings Of Love”

 

The night sky swells with promise,
a sea of stars stretching beyond Abram’s weary sight.
He stands, old and childless,
heart aching with unanswered prayers,
palms empty with waiting.

And yet, God whispers—
Look up.

Count the stars, if you can.
Count the impossibilities I make possible.
Count the barren places I fill with life.
Count the moments when you thought I was absent,
but I was nearer than your own breath.

 

Beloved of God,
do you trust this promise?
Can you see the light when the night is deep?
Can you hold fast when all around you shakes?

 

O Jerusalem, Jerusalem—
the city of holy longing,
the city of prophets and blood,
the city that cannot recognize Love
even when LOVE stands before them, arms wide.

How often I have wanted to gather you,
like a mother hen, wings outstretched,
a fierce, sheltering love.
Yet you would not come.

Would you?

 

Would you?
Would you let yourself be gathered?
Would you nestle beneath the shadow of holy wings?
Would you let go of all the ways you’ve tried to save yourself—
your striving, your sorrow, your self-sufficiency—
and simply be held?

 

There is a road that leads to Jerusalem,
a road that winds through wilderness and weeping,
through betrayal and brokenness,
to a cross upon which Love will hang.

But this is not a road of defeat.
This is the road of love unfurling,
of a mother’s wings opening wider,
of a Love so vast, so wild, so tender,
that not even death can suppress it.

 

The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear?
Not the foxes of this world, scheming in the shadows.
Not the doubts that creep in when the night stretches long.
Not the wounds of rejection,
nor the ache of longing unanswered.

For we are citizens of another kingdom,
children of a greater promise,
nestled beneath wings that will not fail us.

 

So come, beloved.
Come beneath the wings of Christ.
Come with your weary bones,
your unanswered prayers,
your faltering faith.

 

Come and be gathered.
Come and be held.
Come and trust the Love that will not let you go.

 

And when the morning comes,
when the third day dawns,
when the tomb stands alone—
then you will know,
here you’ve always been home. 

Amen.

 

No Other

Ken Robinson in his inspirational TED talk about education spoke of the importance of giving people the opportunity to be creative not only when they are young, but throughout their formal education and beyond. Our education system currently teaches creative thinking out of pupils as they must learn for a test and not for real world problems. As art classes, bands, choirs, drama, and sports diminish children lose more and more chances to learn to think and be creative. Adult life is no better.

While modern employers seek to provide some new ways to work, how often are recess or art breaks part of work? Still, within every one of us resides a creative force that connects us to our Divine Creator. Do you remember a time when you were young and creative? Or, perhaps are you still young or at least young at heart? 

By the grace of God I have never completely jettisoned my inner child. One may joke about how many stories I remember from my childhood, but those foundational tales continue to impact me today. One such tale still lives vividly within my soul.

I have said in previous sermons that I had many imaginary friends growing up—not just one, but many! We would play and run around and go on adventures wherever we were. Quite often this benefited my parents who did not have to entertain me. However, there was one time every week when I had to use my creative powers in a more confined way. 

One evening a week I had to go with my mom to pick up my sister from dance rehearsal. When it was too dark I had to sit in the car and entertain myself. However, over the course of time my mom and I developed a game that still makes me laugh. My sister’s dance studio was on a busy street, so many people walked by on their way to other stores or restaurants. As people walked by my mom would ask, “Is that your sister?” For example, a 50 year-old-man with a mustache strolled by and my mom said, “Is that your sister?” The same with a mother pushing a baby stroller or a kid on a skateboard. Each time I would erupt in laughter. I found this creative game so funny because I knew these people were not my sister, until finally it was my sister walking to the car. 

What happens though when we are looking for God? When we seek out the Messiah? In both the passage from Isaiah and our Gospel lesson from Luke these questions of God’s identity hover over the text. There is only one God. God is the one who creates all: light and dark, weal and woe. God says I am the one and there is no other god. Whereas I had a really easy time as a kid spotting which person was my sister walking up to me, I believe we continually struggle with identifying that there is only one God!

Often we try to make God into our little deity who shows up for our group of people and so conveniently leaves out those whom we do not like or who see God differently than we do. As we look at Luke’s story of John’s disciples going to see if Jesus was the Messiah—recall we heard Matthew’s version this past Sunday—we discover that John the Baptist is wondering about the identity of God. In particular, John wants to know is this the Messiah who came to show the world the way back to God?

The response sounds almost identical in Luke as it does in Matthew: “The blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, the poor have good news brought to them.” Jesus’ answer does not directly respond with a yes. Instead, he points a finger to the examples that correspond with how the people of Israel have been expecting to see God’s coming. The wild thing is that this is still how we see God coming into this world.

I think I need to resurrect that old game I used to play while waiting for my sister, but this time I am going to wonder, “Is that God coming?” Regardless of where someone was born, where they live, or what religion they practice if they take part in creativity within this world, if they take part in the healing of this world, if they are uniting “individual” parts of this world then they are from God, the one God. For there is one Lord, and there is no other; besides God there is no god.