You know, sometimes it helps to have a good guide when we’re trying to understand something important. As Lutherans, one of our great guides is the Apology to the Augsburg Confession. Now, an “apology” here doesn’t mean saying “I’m sorry”—it means a defense, an explanation. This document was written to make clear what we believe, teach, and confess. In fact, it’s one of our confessional documents as Lutherans—or documents that distinguish us from other breeds of Christians. In the Apology, it says, “All Scripture should be divided into these two chief doctrines, the law and the promises.”
The law shows us what’s right and good but also where we fall short. It’s like a mirror, showing us the truth about ourselves, even when it’s hard to see. But the promise—that’s God’s answer to our need. The promise is Jesus, given for us, not because we earned it, but because God is faithful.
And that’s especially important to remember in Lent. During this season, we look honestly at our lives in light of God’s law, and we hear again the call to repentance. But we don’t stop there. We also hear the promise—the promise of mercy, of grace, of a love so deep that Jesus walks the road to the cross for us. So as we listen, as we read, as we pray in this season, we do it with both of these in mind. The law that shows us our need, and the promise that meets it completely in Jesus. And that, folks, is very good news.
Let us pray. May only God’s Word be spoken and may only God’s Word be heard; in the name of Jesus. Amen.
The first time I got chicks —or peepees, as they’re called in Central PA—I was in sixth grade. My mother and I were at Tractor Supply when I saw the little bin full of baby chicks, peeping and hopping over each other like tiny balls of fluff. I asked if we could get some, really expecting her to say no, but to my surprise, she said yes. We left with six little chicks—Cornish Cross, as I later learned.
At home, we set them up in a plastic bin in the kitchen, heat lamp overhead, newspaper underneath. They grew fast. Really fast. Before I knew it, they were outgrowing their bin and needed to move outside. Three pullets, three cockerels. That’s when my mother told me it was important to learn the full reality of raising chickens, not just the fun part. She sent me to her friend’s dad, an old-timer who’d been raising chickens for years. He taught me how to butcher them—something I never forgot. I kept chickens all through high school, but I didn’t have another chance to raise them again after that until I moved to Fitchburg.
Last year, I got a new flock—three Cornish Cross cockerels and four Rhode Island Red pullets. The pullets are full-grown now, laying eggs diligently. You could say my girls make me breakfast every day. The cockerels, on the other hand…well, they’ve made me chicken cacciatore, chicken alfredo, and grilled chicken, among other things.
Either way, I love my chickens. I love my girls. So when I see Jesus talking about chickens today, you better believe I’m paying attention. And that brings us to the question: Why are these two passages—Jesus talking about chickens and Abram looking at the stars—paired together today? At first glance, they don’t seem to connect, other than a passing mention of birds in Genesis. But if we listen closely, they’re both about trust in a promise—one that offers shelter, security, and belonging.
In Genesis, Abram has already heard God’s promise: You will have descendants as numerous as the stars. And Abram believes. But then, almost immediately, he asks, “How can I know?” He’s caught in the gap between believing with his mind and trusting with his life. He wants proof, something solid to hold onto.
Centuries later, Jesus stands outside Jerusalem, arms outstretched like a mother hen gathering her chicks, offering a promise of safety and belonging. But the tragedy is that they refuse it. You were not willing.
Abram’s question and Jerusalem’s refusal are two sides of the same struggle: Do we actually trust the promise? Do we believe it enough to step under God’s wing?
When God answers Abram’s question, he doesn’t give a lecture or a new set of instructions. Instead, he makes a covenant. In Abram’s day, covenants were sealed by cutting animals in half and having both parties walk between them, symbolizing mutual commitment. But here, something different happens: Abram does nothing. He falls into a deep sleep. And while he sleeps, God alone passes through, in the form of a smoking fire pot and a flaming torch. God is taking full responsibility for this promise. It doesn’t depend on Abram figuring everything out. It doesn’t even depend on Abram never doubting. It depends only on God.
A mother hen does the same. She spreads her wings before the chicks come, offering safety before they even realize they need it. The promise of security is there—but the chicks have to step under it. And yet, we all know what happens when there’s a fox sniffing around the coop. That’s when the real test of trust comes. Some chicks panic and scatter in all directions—running straight into the very danger they feared. Others freeze, seemingly hoping that if they stay still, the danger will pass. But the safest place, the only place that will hold, is under their mother’s wing.
This is where we so often struggle. We believe God’s promises—on paper. We trust, intellectually, that God is faithful. But behaviorally? That’s another story. We hedge our bets. We scatter in fear. We seek security in things we can see and control, rather than resting under the shadow of God’s wings. Jerusalem’s tragedy is that the promise was right there, spread open before them—but they would not come.
And that’s where these two stories connect. Abram had to trust that God’s promise was enough before he saw its fulfillment. Chicks have to trust their mother before they understand why it matters. The covenant of promise isn’t just about believing—it’s about moving, stepping under the wing, living in the truth, the reality of the promise.
Jesus isn’t just lamenting Jerusalem’s rejection—he’s showing us what trust looks like. He spreads his arms, vulnerable yet unwavering, because that’s what God’s faithfulness looks like. It’s not the strength of an eagle, soaring above. It’s the strength of a hen, planted firm, willing to shelter her own at any cost.
So where does that leave us? We have the same choice: to believe God’s promises intellectually, or to trust them with our whole lives. It’s one thing to nod along when we hear that God is faithful, to agree in principle that God keeps his word. But living as if that promise is real—that’s harder. Abram knew what God had said. He had already heard the promise that his descendants would be as numerous as the stars. But in the waiting, in the long stretch of years where nothing seemed to be happening, doubt crept in. He wanted something more than words. He wanted proof, something solid beneath his feet.
It’s not so different from the way chicks react to their mother. The hen gathers them, spreads her wings, calls them to her. Some run straight to her without hesitation. But others hesitate. They stand just outside the shelter, unsure whether to trust the warmth of her body over the wide-open space beyond. And sometimes, when danger actually comes—a shadow overhead, a rustle in the grass—some of them scatter rather than seeking her protection. They know, instinctively, that she is their source of safety, but that knowledge doesn’t always translate into action. Just like Abram, just like us, they struggle with trust.
God’s covenant with Abram wasn’t about giving him immediate proof or an easy answer. It was about giving him something deeper—an anchor, a reality stronger than his own doubts. God alone passed through the broken pieces of the covenant sacrifice and showed us that his promise didn’t rest on Abram’s ability to hold onto it. It rested on God alone.
The same is true for us. God has already spread his wings over us, already given us the promise. Our job isn’t to manufacture faith or certainty. It’s to step under, to live into the already-but-not-yet reality of his promise—even when we can’t see it. Because trust isn’t just what we believe in our heads. It’s where we run when trouble comes.
But the trouble isn’t always obvious. Sometimes, the foxes in our lives don’t announce themselves with snapping jaws—they comes creeping, quiet, slipping in through an unlatched door into our henhouse, into our lives m. It’s the slow pull of self-reliance, the whispered doubt that maybe God’s word isn’t quite enough. It’s the voice that says, “Take care of yourself first. Play it safe. Don’t trust too much.” And before we know it, we’re standing outside the shelter, unguarded, alone.
Abram wanted certainty, and God gave him a covenant—a binding, unshakable promise. The people of Jerusalem wanted security, and Jesus gave them his own outstretched arms. Not merely wings spread as a metaphoric mother hen, but with arms spread and nailed to a literal cross as our protection against our ultimate enemies—the separation of sin, the finality of death, and the oblivion of hell. Jesus is the fulfillment of God’s covenant of promise—to Abram and to us.
Gathered, sheltered, held—we are safe and secure. And that’s a promise that won’t crack, break, or scatter—no matter if that wily fox gets loose in the henhouse of our lives.
The Rev'd Daniel W. Spigelmyer, Jr. 