Sermon For Second Sunday Of Lent

He Will Not Turn Back

Brothers and sisters, let us be honest with ourselves for a moment. There are times when the right path and the safe path are not the same path. There are times when faithfulness costs something real, when the voice of caution says stop, when every reasonable instinct says turn around, and yet the call of God presses forward. Have you ever stood at that crossroads? Have you ever felt the weight of a mission that seemed too costly, too exposed, too vulnerable to be worth continuing? Have you wondered whether perseverance in the face of opposition is wisdom or merely stubbornness?

The Church sets before us today, on this Second Sunday of Lent, a passage from the thirteenth chapter of Luke that speaks directly into that question. It is a passage that does not flatter us with easy comfort. It shows us Jesus himself facing a threat, and it shows us what he does with it. And what he does with it will either unsettle us or steady us, depending on how honestly we are willing to look.

The governing conviction I want to place before you this morning is this: the courageous mission of Jesus, and his aching compassion for those who resist him, are the very ground on which we stand and the very pattern by which we live. He did not turn back. He does not turn back. And in him, neither do we.

Let us open the text.

The Threat And The Answer

Luke 13:31 reads this way in the Christian Standard Bible: "At that time some Pharisees came and told him, 'Go away and leave here, because Herod wants to kill you.'"

Now, we should notice what is happening here. Some Pharisees, of all people, come to Jesus with what sounds like a warning. Whether they are genuinely concerned for him or whether they are themselves instruments of intimidation, we cannot say with certainty. What we can say is that the message is unmistakable. Herod Antipas, the ruler of Galilee, the man who had already beheaded John the Baptist, has his eye on Jesus. The implication is clear: leave, or face the consequences.

And what does Jesus say? He says, in verse 32, "Go tell that fox, 'Look, I'm driving out demons and performing healings today and tomorrow, and on the third day I will complete my work.'"

That word fox is not a compliment. In the ancient world it carried the sense of a cunning but ultimately insignificant creature, clever but not truly powerful. Jesus is not intimidated. He is not deflected. He names Herod for what he is, and then he does something remarkable. He does not change his plans. He describes his work in terms of today and tomorrow, and the third day, language that any reader of Luke's Gospel knows is pointing toward something larger than Herod could ever threaten. The third day is resurrection language. The cross is already on the horizon, and Jesus walks toward it with open eyes.

He says in verse 33, "Yet it is necessary that I travel today, tomorrow, and the next day, because it is not possible for a prophet to perish outside of Jerusalem."

There is a kind of holy irony in that sentence. He is not fleeing to safety. He is pressing toward the very city that kills prophets, because that is where his work must be completed. The threat does not redirect him. It confirms his direction.

This is the first movement of our text, and it calls us to name something real. There will be moments in faithful Christian living when the voice of opposition, or the voice of fear, or the voice of reasonable self-preservation says: stop, turn around, this is too costly. The life of discipleship in this season of Lent is precisely the invitation to examine whether we have been turning back when we should have been pressing forward. Not recklessly. Not without wisdom. But with the steady courage of someone who knows that their life is held in hands stronger than Herod's.

The governing conviction bears repeating here: the courageous mission of Jesus is the ground on which we stand. He did not turn back. And because he did not, we have a Savior who actually arrived at the cross, actually bore our sin, actually rose on the third day. Our salvation depends on his refusal to be deflected.

The Lament And The Longing

But then the text turns, and what it turns toward is one of the most achingly beautiful moments in all of the Gospels.

Verse 34: "Jerusalem, Jerusalem, who kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to her. How often I wanted to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing."

Read that slowly. Let it settle.

Jesus is speaking about a city that has rejected him, a city that will shortly condemn him to death. And what does he feel toward it? Not contempt. Not cold justice. He feels longing. He uses the image of a hen gathering her chicks. It is a domestic, tender, almost fragile image. A mother bird spreading her wings to shelter her young. This is the Son of God describing his own heart.

How often I wanted to gather your children together.

That word often is worth sitting with. This is not a single moment of compassion. This is a repeated, persistent, aching desire to draw people in, to shelter them, to hold them close. And the people he is longing for are the very people who are about to kill him.

This is the gospel in miniature. The one who presses forward in courageous mission does so not out of cold duty but out of burning love. The cross is not merely a transaction. It is the ultimate expression of a love that refused to stop reaching, even when those it reached for turned away.

And then verse 35: "See, your house is left to you desolate. I tell you, you will not see me until the time comes when you say, 'Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.'"

There is judgment here, yes. Jesus does not pretend that rejection has no consequences. But even in this word of judgment there is an embedded promise. You will not see me until. Not never. Until. There is a day coming when the city, when the world, will look up and say, blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord. The same words the crowd will shout on Palm Sunday. The same words that point toward the final consummation of all things. Even in the word of warning, the door is not shut forever.

This is the second movement of our text, and it calls us to examine our own hearts. How do we feel toward the people who resist the gospel, who resist the church, who resist us when we try to speak faithfully? Do we feel longing for them, the way Jesus felt longing for Jerusalem? Or have we settled into a comfortable distance, a quiet contempt dressed up as discernment?

Lent is the season in which the Church examines itself honestly. And one of the most searching questions this passage puts to us is this: does the compassion of Jesus live in us, or have we let it grow cold?

The Pattern For Our Living

So what does this passage ask of us concretely? Let me name three things.

First, it asks us to press forward in faithfulness even when opposition rises. The Herod in your life may not be a king. He may be a circumstance, a relationship, a fear, a wound that keeps whispering: turn back, this is too costly, you have done enough. The text does not promise that the path will become easier. It promises that the one who walked it before you walked it all the way to the cross and through it to resurrection. You are not walking alone. The Holy Spirit, whom Jesus promised to his disciples, is the very presence of the risen Christ with you in the difficult today and tomorrow and the day after that. Press forward.

Second, it asks us to carry compassion for those who resist the gospel. This is not soft sentimentality. It is the hardest kind of love, the kind that keeps reaching even when it is not received. We live in a world full of Jerusalems, full of people and places that have heard the gospel and turned away. The temptation is to write them off, to move on with a kind of spiritual efficiency. But Jesus wept over Jerusalem. He did not write it off. He pressed toward it. Our calling is to hold that same posture, praying for those who have not yet said blessed is he who comes, trusting that the until of verse 35 has not yet expired.

Third, it asks us to receive the shelter that Jesus offers. The image of the hen and her chicks is not only a description of what Jesus felt toward Jerusalem. It is an invitation to us. He wanted to gather. He still wants to gather. The question the text puts to each of us is the same question it put to Jerusalem: are you willing? Are you willing to come under the wings of the one who pressed through every threat to reach you?

This is the Second Sunday of Lent, and in a few moments we will come to this Table. What we do here is not separate from what Luke 13 shows us. We come to the Table because Jesus pressed forward. We receive the bread and the cup because he did not turn back when Herod threatened, did not stop reaching when Jerusalem refused, did not abandon his mission when the cross came into view. Every time we gather here, we are saying with our bodies what we are invited to say with our lives: blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.

Let us pray.

Lord Jesus Christ, you pressed forward when every voice said turn back. You longed for those who turned away from you. You gathered us under your wings at the cost of your own life. In this season of Lent, give us the courage to follow where you have led, the compassion to love what you love, and the grace to come again and again under your shelter. We do not come to this Table because we have been faithful enough. We come because you were. And we are grateful. Amen.

Sources Consulted

Holy Bible, Christian Standard Bible. Holman Bible Publishers, 2017.

The Book of Common Prayer. Church Publishing, 1979.

Joel B. Green. The Gospel of Luke. New International Commentary on the New Testament. Eerdmans, 1997.

N. T. Wright. Luke for Everyone. Westminster John Knox Press, 2004.