March 8, 2026 Reflection

We are not always understood.

You don’t need a theology degree to know that.
You just need a family. You just need a workplace. A church. A neighborhood. A social media account.

Someone meets you at 22… and they keep speaking to you like you are still 22.
Someone remembers you from your worst season… and quietly assumes that is still who you are.
Someone loves you… truly loves you… but cannot imagine that you have grown beyond the version of you that made sense to them.

And if we are honest? We do the same thing.

We hold each other in old photographs. We cling to familiar identities because they feel safer than change. We say, “That’s just how she is.” “That’s just how he’s always been.” “That’s just how this church is.”

And then comes this moment in Luke’s Gospel. Some Pharisees approach Jesus and say, “Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you.”

Now, we don’t actually know their motive. Are they warning him? Threatening him? Testing him? Trying to redirect him? But what we do know is this: They are trying to define the boundaries of his movement.

And Jesus responds: “Go and tell that fox for me… I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work.”

Translation: I know who I am. I know what I am called to do. And I am not stopping.

It is one of the boldest moments in the Gospel. Clear. Grounded. Unapologetic.

But what moves me even more is what comes next. “Jerusalem, Jerusalem… how often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings…”

The same Jesus who refuses to be boxed in weeps in love over the ones who misunderstand him.

Strength and tenderness. Clarity and compassion. Conviction and grief. This is the Way.

At Mount Seymour United, we are no strangers to this tension. We are a church that has been around long enough to have memories. Long enough to have “the way we’ve always done it.” Long enough for people to say, “Oh yes, that church… I know what they’re like.”

And yet we are not who we were 30 years ago. We are not who we were five years ago. We are not even who we were a year ago. We have walked through pandemic. Through loss. Through transition. Through the retirement of a beloved leader. Through grief and reimagining.

We have dedicated a labyrinth and sacred garden. We have deepened our commitment to truth and reconciliation. We have opened our space in new ways. We have wrestled with what it means to be church in this neighbourhood, at the foot of this mountain, in this time.

And sometimes I wonder, do people still see us as who we used to be? Do they imagine we are smaller than we are? Or more rigid than we are? More predictable than we are?

And even closer to home: Do we see ourselves clearly? Or do we sometimes cling to an older version of this community because it feels safer?

Jesus shows us something powerful here. He does not waste energy arguing with Herod. He does not contort himself to fit someone else’s expectation. He does not run.

He simply continues. “I am casting out demons. I am healing. I am moving toward Jerusalem.” He takes what I like to call the way around. Not avoidance. Not denial.
But a holy sidestep.

When someone says, “You can’t,” he says, “Watch me.” When someone says, “Stay small,” he says, “I am becoming.” When someone says, “Be afraid,” he says, “I am finishing my work.”

I see this in so many of you. I think of someone in our community who once described themselves as “not leadership material.” And yet when the call came to step forward, to serve, to speak, to organize – they did. Quietly. Faithfully. Growing into something they may not have imagined ten years ago.

I think of parents who are learning to relate to their adult children not as children anymore, and that is hard. Because when you have held someone in your arms, it is difficult to see them as a fully formed adult making choices.  Maybe choices you wouldn’t make – maybe choices that you want to insert your opinion on. Growth requires letting go of old identities, theirs and yours.

I think of those of you who have changed careers midlife. Who have come into their true identity later in life. Who have shifted theological perspectives. Who have said, “The faith I inherited is not the faith I can hold, but I am not leaving Jesus behind. I am simply finding him in a wider place.”

And not everyone understands. Jesus understands.

And this isn’t just personal. It’s communal. It’s global.

Look at what is happening in the world right now. Nations are clinging to old narratives of power. Political leaders are doubling down on fear. Communities are being labeled in ways that flatten their humanity.

In places like Ukraine, Israel and Gaza, Sudan, long histories and identities collide in tragic ways. Each side holding tightly to who they believe they are, often unable to imagine another story unfolding.

And here in Canada, we are still wrestling with who we are as a nation, particularly in light of truth and reconciliation. Indigenous communities have long said, “We are not who you have labeled us to be.” And the work of listening, real listening, requires us to release our assumptions.

Growth is painful. Becoming is disruptive.

Even churches face this. Across the country, congregations are asking: Who are we now? What are we called to do? Are we clinging to a past that feels safe, or are we moving toward the work set before us?

Jesus’ response is instructive. He does not abandon Jerusalem, even though Jerusalem does not understand him. He does not curse the city. He does not withdraw his love. He says, “How often have I desired to gather you…”

The image shifts from fox to hen. Fox – cunning, political, dangerous. Hen – vulnerable, protective, fierce in a different way.

And here’s what I love about that image: A hen does not look powerful. She does not look like a conqueror. She does not look like someone who can defeat a fox. And yet she spreads her wings anyway. Because love is her identity.

So what does this mean for us? It means that claiming who we are called to be does not require becoming harsh. It means taking “the way around” does not mean becoming cynical. It means we can say, “This is who I am becoming,” and also say, “And I love you, even if you don’t understand.”

Some of you are in that exact place right now in your personal life. You may be making a decision that not everyone agrees with. Or stepping into a role that feels bigger than the version of you others remember. Or maybe you are releasing something that once defined you.

And maybe someone has said, gently or not: “Are you sure?” “Is that wise?” “That’s not like you.” Jesus might whisper, “Keep going.” Not defiantly. Not arrogantly. But clearly.

Because when we ignore the call within us in order to maintain someone else’s comfort, something in us shrinks.

And when we refuse to allow others to grow because it unsettles us, something in them shrinks.

The Way of Christ is not to shrink. It is to expand. It is movement. It is courage rooted in love.

I wonder what that looks like for Mount Seymour United right now. Perhaps it means continuing to lean into being a place of spiritual depth rather than religious habit. Continuing to host labyrinth walks and solstice events, not because they are trendy, but because they open space for encounter. Continuing to speak about reconciliation not because it is easy, but because it is right. Continuing to be a church that holds both tradition and transformation.

There may be voices – internal or external – that say, “Stay smaller.” “Stay quiet.” “Don’t stir too much.” And yet the Spirit keeps nudging.

Casting out demons today and tomorrow might look like confronting systems of exclusion. Healing today and tomorrow might look like offering pastoral care that is brave and inclusive. Finishing the work might look like staying faithful even when outcomes are unclear.

We don’t need to fight every fox. But we do need to keep moving.

And here’s the final grace in this text. Jesus says, “On the third day I finish my work.” We hear that with resurrection ears. He knows where this road leads. He knows Jerusalem will not gather under his wings the way he longs for. And still he goes.

Because faithfulness is not measured by how well we are understood. It is measured by how deeply we live into love.

So maybe this week the question is not: “Who understands me?” But rather: “Am I living from the truest part of who God is calling me to be?”

And perhaps also: “Whose becoming do I need to bless?” Who in your life is trying to grow beyond an old label? A child? A partner? A colleague? A church? Can you spread your wings in encouragement rather than fear? Can you say, “I see who you are becoming. And I trust it.”

Because this is the paradox of the Gospel: We take the way around fear. We step beyond old identities. We move toward our calling. And we do it with wings open. Clear in purpose. Tender in heart.

Jesus was not always understood. Neither will we be. But we can be faithful.

Today.
And tomorrow.
And on the third day.

Amen.