March 13, Lent 2C (Luke 13:31-35)

I don’t remember when exactly I decided that I wanted chickens. I suppose there’s always been part of me—part hippie, part farm girl wannabe, full-time reader of Mother Earth News—that has romanticized the notion of raising poultry to the point where it seems like a feasible option in my life. In my mind I’ve made it out to be not much different than, say, having a dog, and in some ways probably easier. In this phase of my life, I acknowledge that I (probably) won’t become a suburban chicken farmer. But knowing that doesn’t stop me from cooing over them longingly whenever I encounter them in the spring at certain supply stores. It doesn’t stop me from reading books and websites about them, keeping an Amazon wish list of chicken coops, and learning which varieties produce different-colored eggs.

Nor does it stop me from looking rather squinty-eyed at foxes. We don’t see many foxes in my suburban landscape, though I hear stories of people who hear coyotes and see the occasional print too close to their yard for comfort. Sometimes we catch a glimpse of foxes along the road while driving, their red fur standing starkly against the white snow. Not long ago I observed one in Minnesota, trotting alongside a not-quite-frozen stream. He was a handsome fellow. But there was something about the way he stood when he paused, surveying, that made me not trust him.

Or was I just reading into it because of the way the fox is portrayed? Is the fox cunning and clever, or is it wily and untrustworthy? The answer is probably both. The fox that gets into the henhouse or the barnyard or the city square kills without care, leaving behind nothing but feathers drifting to the ground. Chickens are defenseless against such an aggressor, but still a mother hen will do her best to protect the little ones.