Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing! See, your house is left to you. And I tell you, you will not see me until the time comes when you say, ‘Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.’ ” [Luke’s Gospel 13.34-35]

One of the most malevolent sounds in any movie I have seen is in Hotel Rwanda, which tells the horror of the Rwandan genocide in mid-1994. The movie talks from the point of view of the hotel manager, and the violence from which he seeks to flee, with many others.

Through virtually the entire movie, no direct violence is seen, but there are the reports and hints, the growing fear, and once or twice we see the horrific consequences. Thus, we share the impending sense of what will happen to those characters with whom we are in contact.

And there is this sound. It is the sound of pangas (large knives similar to a machete), being drawn along the road; a discordant, scraping sound. It is many more than one, as militant fistfuls of men come hunting. Their presence is frequently off-screen, but the consequence of their violence creates a foreboding from which the movie never relents and the viewer – like the victims – might never escape.

As we enter more deeply into this season of Lent, the journey of Jesus towards Jerusalem and the cross, a shadow grows across the path he walks with his disciples. There are hints and warnings of violence all around, and each event seems dogged by anger, or threats, or implications of harm.

We are privileged to read this story from the other side; we know both the horror of Jesus’ execution and the wonder of him being raised to life. However, the disciples and even Jesus are walking on the shadowed side of the gospel, as the darkness grows. Jesus continues to assert the calling upon his life, but the disciples are following him, unsure of where everything will lead.

The signs and sounds of violence have accompanied Jesus since Herod felt threatened by the infant child of Mary and Joseph. Jesus knows what happens to prophets and dissidents in Jerusalem and, may I say, elsewhere in history. Ask of Romero, or Sophie Sholl, or Pemulwuy.

Jesus is confident that the pangas are being drawn after him on the road he walks towards Jerusalem. The warnings from community leaders and those around him are simply confirmation. Notwithstanding all this, Jesus’ desire is to embrace that community, those people, to gather them in safety and offer them hope.

The image of a mother hen, doing all she can to secure the safety of her brood, and any other chicks within her ambit.  

This is not to be.

The old fox is stalking in the background. We know what happens when foxes and chooks mix it up.

Yet, Jesus, by calling and deliberate choice, continues on his path, with the sounds of malevolence growing in our ears and his.

What does it mean for us that Jesus so deliberately chooses to continue? What courage is declared to us in his choice to say yes to God’s call upon him?

As we journey towards this Easter, let us consider not just the profound depth of Jesus’ embrace of us, but also our willingness to be so embraced. Having welcomed this intimate engagement, we realise that we are on the path with him, with all the implications of following one who elected life for us above his own.