Ephesians was written to Christians in and around Ephesus, a major port city in the Roman province of Asia (modern western Turkey), known for its great temple to the goddess Artemis. The letter presents itself as written by Paul from imprisonment. Many scholars think a close follower of Paul may have written it in his name, while others hold to Pauline authorship. Either way, it was widely read among the early churches.

This passage closes the letter. Its picture of armor would have been vivid to readers who saw Roman soldiers in the streets every day: belt, breastplate, sandals, shield, helmet and sword. The images also echo the Old Testament, especially Isaiah, where God himself puts on righteousness as a breastplate and salvation as a helmet (see Isaiah 59:17). The writer ends by asking for prayer: he calls himself an ambassador in chains, which is a striking phrase, since ambassadors were normally protected and honored.

It's easy to read "armor" and think of aggression, but almost every piece here is defensive, and every piece is a gift rather than an achievement: truth, righteousness, the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace, faith, salvation, and God's word. The struggle Paul describes isn't against other people. He says plainly that our fight isn't with flesh and blood. That reframes conflict. The coworker, the relative or the political opponent is not the enemy.

Notice too where the passage lands: on prayer, constant and for one another. The armor isn't a solo kit for lone heroes. It is put on in community, by people praying for each other. Even Paul, in chains, asks for prayer that he can speak boldly.

For today: Which "piece of armor" do you most need? Truth, peace, faith? Ask for it by name, and pray for one person who is struggling.

Psalm 144 is titled "of David" and is a royal psalm: a king's prayer for help and victory. It borrows heavily from Psalm 18, another royal song of thanksgiving, which suggests it was used and reshaped in Israel's worship over time. The verses chosen today praise God as the one who trains the king's hands for battle, and as his rock, fortress, stronghold, deliverer and shield. Then they turn to a "new song" played on a ten-stringed instrument, praising the God who gives victory to kings and rescued David.

In Bibles that follow the older Greek and Latin numbering, such as the Douay-Rheims, this psalm is numbered 143.

Today the Church pairs this warrior-king psalm with Paul's armor of God, and the match is deliberate. The psalmist's confidence isn't in his own strength or skill. Even his training comes from God. He piles up images of safety (rock, fortress, refuge, shield) as if no single word were enough.

Christians have long prayed the psalms of David with Jesus in mind, the Son of David whose "victory" came through the cross rather than the sword. That transforms the battle language. The new song is the song of people who have been rescued, not people who have conquered.

For today: Try naming God the way the psalmist does. Write down or say one word that describes who God has been for you lately: rock, shelter, shield. Then thank him for it.

Luke tells Jesus' ministry as a long journey toward Jerusalem, and this scene happens on the way. Some Pharisees warn Jesus that Herod wants to kill him. This is Herod Antipas, son of Herod the Great, who ruled Galilee and Perea under Rome and had already executed John the Baptist. Their motive isn't stated. Pharisees in Luke are not uniformly hostile, so the warning may have been genuine.

Jesus calls Herod a fox, an animal associated with cunning and with petty destructiveness rather than real power. He insists his work will go on "today and tomorrow," and that a prophet must die in Jerusalem, reflecting Israel's memory of prophets rejected there (compare Jeremiah 26). Then he laments over Jerusalem with the image of a hen gathering her chicks, echoing Old Testament pictures of God sheltering his people under his wings (e.g. Psalm 91:4; Ruth 2:12).

Two images collide in this short passage: the fox and the hen. Herod is the fox, sly and dangerous. Jesus pictures himself not as a lion or an eagle but as a mother hen, the most vulnerable defender imaginable, who protects her chicks by putting her own body between them and the threat.

That's the kind of strength today's readings keep pointing to. Jesus doesn't run from danger or answer it with force. He keeps healing and teaching, and he grieves over a city he knows will reject him. His lament isn't angry. It's heartbroken: he longed to gather them, and they were unwilling.

The passage ends with a hint of hope. Jerusalem will one day greet him with "Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord," the words of Psalm 118 that the crowds sing on Palm Sunday.

For today: Where are you holding back from being "gathered"? What would it mean to let yourself be sheltered?