Palm/Passion Sunday (Year 4, NL)
85 results found.
Peter’s denial and our judgment (John 18:1-19:42)
Peter doesn’t want to suffer. Who does?
Marielle Franco and the crucifixion of love
The Brazilian activist was killed by the same world that killed Jesus—a world that can’t bear love.
What does a high priest do? (Hebrews 5:5-10; John 12:20-33)
A worshiper can go a long time without any idea of who Melchizedek is and what it means to be a priest according to his order.
March 30, Good Friday (John 18:1-19:42)
Who were the people who watched Jesus' crucifixion?
March 18, Lent 5B (John 12:20-33)
The crucified Jesus in John's Gospel is cosmic—and magnetic.
The courageous women who weep (John 18:1-19:42)
They stand witness, watching in agony at his agony.
Addiction teaches us the truth about lies
Small deceptions work like a narcotic, making us feel nicely respectable. Especially in church.
The price of a pipeline—and who pays it
The Dakota Access pipeline poses a threat to indigenous people. Their resistance poses tough questions for all of us.
March 25, Good Friday: John 18:1-19:42
There are many reasons to deny Jesus, and we all have one.
Good news without simple truth
The Gospel of John uses the word "truth" more than any other book in the Bible and way more than the other Gospels combined. Not only that, but many of the most-quoted verses in John, the ones that have shaped Christian discourse over the centuries, have been concerned with the question of truth.
November 22, Reign of Christ: John 18:33-37
The callousness of Pontius Pilate was legendary: if you could choose your judge, you did not want him. Jesus cannot choose.
Soil and soul: Our Protestant agrarian past
Christians didn’t baptize Aldo Leopold’s land ethic after the fact. They got there years before his work.
Blogging toward Good Friday: Collective trauma
I’ve only seen three dead bodies in my life. The first was when I was 12 years old and my grandfather died at age 69. It was the first time I ever saw my father cry. At the funeral home, my sister was brave enough to reach out and touch my grandfather’s hand as it rested on his torso. Back in our seats, I asked her what his skin felt like. “Plastic,” she said.
By Britt Cox