Luke 12

During the pandemic, I went six months without touching another human being. I felt starved.

The dams on the Klamath River are coming down. Their removal reflects a very different theology than their construction.

For Jesus, the inverse of scarcity isn’t abundance—it’s accumulation.

When we’re obsessed with the forecast, we may miss what’s happening in the present. 

Where there is a rending, there is a healing not far behind.

In the shadow of uncertainty, fear and hope look similar.

The lilies of the field don’t have student loans.

What questions arise if we take Jesus' warning literally?

Can we allow Jesus’ metaphors into our imagination?

We preach the gospel of peace and justice. Are there divides between our words and actions?

Jesus is the thief, and the powers of this world own the house in which we’re waiting.

This is a funny story. We laugh. But we're laughing at ourselves.

Fire is a dangerous image for Jesus to use, even if he doesn’t mean it literally. What kind of God would bring fire to the earth?

Hope is the content of faith. Hope is the adopted son, the grafted inheritor. If there are to be, as with Abraham’s descendants, innumerable stars and grains of sands, it will be through this boy.

Paul says the hidden life is a moral one, putting off vices like a set of dirty old clothes.

A poor person looking up at my residence could mistake it for one of the barns belonging to the rich man Jesus talked about—the one who didn't know his soul was buried beneath all that corn and sorghum.

How is thankfulness engendered? By giving thanks in all circumstances.

By the third century, the gesture of giving became miniaturized.

The Prodigal Son is often read to mean that God loves sinners, whereas the Jews thought God only loved the righteous. This makes no sense.

One of my favorite things to teach in a seminary setting is Christology, particularly the early church’s development of what would become “orthodox” understandings of both the person and work of Jesus.