Luke

Nations as well as individuals need to look in the moral mirror in order to stop deceiving ourselves.

I relate to physical sickness more easily than mental illness. So does our culture.

Maybe the parable of the persistent widow isn't about God. Maybe it's about us.

I should have known better. Grandma had nine decades under her belt of doing things her way.

I move a lot. So did Jesus and the disciples.

When I read this week's Gospel, I remember two lepers I saw at a train station in India—how alone they were.

The Gospels show Jesus as prophet, teacher, and miracle worker. But most intriguingly, they depict him as a storyteller--one who could not only draw a crowd but keep it riveted.

I'm more than a bit smitten with the image of rekindling the gift of God within us.

I have no idea what it would mean to be a shepherd, let alone someone who would abandon 99 sheep to go looking for a single stray.

Luke's story of the rich man and Lazarus is full of vivid details. Which makes you cringe the most?

There had to be something more to Jesus.

What is Jesus thinking when he tells the parable of the dishonest steward?

We see. We taste. We touch. We smell. We hear. To be human is to move through time and space guided by our senses. Reading this passage from Luke, I think about the sensory onslaught that defines my existence.

James calls Abraham a “friend of God.” In this week’s reading from Exodus, Moses presumes upon a similar divine friendship to offer God advice.

Jesus points out ways in which the line has already been dissolved.

In this week’s Gospel text, the piercing hyperbole about family and discipleship normally receives top billing homiletically. However, I am newly struck by Jesus’ words regarding building a tower.

Jesus offers his unsolicited advice fully aware of the jousting for prominence that occurs in our social spaces. He sees our mad dash to the front row so that we can be seen by the chief executive officer, the potential major donor, or the bishop.