Matthew

The story of Jesus' baptism makes me think of gardens.

Jesus’ call is less about what we leave behind than our eager response to follow him as everyday people.

Epiphanies come to us in all shapes and sizes.

Grief is like a lead-weighted blanket that can never be fully lifted.

Jesus knows he’s part of a history, a people’s longing and dreams.

Genealogies suggest a beautiful inevitability even amid political impossibility.

This time of year, our inner landscapes can seem as bleak as the outer ones.

The Bible gives no sense that the family is an end in itself.

Matthew connects Jesus to the overarching narrative of the Jewish people—as well as to the smaller story of Matthew’s immediate community.

I'm always amused when folk are keen enough to notice the worship whiplash to which the tradition so often subjects them.

"Whom are you trying to catch?" I asked my roommate. "Probably nobody," he said.

In his response to John, Jesus speaks of hope in the present tense.

On World Communion Day, I sat in the balcony. The view was stunning.

In the stitched-together story of Advent, we wrestle with each other’s certainties.

It’s troubling to imagine the Son of man arriving with criminal intent.