In the Lectionary

In December, we lost the last hen in our household flock after a possum attack. Since then, I have heard Jesus’ avian simile in Luke 13:34 differently.

As Luke tells the story, even though Jesus doesn’t turn stones to bread, he feeds those who hunger. And even though he says no when Satan offers him political power, a vision of God’s all-encompassing reign of shalom is at the heart of Jesus’ ministry.

How on earth do we balance the quietness of our hearts with a public call to repentance?

What might change if we could see something up there greater than the suffering world below? If we could get a glimpse of heaven, we would have proof—an experience that we could refer back to for the rest of our lives.

The writer of Luke may be challenging his readers to accept even those whom the oppressed might reject, but Paul reminds us to act with love in all things.

In this week’s Gospel reading, many people praise Jesus’ teaching—until he claims that he is the fulfillment of the scripture he reads. It is difficult for American Christians to grasp how shocking Jesus’ announcement is to a first-century synagogue.

From Paul’s letter, we can infer that the Corinthians tended toward the same bias from which many of us suffer: the belief that there is little collective wisdom in the church.

When our collective symbols and stories no longer make sense in our reality, we question who we are. After exile and liberation, the ancient Israelites were so devastated that images of overwhelming waters and fire speak to them.

When our collective symbols and stories no longer make sense in our reality, we question who we are. After exile and liberation, the ancient Israelites were so devastated that images of overwhelming waters and fire speak to them.

If all it took was a star to compel a person to Bethlehem, the Magi would arrive to see a multitude.

Which mother, I wonder, has more heartbreak. Hannah sacrifices the dailiness of raising her first-born son. Mary keeps her son with her, but as he grows she can surely see that he is heading down a dangerous path.

There are many ways we receive the gift of Jesus badly.

Mary is a jazz singer, improvising on a familiar tune.

The tension between the joy of the first three readings and the judgment of the Baptizer’s proclamation is theologically instructive. It presses us to hold the two together.

This week’s Gospel proclaims a baptism of repentance and forgiveness of sins. Aren’t we looking to the arrival of Christ with hopeful anticipation, rather than weighing ourselves down with how screwed up we are?

Advent stands at odds with the tranquility our culture hopes for this time of year. The coming of the Son of Man will yank us off the hamster wheel of life.

The callousness of Pontius Pilate was legendary: if you could choose your judge, you did not want him. Jesus cannot choose.

The unnamed disciple in Mark 13:1 would have been impressed not only by the temple’s splendor, but by what it represented: God’s presence with Israel. Jesus’ reply must have astounded him.

I’m afraid for Ruth. Boaz’s words suggest either that Ruth has already been assaulted and humiliated, or that it would have been customary for a woman in her position to expect abuse.

When I read John 11 and heard Jesus thundering, “Unbind him and let him go!" I realized I had not forgiven my father.