In the Lectionary

New daughters and sons do not take the place of the lost ones. As a conclusion to the story of Job, this will not do.

If God’s response to Job in chapter 38 were meant only to shut Job up, seven verses would be sufficient. But God is only getting started here, and the exuberance of the rhetoric insists that vastly more is at stake.

As a second-generation Korean American, it is hard to identify stories from my past that can serve as reservoirs of understanding for my life now. “In you our ancestors trusted,” I could proclaim from those stories, “and you delivered them.”

The psalmist is not alone in claiming that humans are only “a little lower than God.” Can it be any wonder, then, that our faith leaves a great deal of room to disagree about our power in creation?

At this point in Mark, stumbling blocks seem a necessary point for conversation. We are good at placing them in others’ paths, and even better at setting them before ourselves.

This week’s Gospel may be the second Passion prediction, but being told that Jesus will be killed is no easier on the second hearing. Maybe the disciples don’t ask questions because they’re afraid it could be true.

James reminds us of the duplicity of language, like a matchstick dropped by singed fingers that leaves behind charred acres. The deception of language is that we believe it is innocent.

I have spent most of my Christian life in deep discomfort with Mark 7. I now read it as an early example of the priesthood of all believers.

We love to look at people and judge them on the basis of what we see. We looked at Lance Armstrong and saw a guy who beat cancer and won Tour de France titles. We saw Bill Cosby as a barrier-breaking comedian and father figure.

In our Gospel text, some of Jesus’ disciples find his teaching hard. Eating his body? Drinking his blood? I didn’t sign up for this. Couldn’t I just pray for you?

If Solomon were an older and more experienced ruler when God appears to him in his dream, I wonder if he would ask for wisdom.

We are to work honestly, work with our hands, and work so that we can share with those in need.

In this week’s reading, Bathsheba, the woman David drew dripping out of her bath and into his story, is not named.

I don’t want to identify with David, with this king who knows no limits. But why, pray God, does his arrogance feel so familiar?

“Many were coming and going, and they had no leisure, even to eat.” I think of the many lunches spent at my computer with a sandwich.

I like Mark’s frequent mention of how people felt. In this week’s text, Herod is greatly perplexed about John the Baptist.

As Jesus prepares to send the Twelve, his experience of failure seems to color his instructions.

Two people in great distress do what a third, the Gerasene demoniac, has already done: they interrupt and rearrange Jesus’ day.

Like the stories that come before it, the storm at sea is a parable of reversal.

I have come to realize how mysterious a thing a seed is.