Matthew

I am less like the Magi than some members of my church are.

I don’t like this. When I mourn I want to not mourn anymore.

"What an awful story," she said. "Why would that story be in the Bible?"

Matthew 4:12–23

Every child is from God. Joseph gets an explicit divine promise.

Matthew 3:13–17

If people can approach the faith without thinking they already know what it is, they might hear the good news for themselves.

I am grateful for John the Baptist's indictment.

What troubles me about the holy family's flight to Egypt is that God, in Jesus, runs away.

We are not prepared to be judged by Matthew.

Matthew's geneaology underscores that God has always worked through messy and broken families.

Jesus' ministry is not what John the Baptist expected it to be.

The Bible uses the word fear both for fright and awe. This week's texts reveal the difference.

While we're preparing for Jesus' birth, these texts talk about getting ready for the Second Coming.

My state has the same number of churches as prisoners. This fact haunts me.

During Holy Week, it's common for worship leaders to ask people to consider their place in the drama of Jesus' final days. To what extent do we betray him, deny him, insult him, crucify him? When do we, like the crowds, find ourselves gawking at suffering with prurient glee? When do we, like the thieves, alternately ridicule the truth, then believe in it? When do we, like the centurion, make our confession--though perhaps a moment too late?

During Holy Week, it's common for worship leaders to ask people to consider their place in the drama of Jesus' final days. To what extent do we betray him, deny him, insult him, crucify him? When do we, like the crowds, find ourselves gawking at suffering with prurient glee? When do we, like the thieves, alternately ridicule the truth, then believe in it? When do we, like the centurion, make our confession--though perhaps a moment too late?

During Holy Week, it's common for worship leaders to ask people to consider their place in the drama of Jesus' final days. To what extent do we betray him, deny him, insult him, crucify him? When do we, like the crowds, find ourselves gawking at suffering with prurient glee? When do we, like the thieves, alternately ridicule the truth, then believe in it? When do we, like the centurion, make our confession--though perhaps a moment too late?

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

I've always assumed that the revelation here is that Jews should let the gentiles into the community. But perhaps the revelation is at least as much the fact that the gentiles want to be included.