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This week we’re reading Acts 16:16-40, where we encounter both the best and worst of the apostle Paul. On the one hand we find the feisty and faithful Paul, who, when arrested by the authorities, does not succumb to fear or anger but instead, there in the darkest part of the prison, turns to prayer and song, which radiates out to the other prisoners, strengthening their souls to resist the oppression of the Empire. When God intervenes to release his shackles, Paul does not flee for his life but instead stays and ministers to his jailer, liberating him from the system of violence and intimidation that binds him. But, on the other hand, we encounter the impatient Paul, who in his annoyance casts a spirit out of a young enslaved girl, thoughtlessly depriving her of the spiritual gift that protects her from an even more unthinkable fate. Which Paul do we resemble, we wonder. The one so caught up in ourselves that we harm others without thinking? Or the one whose spiritual depth prepares the way for liberation? Thanks for joining us.

This week we move on from the Gospel of John to the book of Acts, which will take us through these next weeks from Easter to Pentecost, or, on the Jewish calendar, from Pesach to Shavuot. Today we read Acts 9:1-19a. We meet Saul, a young, zealous, pretty aggressive guy, who seems an unlikely fellow to be tasked with leadership in the characteristically peaceful movement of Jesus. But tasked he shall be, after a theophany that leaves him unable to see, unwilling to eat or drink, and without anything at all to say – at least for a while. Why does his call, his transformation, look the way it does – like paralysis, or even death?  Why is Ananais willing to welcome him as a brother, even knowing that Saul’s first purpose in this trip was to fight the Jesus movement with all the strength he could muster? How do we know when we can really trust that someone has changed, and is no longer a threat?

This week we’re finishing our study of the Gospel of John with the story of Thomas as told in John 20:19-31. While Thomas is remembered in the tradition for his disbelief, he is in fact the first person in the Gospel of John to confess that Jesus is God, making him a model of belief rather than doubt. But for Thomas to reach that conclusion, both he and the other disciples had to remain committed to one another, despite the tension between their belief and Thomas’s doubt, until Thomas, too, could see Jesus. But this text also calls modern Christians to an even higher bar—belief without seeing, relying only on the testimony of others. It is those believers, each of us here and now, whom Jesus sends into the world as God first sent him: Sent to love the world and not to condemn. Sent as light in the midst of darkness. Sent to lay down our lives for those who have lost their way. If only we can believe.

This week, as we approach Easter Sunday, we are reading John 20:1-18, the story of the unfolding discovery by the disciples that Jesus has been resurrected. We wonder – why did Mary feel such urgency to be near Jesus’s body – or maybe the question is, why didn’t the other disciples feel it? What is the connection between this resurrection and that of Lazarus? Could it be that Lazarus himself, who knows the tomb, is the beloved disciple? Then there are the angels, the messengers who don’t really relay a message, or not in words anyway. It’s a beautiful rendition of grief and connection, of showing up exactly as ourselves in the face of great mystery and trusting that's all that's needed.

For this special episode we’re reading the Narrative Lectionary texts for both Maundy Thursday and Good Friday in John 19:23-42. The text opens with two starkly different scenes set at the foot of the cross where Jesus is dying. On the one side, Roman soldiers gamble to see who gets to keep Jesus’s nice garment, indifferent to the agony of the one they are executing. At the same time, on the other side of the cross, unfolds a tender scene in which Jesus stitches together a new relationship between his mother and the beloved disciple, creating a new family, formed at the foot of the cross. Which group will we join, we wonder. Those who fight over scraps while ignoring our own cruelty, or those who are knit together in unexpected ways by the God of love?

This week, for Palm Sunday, we are juxtaposing two texts, set less than a week apart, but with a veritable eternity between them: Jesus’s celebrated entry into Jerusalem in John 12:12-27, and his crucifixion later that same week, in John 19:16b-22.  Both texts are powerful, but the juxtaposition of them holds them each in new light. We feel the jubilant joy and hope in John 12, but we notice now that this joyful text also pulls in the specific encouragement that we mustn’t be afraid. We notice how the idea of kingship floats atop both texts, once in the mouths of Jesus’s followers, once written by the hand of Pilate – but what do they mean? And we see how doing the hard thing – the right, hard thing – in any given moment, pays dividends of good into the world, into the future ... But it’s not always the easeful, Disney movie kind of good. Don't be afraid indeed. 

This week we’re reading a painfully difficult text, the continuation of Jesus’s trial before Pilate as told in John 19:1-16a. Here we find the religious leaders coercing Pilate into executing Jesus by accusing him of disloyalty to the Empire. “We have no king but the emperor,” they say, betraying the very essence of their religious faith. This text serves as a caution for us about the ways proximity to power can corrupt religious faith, tempting Christians to hand over Jesus ourselves in pursuit of our own interests, whether motivated by ambition or fear. Amy also reminds of the particular dangers of this text for the Jewish community, cautioning us to tread lightly with its anti-Semitic tropes, which have caused such harm through the centuries. It is a difficult but urgent task we have before us today.

Today we are reading John 18:28-40 - Jesus has been brought to the Roman authority by the religious authorities, and *all* the authorities mostly seem eager to make this situation go away. The story made us wonder - Why is it so very hard to speak what is true? How can it be that the intersection of religion and political power in this story seems to make it even harder? We might think that in a criminal case, one would focus on establishing the facts. And that in a religious system, getting to the truth of things would be first and foremost on everyone’s mind. But in this story, this is not what's true, and we can only wish this bore no resemblance to the world we know.

This week we’re reading Peter’s denial of Jesus as told in John 18:12-27. In what may be one of the most challenging discussions we’ve ever had, we discuss the moral injury that accrues, for Peter and for ourselves, when we encounter the gap between who we thought we were and who we turn out to be in life’s most challenging moments. We think about the incremental decisions that lead Peter to denying both Jesus and his own true self, the well-meaning denials that seem to start out innocently enough but build until Peter has rejected Jesus altogether. We notice that when the rooster crows in John’s version of this story, Peter doesn’t even notice, so little has he even realized what he has done. When the rooster crows for us, we wonder, what will we notice?

Today we are reading John 13:1-17, the story of Jesus washing the feet of his disciples as they head into the day before Passover.  The story is just steeped in relationship – Jesus's relationship to God as he prepares to return to God, and Jesus’s deep connection to the people who are here with him on earth. How do these things fit together? Why does Jesus’s awareness of the power he derives from his relationship to God cause him to disrobe and don a towel and wash the feet of his students? Is this about cleansing, or hospitality? How can it prepare them for what is to come? 

This week we’re reading the story of the raising of Lazarus as told in John 11:1-53. We think about the disciples, so keenly aware of the threat to Jesus’s life but willing to follow him anyway, living in the light for as long as there is light to live in. And we ponder Mary’s words that bring Jesus to tears, as she invites him to experience the realities of human death and sorrow, saying to him what he has said to so many—“Come and see.” And we notice the threat that life brings to the Empire, as immediately after Lazarus walks out of the tomb the elites begin plotting to kill Jesus for the sake of the nation. A rich text in troubled times.

For our Ash Wednesday episode, we are reading John 10:1-18 and, I’m not going to lie, wishing we had a lot more experience with sheep herding and sheep folds. We wonder – who are these robbers and thieves climbing over the fence, and what kind of fence is this if robbers and thieves can just skip the gate entirely? What difference does it make that the shepherd walks out ahead of the flock, where he can lead and guide, but can’t really keep an eye on the sheep or attune to the surrounding dangers in the same way? What does Jesus mean when he refers to his *own* sheep – might there be sheep in the fold who are not his own? And after talking up all this trust and care and deep connection between the shepherd and his own sheep – whaddya mean the shepherd has other flocks too? It seems like this intimacy is not the gatekeeping kind. 

This week we’re reading the rich and challenging story of Jesus healing a man blind from birth, as told in John 9:1-41. The story begins by rejecting the common theology that suffering is a result of sin, insisting instead that this man coming to see is to be a revelation of the glory of God. Yet by the end of the story, we discover not only that this blind man has recovered his sight but also that the establishment religious leaders, who have thought themselves sighted, have in fact been blind all along. We reflect on the importance of telling one’s own truth clearly and of not reducing it to what is acceptable, whether theologically or politically. And we wrestle with the tendency of establishment people, in this text and in our own world, to  expel people from our communities rather than listen to what their experiences could teach us. Those who refuse to see will indeed remain blind, but if we open our eyes, it is yet still possible to live in the light.

Our reading today is John 4:46-54 and 5:1-18 – the first healing stories we’ll read this season. And in this time when access to healthcare seems like its own miracle, stories that really struck us both. We remember the signs and wonders of Exodus, and their importance in building a lasting faith for the people, as we see Jesus offer signs and wonders of a different kind. We imagine what it would be to be so close to that pool of water that held within it a promise of dignity, or maybe even healing – and slowly realize over weeks and years that it will never be your turn to immerse. When Jesus heals these men, can we imagine he is offering something more than a broken fever, more than legs with the strength to walk? And can we imagine a way of healing, in this story and in our time, that’s not dependent on the established systems? 

This week we’re reading the story of Jesus and the Samaritan woman at the well, as told in John 4:1-42. Here we find a story about a Jewish man and a Samaritan woman, from communities that have hated each other for centuries, finding common ground at the well of their mutual ancestor, Jacob. We notice that their interaction starts out tensely, shifting only when Jesus takes the time to see her deeply and acknowledge the pain she carries with her. We marvel at her insight, to recognize Jesus as the messiah when others have struggled to understand. And we reflect on her courage to share her experience with her entire village, inviting them to come and see Jesus even though she hasn’t fully figured things out for herself yet. What if we take this woman as a model for faith, we wonder, who calls us to engage across difference, inviting others to share our experience of Jesus?