WRITINGS & RAMBLINGS
WRITINGS & RAMBLINGS
God’s written Word is unchanging, yet God’s children are constantly and faithfully being transformed. Consequently, those who read the eternal Scriptures consistently will find new revelations in every prayerful meditation. As a Bible teacher, a pastor, and—most importantly—a follower of the Way of Jesus, I have experienced the transforming power of the Word through the practices of Lectio Divina and scriptural meditation.
Recently, during my time of devotion, I was praying over Matthew 25:31-46, often titled “The Judgment of the Nations.” I would like to humbly share some of my recent insights. Please understand: I am not suggesting these insights are "new" in a “no one has ever noticed this before” sense; rather, they are personal epiphanies—fruit that has blossomed from a life rooted in the Word.
The scene in Matthew 25:31-46 opens with the apocalyptic imagery of the Son of Man (who is later given the title of King) sitting on the throne, surrounded by angels. The nations are gathered before the One on the throne and sorted into two groupings: sheep and goats. Each group is judged based on what they either did or did not do for "the least of these."
In past readings of this parable, I believe I neglected to recognize what was most important. My attention was always on the judgment itself rather than the actions or inaction of the sheep and goats. But before we get to that particular insight, I would like to share my first reflection.
I am no shepherd. I know next to nothing about sheep and goats outside of petting zoos. That said, I would wager that if you put me before a blended gathering of sheep and goats, I could tell the sheep apart from the goats. The distinctions are strikingly obvious. Living out the ethics of the Kingdom of God is so plain that it will be easy to sort us out of the crowd. Simply put: the ethics of Jesus will make us stand out.
And here is the second and final insight. As I stated earlier, I have often focused on the outcomes of judgment in this passage—either eternal reward and bliss or eternal punishment and damnation. The verdicts of judgment are evident and cannot be ignored, but perhaps there is a deeper teaching often overlooked.
After the sorting of groups, the King addresses the sheep and the goats separately. To the sheep on the right first, he says, “Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.”
The righteous ask, “When did we do these things?” Isn’t that a strange question? How do they not know what they’ve done when they’ve done the right thing? This is where I believe the parable takes us away from the common focus on rewards and punishments. It appears the focus of the righteous one’s devotion is not eternal security; rather, it is simply doing what is right and loving. It is not until they are guided by the Son of Man that they realize they had been serving Christ when they had been serving the least of these.
Eternity in the presence of God is the final reward, but the true aim for those who are righteous is to do the daily work of loving their neighbors unconditionally. Furthermore, the revelation of our actions—connecting the dots of participation and understanding—comes from Jesus, not from leaning on our own understanding.
Then the King turns to the goats on his left: ‘You who are accursed, depart from me into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels; for I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not give me clothing, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.’ Then they also will answer, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison and did not take care of you?’ Then He will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.’
Notice how similar the questions are between the sheep and the goats. Both are ignorant of the extent of their action or inaction; both the sheep and the goats are unaware of the eternal gravity of their earthly conduct.
This leads us to a challenging conclusion: the sheep did not serve to get into Heaven, and the goats did not withhold mercy out of a desire for Hell. Both acted out of the overflow of who they truly were. The sheep were so transformed by the Way of Jesus that acts of generous love became second nature—as natural as a sheep growing wool. As we meditate on this, let us shift the concerning question from, 'How do I pass the judgment?' to, 'Who am I becoming in the often secret, daily rhythmic moments of another's need?' When we focus on loving the person in front of us, we find we have been walking with the King all along.
A Brief Word on Power 1/6/2026
Today is Epiphany Day and the beginning of the season by the same name. This sacred time stretches all the way to Ash Wednesday, which falls on February 18 this year. Following the Twelve Days of Christmas, Epiphany is the liturgical season that focuses on the visitation of the Magi (often emphasized in churches in the West), the Lord’s Baptism (often emphasized in churches in the East), and the Transfiguration.
The primary focus of the season seems to be on the nature of Jesus—who he is as the Christ, the Son of God. In Matthew’s account, the author seeks to clearly state who Jesus is and who he is not. The Gospel writer does this, in part, by juxtaposing power.
In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, magi from the east came to Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star in the east and have come to pay him homage.” When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him, and calling together all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Messiah was to be born.
—Matthew 2:1–4
I find it interesting how the Gospel writers name-drop people like King Herod yet take no time to introduce them. Who is this guy? Why is he important to the story? I thought this story was about the Son of God. It’s almost as if context matters here (said with a bit of sarcasm).
Since Matthew seems unconcerned with providing a King Herod biography (again—sarcasm), allow me to offer a brief backstory on this Herod fellow.
To understand Herod’s rise to power, we must go back more than a century. Following the Maccabean Revolt and the defeat of the Seleucids, Judea established rulers of their own, beginning with Simon Thassi, the brother of Judah Maccabee. This marked the beginning of the Hasmonean Dynasty. For a time, things were going well under the Hasmoneans. One might even claim these were some of Judea’s glory days—but I’m no historian.
As I said, things were gravy for Judea… until the Romans intervened in 63 BCE. The decades that followed showed a rapid decline in Hasmonean power. Meanwhile, a young man—the son of a high-ranking official—began to get a taste of authority. Enter: Herod.
Herod was an Edomite (a descendant of Esau), though he was raised by his father in the Jewish tradition. At the age of twenty-five, Herod’s father, Antipater, appointed him governor of Galilee. Eventually (and I’m certainly skipping a great deal of history here), Herod received another promotion and was crowned king of Judea—the “King of the Jews”—violently bringing the Hasmonean Dynasty to an end.
Taking off my incompetent-historian hat and putting back on my—perhaps—less incompetent (the verdict is yours to decide) pastoral hat, I would argue that the first language Herod ever learned was the language of power. And when all you’ve known is the language of power, power is almost always abused. Furthermore, it seems the greatest fear of those who have always known power is the threat of losing power itself.
When King Herod heard this, he was frightened…
Then there is the Christ-child, born in humility. No palace, no wealthy family with connections, no privileged education—the list could go on. What a stark contrast in power. Yet if we affirm who Jesus was, and is, according to Matthew (and I do), we must conclude that Jesus the Christ, the Son of God, possesses all power—because he is, in fact, God.
As the pages of Matthew unfold, we bear witness to how Jesus, this God in human flesh, uses his power. He heals the sick, controls nature, casts out demons, raises the dead, and forgives sins. Matthew makes it abundantly clear that Jesus the Christ fulfills the prophecies of old, but he also vividly displays how Jesus elevates and humanizes the marginalized and the outcast.
There have been many Herods throughout human history. There still are, and more Herods will rise to power tomorrow. What remains tried and true is the way of Jesus, who emptied himself and took on the form of a slave (Philippians 2:7).
And here is perhaps the most striking part of all: despite ourselves and our mortal weakness, God has bestowed on us his power. Matthew ends his account with what we now call the Great Commission:
And Jesus came and said to them, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”
—Matthew 28:18–20
This Epiphany, take time to assess the power dynamics of this world. Above all, seek God’s definition of power. And understand this: Jesus Christ has given those who follow him his power—a power not used to control, threaten, or abuse, but a power used to lift the lowly, speak for the voiceless, empower others, and make disciples—work we are not capable of accomplishing by our own might.
May the anthem of Epiphany be this:
The power of Christ compels you.
It’s been many years now, but my wife and I used to participate in a fictitious holiday we called Turksoween. This was back when we were living in Kansas City, during my seminary years. We had a community of friends who would often leave to visit their families for Thanksgiving, and we wanted to celebrate and overeat with them, too. The problem was, many of us weren’t in the same town at the same time.
We came up with a solution: Turksoween! We created a holiday nestled between Halloween and Thanksgiving, where we would don Halloween costumes and share a Thanksgiving meal. To spice it up even more, we would go around the table and say one thing we were thankful for—as is tradition—but also one thing we were unthankful for.
Most of the time, people would just say trivial things for their “unthankful”. I remember one year I said, “I am thankful for those fancy metal snap buttons on Western shirts (I was really into those back then), and what I’m not thankful for is when those shirts come out of the dryer and I burn myself on said metal buttons.” Stupid.
But sometimes it got real; we were an honest community. For some, the thing they were unthankful for was a heavy loss: the loss of a job, a relationship, or a loved one to disease.
This third week of Advent, we light the pink candle, focusing on the theme of Joy. Joy is commonly, textbook associated with happiness or contentment, but for many this time of year, those feelings of happiness are a challenge—nearly impossible to muster. I have lost count of the tragedies surfacing on my social media feeds lately—sudden deaths, cancer diagnoses, and heartbreak.
Yet, simultaneously, I’ve also been witness to new life. The balance of joy and sorrow is a strange, paradoxical one. It should not be lost on us that the Longest Night (sometimes called Blue Christmas) is so close to the celebration of the Christ-child. While new life is being brought into the world—a life that will change everything—there is also great pain in a fallen world.
In John 15, Jesus offers these words to his disciples:
"I have loved you even as the Father has loved me. Remain in my love. When you obey my commandments, you remain in my love, just as I obey my Father’s commandments and remain in his love. I have told you these things so that you will be filled with my joy. Yes, your joy will overflow!"
Let’s not forget the context: soon after Jesus says this, he will face the cross. All will seem lost. Joy won’t make sense in the moment. For those of us who know how the story ends, it’s easy to say "all will be well," but we shouldn't rush too quickly through the tragedy.
Returning to Jesus’ words, there seems to be a remedy to our sorrow. There is something mysterious and wonderful that brings us back to true, everlasting joy—and that is Love. A Love that proceeds from God and is ultimately obedient and faithful. This Love is not a quick fix. Rather, this Love is a slow, steady balm that takes time to heal the wounds of sorrow and grief; scars may remain.
Allow me to offer a poem I wrote last Lent. Even though it is a Lenten poem, I think there is a deep connection here to Advent.
In Time
The Lord knows all, sees all, and is all.
Each future event, good or ill, rests in
God’s hands—controlled, watched over, carefully cosmic.
But does the Creator see my mundane moments?
In preparing family meals on a tight budget?
In tucking my children in after an exhausting day?
In the unwelcome interruption of past pain?
In the sudden anxiety, thought to be regulated?
In the deflating loneliness, though well surrounded?
Evermore, the present moment is redeemable—
universally sacred and everyday ordinary.
Each Instance is an Incarnational prayer.
—
I recently watched a video in which a Bible scholar walked through the ever-so-popular Christmas song, "Mary, Did You Know," line by line. To settle the argument once and for all, this scholar directly answered the question posed by the song's title.
Would one day walk on water?
No.
Save our sons and daughters?
Yes.
Give sight to the blind man?
No.
Is the Lord of all creation?
Yes.
And so on...
During this season of Advent, I've taken the opportunity to re-read, ponder, and meditate on the Annunciation passage found in Luke's account (Luke 1:26-38). The longer I sit with this passage, the more I am in awe of Mary’s faithful obedience—her ultimate willingness to say YES.
Returning to that familiar Lucan passage, I'd like to share two insights.
34 Mary said to the angel, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?” 35 The angel said to her, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God. 36 And now, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son, and this is the sixth month for her who was said to be barren. 37 For nothing will be impossible with God.”
After receiving Gabriel's initial news that she would bear a son, Mary understandably has a follow-up question: “How can this be?” This is a deeply relatable question for people of faith. I've asked God this question over the years. Importantly, this is not a question of doubt, but a request for clarity. Mary’s response stands in contrast to Sarah’s, who laughed when she overheard the announcement that she would have a son past childbearing age (see Gen 18). Instead of laughing it off, Mary offers a sincere question: How can this be?
Let’s be clear: God’s wonders usually do not make sense to us. In other words, the Infinite is incomprehensible to the finite. We need clarity. We sometimes need evidence. If we choose to take our question—How can this be?—to the Source, to God, we ought to trust that God is faithful in offering us what we need to move forward in faithful obedience.
Gabriel answers Mary’s question, not with contempt or criticism, but by giving Mary the clarity she deserves. And Gabriel could have stopped there, but he didn’t.
And now, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son...
I am not convinced there is such a thing as “blind faith.” That doesn’t mean we don’t ever have to make a “leap of faith,” but more often than not, if we are able to see it, the faithful ask of obedience is often built upon a previously constructed foundation of trust. Gabriel could have simply told Mary that what would happen would happen because of the work of the Holy Spirit and been done with it. However, Gabriel tells Mary about Elizabeth. Elizabeth serves as Mary’s faithful foundation, a gentle reminder that Mary is not alone in her wondrous journey. For nothing will be impossible with God.
I’m learning that one of the spiritual by-products, if you will, of this season of Advent are the gifts of clarity and discernment. As we wait, we will have questions. The discipline that arises out of this waiting period is to take those questions of how can this be directly to God, rather than leaning on our own understanding. God will be faithful when we don't know (as Mary didn't often know). Perhaps God will call to our minds the Elizabeths in our lives. And in all this, God will offer us what we need for us to offer up a radical, obedient YES.
Inspired by Mary’s radical act of surrender—her YES—allow me to share with you a poem I crafted as a prayerful meditation.
Yes, Yes, and Amen
Resting in open hands are every shred,
every morsel of every sincere YES:
thrown with care into the heavens.
Each act of surrender, no matter
how insignificant, showers down
on me with wonder. I consent not
to grasp each fragment, foolishly
believing this time, this time,
I have control of scattered graces.
Little did I know, this confetti crafted
with submission was heralding in
an invitation to a party of a lifetime.