Resuming our "Bible Study on the Road" in this Easter season, we begin with the book of JOB, which we will take in two parts. In April, chapters 1-21, in May, chapters 22-42.
Job is a teaching myth in Hebrew tradition, a grand story that raises significant theological questions with which we still struggle today. In a very poetic and poignant way, Job wrestles with the question of undeserved suffering: where does suffering come from? how are we to respond when we suffer, and in supporting others who suffer? what does God think or do in the midst of human suffering?
In the opening scenes, there is a gathering of the heavenly "court", with a character called The Satan serving as "prosecuting attorney"--his role is to be on the watch for things going awry and for treason--serious offenses to be brought to the Judge (God). The Satan in Hebrew understanding is, therefore, very different from the Devil of the New Testament, who does not relate to God as an equal but tried to undermine God secretly by targeting faithful believers. The scene in Job is set up as an agreement between God and the Satan; not an evil deed of a devil that God has to undo.
As you read, consider:
Who does Job understand God to be?
How do the friends think of God?
How do you think of God?
In his suffering, Job is visited by friends, who come from some distance to sit with him, then to try to figure out why Job is enduring this suffering. Job has a reply for all their accusations; his replies become more vehement through the story (so much for "patience"!).
Consider: think of a time you were suffering over a period of time. How did friends respond to you? What part of their response was helpful? What was not helpful? Did the response make you feel God was closer to you, or more distant?
In the first 3/4 of the book, God is the object of many conversations and conjectures; in the last 1/4 God becomes subject. Join us for the conversation and see what God will have to say!
Wednesdays
April 11 6:45 pm Helen's (Austin)
April 18 10:00 am Living Word (Buda) [WELCA]
April 18 6:30 pm Bailey's (Buda)
April 25 6:30 pm Ruge-Jones's (San Marcos)
May 2 6:30 pm Schlortt's (Kyle)
May 9 7:00 pm Helen's (Austin)
May 16 10:00 am Living Word (Buda)
May 16 6:30 pm Bailey's (Buda)
May 23 6:30 pm Ruge-Jones's (San Marcos)
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Friday, March 9, 2012
iFast
One of the primary spiritual practices of Lent is FASTING, along with prayer and almsgiving (giving to the poor). I have practiced fasting during Lent for about 30 years. I started in high school, fasting on Good Friday, and enjoyed a day off from school, make-up, hairstyling, and food--until one of my college profs called me on that, reminding me that we are not to display our fasting to others (Matthew 6:16-18). [disclaimer: I truly regarded that practice as a fast from vanity and peer pressure to look my best at all times, not as a flaunting of my piety. And the prof noticed it because I skipped his class, per my usual practice of not having school on Good Friday, and had to make up an exam.]
My fasting has expanded in recent years, first to add Ash Wednesday to the Good Friday practice; and now to include one day a week during Lent. What I "give up" in Lent is one day of eating, one 24-hour day each week. Over the years I have come to associate the feeling of hunger, during this fasting time, as a spiritual nudge from God, as a grumbly tummy reminds me that I am fasting, and that fasting is for not being distracted from God. In my current practice, I fast 40 hours each on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday, and 24 hours once a week in between.
So why do I fast? I had this conversation with my spiritual director a few years ago, asking her that very question: why do I fast? Well, there are several reasons, any one of which might be the reason any given week: I am a cradle Lutheran, from a tradition that has for centuries included fasting as part of spiritual discipline during Lent. Not eating reminds me that the sense that I have complete control over my life (I can buy food and eat whenever I want to) is only an illusion--truly my life is in God's hands. Fasting reminds me that some people feel that empty grumble almost every moment of almost every day, and challenges me to examine how my habits around food contribute to this inequality. Not taking time out to eat gives me a little more time for other things (ideally, prayer), and not spending money on food frees up that bit of cash to be given to the poor. Being hungry for awhile is a bit of a test--am I willing to take up that cross and follow Jesus to communities that live hungry all the time?
This Ash Wednesday (Feb. 22) I felt the fasting not so much physically as spiritually. I felt deeply connected to the Divine, through my gut. I prayed several times throughout the day, sometimes driven there by light-headedness that required I sit still for awhile. I prayed formal prayers, and I prayed for others, both for their needs and praying their prayers for them when they were not able to join us for worship.
Fasting draws me in to myself, which is not a common or comfortable place for me, an extreme extrovert who practices spirituality by focusing on others--praying for them, serving them, walking with them. But the depth to which fasting allows me to go is the place I find God on these holy days, a personal and intimate meeting that my soul needs, even if my extroverted mind won't admit it.
I commend this spiritual practice to you, precisely because it is not normal or expected, and it is not easy. In such jolts from our routines, God often gets our attention.
My fasting has expanded in recent years, first to add Ash Wednesday to the Good Friday practice; and now to include one day a week during Lent. What I "give up" in Lent is one day of eating, one 24-hour day each week. Over the years I have come to associate the feeling of hunger, during this fasting time, as a spiritual nudge from God, as a grumbly tummy reminds me that I am fasting, and that fasting is for not being distracted from God. In my current practice, I fast 40 hours each on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday, and 24 hours once a week in between.
So why do I fast? I had this conversation with my spiritual director a few years ago, asking her that very question: why do I fast? Well, there are several reasons, any one of which might be the reason any given week: I am a cradle Lutheran, from a tradition that has for centuries included fasting as part of spiritual discipline during Lent. Not eating reminds me that the sense that I have complete control over my life (I can buy food and eat whenever I want to) is only an illusion--truly my life is in God's hands. Fasting reminds me that some people feel that empty grumble almost every moment of almost every day, and challenges me to examine how my habits around food contribute to this inequality. Not taking time out to eat gives me a little more time for other things (ideally, prayer), and not spending money on food frees up that bit of cash to be given to the poor. Being hungry for awhile is a bit of a test--am I willing to take up that cross and follow Jesus to communities that live hungry all the time?
This Ash Wednesday (Feb. 22) I felt the fasting not so much physically as spiritually. I felt deeply connected to the Divine, through my gut. I prayed several times throughout the day, sometimes driven there by light-headedness that required I sit still for awhile. I prayed formal prayers, and I prayed for others, both for their needs and praying their prayers for them when they were not able to join us for worship.
Fasting draws me in to myself, which is not a common or comfortable place for me, an extreme extrovert who practices spirituality by focusing on others--praying for them, serving them, walking with them. But the depth to which fasting allows me to go is the place I find God on these holy days, a personal and intimate meeting that my soul needs, even if my extroverted mind won't admit it.
I commend this spiritual practice to you, precisely because it is not normal or expected, and it is not easy. In such jolts from our routines, God often gets our attention.
You Count
Not too long ago I read an article about keeping track of worship attendance. It's something I do for statistical purposes, and the congregation is small enough that I can keep track of who's been absent for a few weeks in a row. Of course worship attendance is not the only measure of commitment or faithfulness, which I'm learning in real ways as I observe and interview lifestyles and time patterns of very busy families. The number of families who go to worship on Sunday morning more often than not because it's "the right thing to do" is decreasing, but I continue to find passion and commitment for [ministry, God, Jesus, spirituality] running strong among those who do not or are not able to attend worship every Sunday.
That understood, I will continue to count worship attendance, in addition to attendance at other events and ministries, including book club, Sunday school, home Bible studies, women's events, senior events, confirmation, and summer camp. I will still visit people in the hospital, call them at home, visit them at work, find them on Facebook, pray for them, and send birthday cards--personal contacts that are not related to worship. I do this not to boost my stats (they only count once a year for ELCA reports) but because that aforementioned article reminded me of the importance of counting. We count not to induce guilt or to pad reports. We count because people count--YOU MATTER. In Luke 15 we hear the parable of a shepherd who leaves his 99 obedient sheep to find the one who strayed. Not being a shepherd myself, I may miss how ridiculous this is; a shepherd would probably not risk 99 for the sake of 1, but rather take the loss. But the Good Shepherd reminds us that every single one counts, and when the count is taken and one is missing, nothing is more important than finding that one.
Sometimes YOU, dear reader, are that ONE--the one who has not come to worship today, the one we are missing, the one whose absence changes the constitution of "WE". Being part of a congregation is not about obligation to attend so you (and your offering) can be counted. It's about the relationships you make with others through which the love of God is conducted, practiced, shared, grown. It's about the way your presence has changed our life together, and your absence changes it again. It's about what we know about God and faithfulness because of what you have brought along and taught us.
You do not need to feel guilty; but please feel missed. Know that your presence, or your absence, makes a difference in a community of faith, and if the primary form of togetherness in that community is worship, well, then...this "shepherd" is counting, because YOU COUNT.
That understood, I will continue to count worship attendance, in addition to attendance at other events and ministries, including book club, Sunday school, home Bible studies, women's events, senior events, confirmation, and summer camp. I will still visit people in the hospital, call them at home, visit them at work, find them on Facebook, pray for them, and send birthday cards--personal contacts that are not related to worship. I do this not to boost my stats (they only count once a year for ELCA reports) but because that aforementioned article reminded me of the importance of counting. We count not to induce guilt or to pad reports. We count because people count--YOU MATTER. In Luke 15 we hear the parable of a shepherd who leaves his 99 obedient sheep to find the one who strayed. Not being a shepherd myself, I may miss how ridiculous this is; a shepherd would probably not risk 99 for the sake of 1, but rather take the loss. But the Good Shepherd reminds us that every single one counts, and when the count is taken and one is missing, nothing is more important than finding that one.
Sometimes YOU, dear reader, are that ONE--the one who has not come to worship today, the one we are missing, the one whose absence changes the constitution of "WE". Being part of a congregation is not about obligation to attend so you (and your offering) can be counted. It's about the relationships you make with others through which the love of God is conducted, practiced, shared, grown. It's about the way your presence has changed our life together, and your absence changes it again. It's about what we know about God and faithfulness because of what you have brought along and taught us.
You do not need to feel guilty; but please feel missed. Know that your presence, or your absence, makes a difference in a community of faith, and if the primary form of togetherness in that community is worship, well, then...this "shepherd" is counting, because YOU COUNT.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Thanks be to God!
Two weeks ago I received some of the best news of my life. My friend Shelley had been enduring chemotherapy for 4 months, then had major surgery to remove any "leftover" cancer. On January 5, she was told there was no cancer in the tissue they had removed, or the lymph nodes. For me, a friend in a different time zone who found out in a Facebook post, this was indeed great news--it ranks in my life with "Will you marry me?" "It's a girl!" and "It's a boy!" in terms of being life-changing, transformational news.
The next morning I sang Matins, Psalm 95: "Let us come before God's presence with thanksgiving and raise a loud shout to the Lord with psalms." The significance of "thanksgiving" rattled my bones as I prayed--indeed, I am thankful in a new way for this new life for Shelley and for our relationship. It's so much more than appreciation or relief, though they are both part of the experience. It is deep, deep gratitude that God knows each cell of our bodies, even the cancerous ones, and that God desires wholeness for us, body, mind, and soul. It's a "come to Jesus" moment in which I realize I never really can return the favor or pay God back in any way, not even close. This is a gift in the truest sense, no occasion or persuasion or expectation of return.
The feelings I have around this are not polite--"Remember to say 'Thank you'". These feelings are intense and hard and sure and deep, and a little scary. This isn't just "something I picked up for you" kind of gift, but a gift that has changed the way I think about the world and my, and Shelley's, place in it.
I am very thankful, to God, for Shelley. And, as the psalmist suggests, I think I may have shouted!
The next morning I sang Matins, Psalm 95: "Let us come before God's presence with thanksgiving and raise a loud shout to the Lord with psalms." The significance of "thanksgiving" rattled my bones as I prayed--indeed, I am thankful in a new way for this new life for Shelley and for our relationship. It's so much more than appreciation or relief, though they are both part of the experience. It is deep, deep gratitude that God knows each cell of our bodies, even the cancerous ones, and that God desires wholeness for us, body, mind, and soul. It's a "come to Jesus" moment in which I realize I never really can return the favor or pay God back in any way, not even close. This is a gift in the truest sense, no occasion or persuasion or expectation of return.
The feelings I have around this are not polite--"Remember to say 'Thank you'". These feelings are intense and hard and sure and deep, and a little scary. This isn't just "something I picked up for you" kind of gift, but a gift that has changed the way I think about the world and my, and Shelley's, place in it.
I am very thankful, to God, for Shelley. And, as the psalmist suggests, I think I may have shouted!
Monday, January 2, 2012
Jan/Feb Bible Study: Mark
Because of various scheduling conflicts, the first Bible study of 2012 will meet on these dates:
Jan. 18 10 am @ Clarie's (WELCA)
6:30 pm @ Bailey's (Buda)
Jan. 25 6:30 pm @ Ruge-Jones's (San Marcos)
Feb. 1 6:30 pm @ Schlortt's (Kyle)
Feb. 8 6:45 pm @ Helen's (Austin)
Welcome Phil Ruge-Jones, our resident Mark scholar, who has written this month's blog intro to the Bible study. Read the Gospel of Mark (all of it!) and we'll see you at one of the gatherings.
Most scholars date the Gospel of Mark around 70 AD, during the time of the Jewish-Roman war that reached its brutal climax with the destruction of Jerusalem and its temple. In the midst of this massive destruction, the people of faith were perplexed and trying to sort out how in God’s name this could happen. How could God’s dwelling place and the city of God have been destroyed by imperial forces? Where was God in the midst of this national tragedy? How could God allow thousands of the chosen people to be slaughtered without mercy? With the temple destroyed, the people of faith had to figure out one more time what it meant to be the people of God in a new circumstance.
The Gospel of Mark is one response, but its purpose is not merely to explain what had happened. The gospel became a vessel capable of carrying their profound grief and perplexity. By telling of the crucifixion of Jesus, they also heard echoes of the Roman crucifixion of husbands, brothers, neighbors, and children. Their grief at what humanity did to Jesus flowed into their more recent grief. But also the hope that grew out of Jesus’ promised resurrection filled them with hope for a new future.
These people continued to live in the shadow of the Roman Empire. This imperial power was the global reality that dominated and shaped their lives on even the most intimate levels. They remembered the one called Jesus who spoke of another empire, the empire of God. Although we are more familiar with the translation the “kingdom of God” one could also translate the Greek word for kingdom as “empire”. This captures the tension between Rome’s empire and the one announced by Jesus. Jesus’ phrase was intentionally oppositional. For those who knew too well the brutality of the Roman Empire, Jesus proclaimed and enacted a very different kind of empire. This one had God’s initiation as its source and it gave people healing, bread, and life. Jesus’ commitment to proclaiming and living in this alternative empire eventually cost him his life.
One of the immediate contexts for proclaiming Jesus's story as the Gospel of Mark may have been on Easter eve at the vigil. Those who had studied the Christian way for as long as a year would hear the story of the life of Jesus as one last reminder of the way that they were beginning to walk. Hearing the story was part of the ritual that marked the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ in their lives.
As you read ask yourself these questions:
Where would this gospel address the loss its original hearers felt?
Where would it give them hope?
What is the “empire” that Jesus announces like?
How would you characterize it?
What does it mean for you to live in the way that Jesus announced and embodied?
Jan. 18 10 am @ Clarie's (WELCA)
6:30 pm @ Bailey's (Buda)
Jan. 25 6:30 pm @ Ruge-Jones's (San Marcos)
Feb. 1 6:30 pm @ Schlortt's (Kyle)
Feb. 8 6:45 pm @ Helen's (Austin)
Welcome Phil Ruge-Jones, our resident Mark scholar, who has written this month's blog intro to the Bible study. Read the Gospel of Mark (all of it!) and we'll see you at one of the gatherings.
Most scholars date the Gospel of Mark around 70 AD, during the time of the Jewish-Roman war that reached its brutal climax with the destruction of Jerusalem and its temple. In the midst of this massive destruction, the people of faith were perplexed and trying to sort out how in God’s name this could happen. How could God’s dwelling place and the city of God have been destroyed by imperial forces? Where was God in the midst of this national tragedy? How could God allow thousands of the chosen people to be slaughtered without mercy? With the temple destroyed, the people of faith had to figure out one more time what it meant to be the people of God in a new circumstance.
The Gospel of Mark is one response, but its purpose is not merely to explain what had happened. The gospel became a vessel capable of carrying their profound grief and perplexity. By telling of the crucifixion of Jesus, they also heard echoes of the Roman crucifixion of husbands, brothers, neighbors, and children. Their grief at what humanity did to Jesus flowed into their more recent grief. But also the hope that grew out of Jesus’ promised resurrection filled them with hope for a new future.
These people continued to live in the shadow of the Roman Empire. This imperial power was the global reality that dominated and shaped their lives on even the most intimate levels. They remembered the one called Jesus who spoke of another empire, the empire of God. Although we are more familiar with the translation the “kingdom of God” one could also translate the Greek word for kingdom as “empire”. This captures the tension between Rome’s empire and the one announced by Jesus. Jesus’ phrase was intentionally oppositional. For those who knew too well the brutality of the Roman Empire, Jesus proclaimed and enacted a very different kind of empire. This one had God’s initiation as its source and it gave people healing, bread, and life. Jesus’ commitment to proclaiming and living in this alternative empire eventually cost him his life.
One of the immediate contexts for proclaiming Jesus's story as the Gospel of Mark may have been on Easter eve at the vigil. Those who had studied the Christian way for as long as a year would hear the story of the life of Jesus as one last reminder of the way that they were beginning to walk. Hearing the story was part of the ritual that marked the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ in their lives.
As you read ask yourself these questions:
Where would this gospel address the loss its original hearers felt?
Where would it give them hope?
What is the “empire” that Jesus announces like?
How would you characterize it?
What does it mean for you to live in the way that Jesus announced and embodied?
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
It's Advent, the 4 weeks prior to Christmas when we "get ourselves ready". It's my favoritest season of the whole year, on any calendar. But it isn't an easy one: the stories are of incredible (as in unbelievable) events: the upsetting of "natural order" at the end of time; a crazy baptizing preacher from the wilderness; pregnancy for women for whom pregnancy doesn't seem possible.
Maybe those are the things I like about the stories in Advent. I can't explain them, I don't know why God works in such illogical and messy ways, but that is where God seems to do the best work. These stories keep the mystery of God, rather than trying to be logical and understandable. HOW God is present isn't as important as THAT God is present, after all.
In Advent we live in this paradox time: the hope of what is to be in Jesus, and the confidence that it's already fulfilled in Jesus. Add it to the list of mysteries, I guess.
I'm listening to "To Kill a Mockingbird" by Harper Lee (somehow missed reading that before). There was a memorable quote today: "There are just some kind of men [sic] who are so busy worrying about the next world, they've never learned to live in this one." Advent is a time when we prepare to celebrate that God is present in THIS world, at THIS time, born again each year in Jesus--not that God needs a do-over, but we sure seem to need a reminder.
In the midst of tents being staked out and mobs descending at Wall Street and Wal-Mart, I invite you to remember God's presence and promise with us. The incarnation, after all, is about God finding this world "good"-- good at creation, and good enough to dwell in in Jesus.
I have for decades had a postcard on my wall, given to me by a friend in seminary: "Indeed! If God is really in this place, we know God is, we can't be in too much trouble now, can we?" (Thomas Merton)
May you be blessed in Advent, with discovering something about God and yourself, and with the trust gained by not needing to know more, which is one facet of faith.
Maybe those are the things I like about the stories in Advent. I can't explain them, I don't know why God works in such illogical and messy ways, but that is where God seems to do the best work. These stories keep the mystery of God, rather than trying to be logical and understandable. HOW God is present isn't as important as THAT God is present, after all.
In Advent we live in this paradox time: the hope of what is to be in Jesus, and the confidence that it's already fulfilled in Jesus. Add it to the list of mysteries, I guess.
I'm listening to "To Kill a Mockingbird" by Harper Lee (somehow missed reading that before). There was a memorable quote today: "There are just some kind of men [sic] who are so busy worrying about the next world, they've never learned to live in this one." Advent is a time when we prepare to celebrate that God is present in THIS world, at THIS time, born again each year in Jesus--not that God needs a do-over, but we sure seem to need a reminder.
In the midst of tents being staked out and mobs descending at Wall Street and Wal-Mart, I invite you to remember God's presence and promise with us. The incarnation, after all, is about God finding this world "good"-- good at creation, and good enough to dwell in in Jesus.
I have for decades had a postcard on my wall, given to me by a friend in seminary: "Indeed! If God is really in this place, we know God is, we can't be in too much trouble now, can we?" (Thomas Merton)
May you be blessed in Advent, with discovering something about God and yourself, and with the trust gained by not needing to know more, which is one facet of faith.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
November Bible Study: Esther
We’ve talked a lot lately about the law as we’ve looked at Jonah, Amos, Zephaniah, and Malachi in the Hebrew testament. What we translate as “law”, Torah, is the instruction of God, mostly about how to live together well to preserve the identity and well-being of the community. The Torah sets a boundary around those who observe it: they are defined over and against other communities, nations, and religions. We tend to view Torah as rules and regulations; things you “have” to do or God will get mad at you. But I think Torah is more like customs that distinguish a group of people, as we might say, “Oh, those Germans drive so fast on their autobahn” or “Texans love brisket” (stolen from an ad I saw today!). These are not stereotypes (though they could be) as much as they are what’s “famous” about the group as a whole. Torah functions somewhat like this: God’s people keep Torah, know the laws, know how the relationship with Yahweh is structured; others do not.
In the book of Esther, there is more “over and against” defining of who God’s people are. Esther takes place after the divide into two kingdoms, after the Babylonian exile, after the return home and rebuilding of Jerusalem. But after a few generations of relocation, not everyone thought of Israel as “home”, so the Jews were scattered throughout the region, having established homes and families in foreign countries.
The city of Susa, in what is now Iran, was the winter capital of the king of Persia, which was a very diverse kingdom made up of locals as well as immigrants and refugees who had been taken captive or dispersed abroad under the Babylonian empire. The book of Esther provides a contrast between the rich and powerful Persians and the humble Jews, who seem to be trying to fit in and to remain faithful (although, interestingly, God is never mentioned in this book!).
The most striking contrast is between those who live by fate and those who live by faith. The Persians put stock in fate: casting lots (“Purim”) to determine significant days in the calendar (3:7), and attributing bad policy and the suffering of others to “fate” (1:15, 8:8). The Jews, however, trust that God will provide, and they take action on their own behalf to “make room” for God to intervene: Esther is put forward as a candidate for queen (2:8) giving her privilege and power she, or any Jew living as a foreigner in the country, would not have had. Her influence with the king in gaining an audience and exposing Haman’s plot can be seen as “divine intervention”, although God is not credited in the story.
Esther is one more story of God saving God’s people in the midst of imminent danger, when they are about to be wiped out—and a thorough destruction it would have been if Haman’s decree had been carried out. It is less explicitly Jewish than other books, in that “what it means to live as people of the covenant” is not described or addressed, and God is not even mentioned. It is a story about accountability as, and to, the community, by those in power on behalf of those on the margins (4:14).
Q: Does this story remind you of any others, in the Bible or outside the Bible?
Q: How explicit do we have to be about our faith in order to be considered faithful? Is the absence of God’s name a problem, considering this is a Biblical book?
In the book of Esther, there is more “over and against” defining of who God’s people are. Esther takes place after the divide into two kingdoms, after the Babylonian exile, after the return home and rebuilding of Jerusalem. But after a few generations of relocation, not everyone thought of Israel as “home”, so the Jews were scattered throughout the region, having established homes and families in foreign countries.
The city of Susa, in what is now Iran, was the winter capital of the king of Persia, which was a very diverse kingdom made up of locals as well as immigrants and refugees who had been taken captive or dispersed abroad under the Babylonian empire. The book of Esther provides a contrast between the rich and powerful Persians and the humble Jews, who seem to be trying to fit in and to remain faithful (although, interestingly, God is never mentioned in this book!).
The most striking contrast is between those who live by fate and those who live by faith. The Persians put stock in fate: casting lots (“Purim”) to determine significant days in the calendar (3:7), and attributing bad policy and the suffering of others to “fate” (1:15, 8:8). The Jews, however, trust that God will provide, and they take action on their own behalf to “make room” for God to intervene: Esther is put forward as a candidate for queen (2:8) giving her privilege and power she, or any Jew living as a foreigner in the country, would not have had. Her influence with the king in gaining an audience and exposing Haman’s plot can be seen as “divine intervention”, although God is not credited in the story.
Esther is one more story of God saving God’s people in the midst of imminent danger, when they are about to be wiped out—and a thorough destruction it would have been if Haman’s decree had been carried out. It is less explicitly Jewish than other books, in that “what it means to live as people of the covenant” is not described or addressed, and God is not even mentioned. It is a story about accountability as, and to, the community, by those in power on behalf of those on the margins (4:14).
Q: Does this story remind you of any others, in the Bible or outside the Bible?
Q: How explicit do we have to be about our faith in order to be considered faithful? Is the absence of God’s name a problem, considering this is a Biblical book?
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