The Bible is not univocal; it does not speak with only one voice, but many. Within Scripture we find differing visions for the world, often existing in tension with one another. Our responsibility is not to ignore or gloss over those tensions, but to wrestle with them honestly in an attempt to discern which vision most clearly reflects the heart of God and leads toward justice, compassion, and human flourishing for all people.

For more on this, check out this short video.

If you found this post helpful or interesting, please interact with it in some way—comment, like, and/or share.

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Thanks for your patience in waiting for regular content here. I’ve been writing away on my next book, and I’m so excited to share that it is now available for preorder!

The title of this release is Advent Can Still Change the World: Bringing Christmas Past into Christmas Present. Here’s the description from the publisher:

Christmas is a global celebration wrapped in nostalgia and tradition. The movies we return to each year, the carols we know by heart, and the rituals we repeat connect us to Christmases past and to one another. Yet beneath these familiar layers lies a story rooted in real life, unfolding in a specific time and place. To experience the enduring power of the Christmas story today, we must first understand what it meant then before we can discern what this sacred story offers our own moment. Guided by Josh Scott, you’ll discover how reading these texts in their original context opens fresh meaning for contemporary faith, illuminating the gifts and challenges of Christmas for our lives today.

I’m also excited to share that each book comes with a code that will give readers access to the videos and leader guide content we’re creating to support the book, too.

Preorders are one of the best ways to support a book as it comes to launch, so if you’re interested in reserving your copy, you can visit one of the links below. Thanks so much for the support and encouragement you share with me! It means the world to get to do this work!

Amazon
Cokesbury

I’m working on a post for later this week that focuses on what I like to call, The Sacred Art of Cherry-Picking. Until then, have a great week!

JS

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Last Sunday at GracePointe Church I offered a sermon that introduces Ash Wednesday and Lent—when they began, how they have been understood, etc.—and that seeks to reimagine them in a way that embraces their gifts but also employs a pro-human lens.

If you struggle with this day and this season, if you’ve wondered if there’s still any meaning to be found in it, and/or if you’d like to find a way to reimagine them so that they are not anti-human, then you just might find this sermon helpful. You will find the links to the sermon, as well as a previous Ash Wednesday post I shared here on Substack, below. I hope it’s helpful!

Sermon: An Introduction to Lent and Ash Wednesday

Apple
Spotify

Article: Some Good News for Ash Wednesday

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Text: Luke 2:1-20

One of the lessons you learn very quickly as a parent is that the birth of a child isn’t the end of the work. In fact, it’s only the beginning.

The same is true of Advent and Christmas.

Christmas isn’t a conclusion, but a new chapter in an unfolding story that we are still living out today. As we revisit these familiar stories each year we are not only watching the characters in the story as they play their part, but we are also trying to find our role in the story. How are we being invited to continue the spirit and work of this story in new and fresh ways today?

Let’s conclude our time by listening to the words of a poem by theologian and civil rights activist Howard Thurman that beautifully sums up this idea. The poem is called The Work of Christmas, and I hope it might be a reminder of the task that is in front of us after this season is over.

When the song of the angels is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flock,
The work of Christmas begins:

To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among brothers,
To make music in the heart.

Reflection:
How will you participate in the continued work of Christmas after this season is over?

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Happy Christmas Eve, friends!

Many of us have been taught that the goal of the Christian faith is to help us overcome—to save us from—our humanity. After all, isn’t that our problem? We even use our humanity as an explanation for the moments we fall short, don’t we? When we mess up, we often say, “I’m only human,” and we all know what it means: Don’t expect too much. Put the bar low, and we humans will find a way to slither under it. The picture painted in our Scriptures couldn’t be farther from that understanding.

The story of the Bible begins with God making humans to bear Their image to the rest of creation. We are a combination of soil and spirit, and God called that mingling of earth and divinity “good.” Nothing has ever changed that. The truth is, in our worst and weakest moments it is not our humanity that is the problem. Our biggest challenge is that we, far too often, live beneath our good humanity. When we live together in subhuman ways we end up with the violence, greed, and bigotry that have so marred God’s good world. To put it succinctly, being human is so good that God joined in on the party. That is part of the meaning of the Incarnation, and it didn’t just begin with Jesus. God has always partnered and collaborated with humans to move creation forward. Yes, we are the source of our problems, but we are also the source of the solutions to our problems.

That is essentially the argument Paul is making in Romans 5. He argues that through Adam, a human, sin and death entered the story, but it is also through a human, Jesus, that sin and death are defeated.¹ We have big human-created challenges, and God has decided that we will also be the remedy to those challenges.

Advent calls us to that responsibility, to taking seriously our role in the healing and repair of creation. May we embrace this invitation, this calling, to join God and one another in the work of bringing much needed justice and renewal to creation.

Reflection:
How does the idea that we are the human solution to our human problems strike you?
What does it mean for our understanding of the Jesus story?
What does it mean for our understanding of the human story?

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Text: Galatians 4:4-5

Paul is the first written witness we have to the life of Jesus. That is a fact that often surprises many readers of Scripture. The assumption is that, since the Gospels are first in the order of the New Testament and they also narrate some of the events/sayings/actions of Jesus, the four Gospels must have been written first. That is not the reality of our sources. Mark was the first Gospel to be written, sometime around the year 70 CE, or roughly four decades after the life of Jesus. Paul wrote his authentic letters that we have between the late 40s and early 60s CE, or roughly twenty to thirty years after Jesus’s life.

I bring all this up because our earliest source, Paul, doesn’t seem to focus on the birth of Jesus as a miraculous event, like the Gospels of Matthew and Luke several decades later. Instead, Paul says only a few things about Jesus’s origins:

1. Jesus was born of a woman. (Galatians 4:4)

2. Jesus was born under the Law (Galatians 4:4)

3. Jesus was a descendant of David (Romans 1:3)

Nothing spectacular, really. If you boil it down, the totality of Paul’s claims about Jesus’s birth are that he was born like all humans are born, that he was Jewish, and that he descended from David’s family tree.

These are the earliest claims about Jesus’s origins…and I absolutely love it!

Jesus was not a superman invading earth from somewhere else, on a mission from God.

Jesus was one of us—human like us, born like us.

That means what he did, what he taught, and how he lived are not beyond our reach. The vision of the world that energized his work can also energize ours. The love that he embodied is also the same love we can embody.

If it means anything, the Incarnation means that God can best be known and experienced in the flesh, blood, bone, joy, grief, hope, and possibility of humanity. We truly bear God’s image.

The earliest “Christmas” message seems to have been that Jesus was one of us, and that we can be like him. Now that, my friends, is some good news!

Reflection:
If our earliest witness (Paul) emphasized Jesus’s shared humanity more than his miraculous origins, how does that reshape what it means to follow him—not just believe in him?

Where in your own flesh-and-blood life (your work, relationships, limits, griefs, or hopes) might God be known and experienced right now?

What changes if the “good news” of the Incarnation is less about Jesus being unlike us and more about how deeply he was connected to us and our experience?

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We are now in the final days of Advent, and the theme we reflect on as we approach Christmas is love. As we begin this week I can’t help but think about a photo I took several years ago. It was around Christmas, and I was leaving a store in a mad rush when I happened to look down. At the spot where the concrete store entrance met the pavement of the parking lot, I saw a pothole, but it looked as if someone had created this divot almost intentionally.

The mini-crater was in the shape of a heart.

Since it was the appropriate season, I immediately thought about the opening monologue of one of my annual must-watch Christmas movies, Love Actually. This voiceover, with scenes of airport reunions playing on screen, is done in-character by Hugh Grant, who played the British Prime Minister, David:

“Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion’s starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don’t see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often, it’s not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it’s always there – fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge – they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaky feeling love, actually … is all around.”

He’s got a point. While hate and greed, and all sorts of other unfortunate things, seem to exist in abundance these days, I really believe that love does, too. Perhaps it goes unnoticed at times, lost in the cacophony of hatefulness that gets most of the attention, but love is, actually, all around us.

My hope for all of us, in this season and beyond, is that we can become attuned to the love that is all around us, all the time, and do our part to make it grow and flourish.

Reflection:
Where have you noticed love unexpectedly or surprisingly?
How can you participate in making love more visible?

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Text: Isaiah 9:2

Today is the Winter Solstice in the Northern Hemisphere, the shortest day of the year. Since June 20th this year each passing day has progressively gotten shorter. After today, all that changes. Tomorrow the light begins to grow again. The days lengthen. Even as winter seeks to tighten its icy grip on us, creation begins to fight back.

That is the very heartbeat of Advent and Christmas. In the midst of the darkness of despair, violence, fear, and oppression of this moment Advent insists that the light of hope, peace, joy, and love is still burning, even if it seems faint and flickering. Our work, together, is to fan that flame so that it grows and illuminates our way to a more just and generous world.

Reflection:
How do you see the light of hope, peace, joy, and love flickering in this moment?
How can we help that light burn more brightly?

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As the “Joy week” of Advent comes to a close, take some time today to intentionally look for joy around you. When you notice it, perhaps take a moment to respond to it by writing a reflection, offering a prayer of gratitude, or even just by taking a few deep breaths and allowing this reminder to help carry you through the remainder of this busy, hectic season:

Joy is all around us waiting to be noticed, appreciated, and shared.

Reflection:
How/Where are you finding joy in this season?

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Read: Isaiah 11:1-9

The memory of David haunted Judah. That was especially, acutely felt after they returned home from the Exile in Babylon and were passed around from one empire to another for most of the next five hundred years. When would God fulfill Their promise to David, that there would always be one of his descendants on the throne of Judah?

Some two hundred years before the Exile happened the prophet Isaiah offered a gloomy picture of Jerusalem’s fate, but he also cast a hopeful vision of a people not forgotten.¹ The image of doom was that of Judah, depicted as a majestic, tall tree, being chopped down by God in judgement. The following hope was that of new growth—a shoot emerging from the lopped off stump. God would reignite the Davidic line, but where David and his descendants had largely failed to uphold justice, this future David would act righteously on behalf of the poor. He would finally usher in the peace they so desperately longed for, both internally and externally.

In the Gospels, Jesus is associated with this image of a new, but different, David. In both Paul and the Gospels Jesus is called “son of David,” meaning he was both descended from the line of David, and that he was the rightful Davidic heir. Jesus would not, however, use David’s methods. Instead, his way of being the rightful Davidic king would be to pursue justice through nonviolent peacemaking. It’s no wonder that his followers read texts like Isaiah 11 and applied them to their growing understanding of Jesus. For them experiencing Jesus made texts like this one come alive in new and transformative ways.

Christians, especially in America at this moment, are being asked to choose which image of Jesus we will embrace as normative and true. Will we follow the path of Christian Nationalism that prefers violent, forceful images of Jesus? That Jesus has little compassion for the poor, oppressed, or marginalized. Or will we embrace the Jesus who makes peace through justice? The one so filled with compassion that he fed the multitudes, healed the sick, and pulled the excluded and lonely close. This is one of the critical choices that we must make, one that will shape the future of Christianity (and perhaps the world) for better or worse.

Reflection:
What image or vision of Jesus do you find most compelling?

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Text: Luke 2:19

When you think about joy what comes to mind? I’d venture to guess that our default ideas about joy involve laughter, high energy, and, to use a technical term, a happy-clappy vibe.

That is one way to experience joy, but it’s not the only way. Sometimes joy is expressed in a quiet, reflective gratitude. That’s what we see in Mary’s response to the shepherd’s visit. Unlike the angels that filled the night sky with celebration and high volume, Mary’s joy is the kind a parent knows when someone sees and acknowledges the gift that is their child.

There is a kind of joy that isn’t loud and exuberant, but is, instead, thoughtful and grateful. Both can exist at the same time, and both are gifts. The joy that comes from gratitude and reflection can offer us a groundedness that empowers us to keep moving forward. May we all take moments, as frequent or rare as they may be, to embrace this kind of grateful joy during this season.

Reflection:
What are some of the grounded and grateful opportunities to experience joy in your life during this season of Advent?
How does paying attention to them shape our experience?
How are gratitude and joy connected for you?

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Text: Luke 2:8-20

Do you ever feel guilty about feeling joy? Especially in light of the suffering and pain of the world, how can we possibly feel good about experiencing joy when the everything is, well, a mess?

Enter the brilliance of the poet Mary Oliver. In her poem Don’t Hesitate she both names this pervasive sense of guilt we can feel over experiencing joy, and calls us to embrace the gift of joy when it comes to us. She writes,

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be…

But wait, isn’t that why we should suppress our joy? Not so fast. Later in the poem she connects the experience of joy to a kind of resistance.

…Still life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happened better than all the riches or power in the world…

This idea of joy as a kind of resistance can be found right in the middle of the Christmas stories. The angels appear to some shepherds and announce good news of great joy—complete with an enthusiastic, celebratory song—in the middle of the night, and more importantly, in the context of the Roman oppression of the people of Judea. The angels nor the shepherds hedged or muted their joy. The angels filled the night sky with song, and the shepherds returned from visiting the Holy Family joyfully praising God for the experience.

Joy is a way of resisting the cynicism, despair, and resignation that the powers that be count on to limit our capacity to push back against their plans to carve up the world unjustly. And, according to Mary Oliver, joy is not to be feared or avoided, but taken in and embraced with both arms:

“…whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.”

Reflection:
When is the last time you felt joy?
Have you ever felt guilty about feeling joy?
How can experiencing joy be an act of faithful resistance in your life?

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Text: Luke 2:10

Fear has a way of shrinking our world. It forces us inward, convincing us that self-protection is wisdom and distance is safety. Fear isolates. It causes us to look at others with suspicion, and to see anything or anyone new or unknown to us as a threat to be mitigated.

And then joy breaks in.

The angel’s first word to trembling shepherds was not about a series of doctrines they must believe, but an announcement: good news of great joy.

Joy is not simply optimism or happiness. It is also not the denial of pain or the dismissal of suffering. Joy meets the difficulty of life head on with the conviction that the way things are is not the way they have to be. That kind of joy does something fear never can: it connects us. It brings us together and reminds that, if the world is going to get any better, it will require us to work together with God to make it so.

Fear isolates because it says, “You are on your own.”
Joy connects because it declares, “Not only is God with us, but we are also with each other.”.

Advent joy, then, is not fragile. It is resilient. When fear tells us to withdraw, joy invites us to engage.

As we wait during Advent, we don’t wait alone. We wait together, held by a joy that keeps insisting that all this is going somewhere good.

Reflection
How has fear led you toward isolation?
How has joy brought you closer toward connection?

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Text: Luke 2:8-10

Yesterday I mentioned the contrast between joy and fear, and today I want to explore how that looks in practice. Let’s begin here: Joy is expansive, while fear constricts.

When fear is driving the bus, we pull everything close and hold it tightly. Our world gets smaller. Our imagination is stifled. Fear trains us to focus on protection instead of possibility, on survival instead of courage.

Joy does something different.

Joy loosens our grip. It opens our hands. It creates room—for generosity, for growth, for trust. That doesn’t mean our circumstances are always easy or ideal, far from it. Joy, however, is grounded in the truth that there really is enough to go around. The fear of scarcity becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, doesn’t it?

This is the kind of joy Advent points toward: It does not deny the problems of the world, but it refuses to let them have the final word. This joy is convicted that a better world is actually possible.

Fear isolates us. Joy draws us toward one another.
Fear builds walls. Joy builds tables.
Fear closes our hearts. Joy expands them.

May we listen to the spacious call of joy, and reject the narrowness of fear, this Advent and always.

Reflection:
What is shaping you?
Where is fear shrinking your world?
Where might joy be challenging you to make room—for God, for others, for hope?

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Today we have come to the third Sunday of Advent, which focuses on Joy. The Christmas story makes the bold insistence that joy is real and possible. In both the first century and the twenty-first century, that insistence can seem a little…naive, to say the least. However, year after year, Advent asks us to make space for the possibility of joy.

Our first assumption might be that the opposite of joy is sadness, but there are other candidates to consider. One polar opposite of joy is fear. That’s how the Gospel of Luke presents the Christmas story—as a message that casts out fear and makes space for joy. Over the next several days we will explore what joy might mean in the context of the first Christmas, and in our own experience of Christmas today.

Reflection:
How would you define joy?
What has your experience of joy been?’
What does the idea of joy and fear being opposites mean to you?

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Text: Matthew 5:9

In the imagination and language of Scripture peace means so much more than just a cessation of hostilities. Shalom, the idea laying behind the word peace used in this passage, means not just the absence of conflict, but the presence of balance, prosperity, and wholeness. Shalom is what is happening when everything is in right relationship, when everyone has enough.

Where there is no justice, there can be no peace.
They are two sides of the same coin.

Jesus calls peacemakers “children of God,” which is a beautiful image, and becoming a parent has opened new dimensions of meaning in this for me. My kids are getting older, but when they were small they imitated us all the time. When they were just starting to walk they would step into our shoes and try to walk around the house. They would inevitably fall many, many times. Yet, they were not discouraged one bit. They kept getting back up and trying again and again. Even now that they are older our smaller kiddos still, from time to time, attempt to slip on our shoes and walk around the house. Sure enough, they do better now than they did back then. They’ve started to grow into shoes that were once cartoonishly oversized. It’s become more natural, their balance is more steady.

When I think of what it means to be a peacemaker, this is the image that comes to mind: Children attempting to walk in their parents’ shoes. Humans attempting to walk in God’s shoes. We are most like God when we are seeking to make peace, meaning to establish justice, on earth.

Blessed are those who try to walk in God’s shoes—even if we stumble and fall again and again—because the practice of peacemaking and cultivating a more just and generous world means that we are embodying the very dream of God for the world.

Reflection:
What does the work of peacemaking mean to you?
Have you ever found yourself in the role of peacemaker?
What did you find meaningful or challenging about it?

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Text: Matthew 2:1-12

Yesterday we looked at the likely inspiration for Matthew’s story of the visiting Magi who come to honor the Christ-child. As we saw, Isaiah 60 is probably the passage that sparked Matthew’s imagination for this story of these non-Jewish travelers who came bearing gifts. But what about the star?

I can remember being a small child and scanning the night sky on Christmas, wondering if any of the stars in my view could possibly be the star that led the Magi to the home of the Holy Family. As far back as the thirteenth century astronomers have tried to make sense of this phenomenon reported by the Magi. We know stars don’t move across the sky in the way this story depicts, so to what could this be referring? It’s been suggested that, perhaps, it was a comet or a super nova. Others have posited that it is a reference to a great conjunction of planets that would have given off a bright light in the night sky. There is a more likely explanation, however: It came not from the sky, but from Scripture.

There are two specific texts that likely lie beneath the “Star of Bethlehem.” The first, Isaiah 60:3, says, “Nations shall come to your light and kings to the brightness of your dawn.” From there it was a short trip for Matthew to have the Magi follow a star (and for early interpreters to call them “kings,” which Matthew never does). The second passage comes from Numbers 24, and it part of that strange story of Balaam and his talking donkey. Balaam had been commissioned by Balak, the king of Moab, one of Israel’s most despised enemies, to curse Israel. In the end, Balaam ended up prophesying several oracles of blessing on Israel:

I see him but not now;
I behold him but not near—
a star shall come out of Jacob,
and a scepter shall rise out of Israel;
it shall crush the foreheads of Moab
and the heads of all the Shethites.
Numbers 24:17, NRSVue

According to Balaam, someday a leader would emerge from Jacob (another name for Israel), and the image he used to symbolize that leader who would crush Israel’s enemies were those of a star and scepter. This symbol eventually took on a messianic significance. In fact, this imagery was central to the Second Jewish Revolt against Rome that began in 132 CE. The leader of the resistance was named Simon, but he was given the name Bar Kokhba by a Rabbi named Akiva, who proclaimed him to be the Messiah. Bar Kokhba means “Son of the Star,” a reference to this prophesy in Numbers 24.

So, for Matthew, the “Star of Bethlehem” is far more significant than just a early form of GPS. It was a symbol of Jesus as the Messiah, drawing the Nations to the God of Israel, just as the prophets imagined.¹ However, this was supposed to happen in tandem with God destroying Israel’s enemies, like Moab. That’s where Jesus doesn’t fit the mold. Matthew spends the rest of his Gospel presenting Jesus as a Messiah who loves his enemies and experiences compassion for them. He doesn’t crush them, he feeds them. He doesn’t wound them, he heals them. He doesn’t seek to subjugate them, but offers the possibility of real liberation. The experience of Jesus—especially his unexpected (by them) death— caused many of his followers to reimagine what being the Messiah actually meant. The “Star of Bethlehem” is a hint, a foreshadowing clue very early in the story that invites us to see Jesus as a different kind of messianic figure. Much to the chagrin of some Christians throughout history (and even today), like Christian Nationalists, Jesus was not a warrior who slaughtered his enemies, but a compassionate healer who sought to bring a new world into being, right in the midst of the old.

That is the work to which Advent calls us, too.

Reflection:
What are some of the implications of this “star” symbolism for Matthew’s story of Jesus?
Why might some Christians gravitate toward images of Jesus as a warrior? What would Matthew say to them?

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Text: Matthew 2:1-12

Most of our Christmas story nostalgia comes from the Gospel of Luke, not Matthew. Luke has the annunciation to Mary, the journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem, the lack of room, and the angels’ appearance to the shepherds, along with their adoration of the Christ-child that followed. When we see a Christmas pageant it is usually based on Luke’s story with the addition of Matthew’s best known contribution, the Visit of the Magi.

These mysterious figures have often been called “kings,” but that designation is nowhere to be found in Matthew’s story. They are also often portrayed on camels and as being three in number. Those elements, too, are absent from Matthew. From where, then, did these details come? Matthew seems to have drawn inspiration for this episode from the words of Isaiah. Notice how many details that we commonly associate with Matthew’s account that come from Isaiah 60.

Arise, shine, for your light has come,
and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.
For darkness shall cover the earth
and thick darkness the peoples,
but the Lord will arise upon you,
and his glory will appear over you.
Nations shall come to your light
and kings to the brightness of your dawn. (vs.1-3)

A multitude of camels shall cover you,
the young camels of Midian and Ephah;
all those from Sheba shall come.
They shall bring gold and frankincense
and shall proclaim the praise of the Lord. (vs.6)

The context of Isaiah 60 is key to Matthew’s goal in alluding to this text. Isaiah chapters 56-66 are referred to by scholars as “Third Isaiah,” because the material in this section is likely from the hand of a different author, living a bit later than both First (chapters 1-39) and Second Isaiah (chapters 40-55). This author is writing after the return from Exile, and knew firsthand the disappointment the returning Exiles experienced when their arrival back in the land did not live up to their hopeful expectations.

In the face of an underwhelming reality, according to the vision of this prophet, God would one day restore their fortunes and Jerusalem would become a beacon to the world of God’s goodness and light. It makes sense, doesn’t it, for Matthew to be drawn to a passage like this as he seeks to share who Jesus is for him? For Matthew, Jesus is the light and glory of God returning to Israel, for the benefit of the whole world. Of course, later in this same Gospel Jesus would expand this metaphor to include all of his followers.

“You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. People do not light a lamp and put it under the bushel basket; rather, they put it on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” Matthew 5:14-16, NRSVue

In making this connection Matthew is inviting us to see Jesus, and one another, as the light that breaks into the darkness, creating illumination and warmth for those we encounter, without the expectation that they will convert to our religion. Where did I get that last part, you might be wondering? I find it so interesting that the Magi came to visit the Christ-child, offering their treasures to someone of a different religion. Even more surprising, when these travelers from a different land and religion arrive to offer these gifts, Mary (and I assume Joseph since he’s in the next episode) received them and the gifts they offered without demanding that they convert or change. The Visit of the Magi depicts a healthy, interfaith interaction between people of different traditions that ended in mutual respect and not proselytization. Who knows? Perhaps the Magi even offered Mary, Joseph, and Jesus a “Happy Holidays” greeting, to which, it would seem, they took no offense.¹

Reflection:

What does it mean for Jesus and us to be the “Light of the World”?

Have you had an experience of another religion like the one depicted between the Magi and the Holy Family?

What made that experience meaningful?

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