Scripture

Psalm 23; Exodus 3:16-22; 4:18-20; 1 Peter 2:13-17

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Prayer

Holy God, you have called us to follow in the way of your risen Son, and to care for those who are our companions, not only with words of comfort, but with acts of love. Guide us in the path of discipleship, so that, as you have blessed us, we may be a blessing for others, bringing the promise of the kingdom near by our words and deeds. Amen. (Revised Common Lectionary)

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Reflection

1 Peter 2:13-17

1 Peter 2:13-17 is not a straightforward call to obey the government and keep your head down. Such a surface reading misses the tension and the deeper story the writer is telling. This letter is written to Christians scattered across the Roman Empire, people who are not in positions of power but are instead trying to live out their faith under suspicion, misunderstanding, and at times outright hostility. They are described earlier in the chapter as “aliens and exiles,” which sets the tone. These believers do not quite belong to the world they inhabit. They are trying to follow Jesus in a system that does not share their values.

Right before this passage, Peter reminds them that their lives should be honorable among the Gentiles so that even if people speak against them, their good deeds might ultimately point back to God. That is the immediate context. So when Peter says, “Submit yourselves for the Lord’s sake to every human authority,” he is not suddenly shifting into a political lecture. He is continuing his pastoral concern about witness. How do you live in a way that reflects Jesus when you are surrounded by a culture that is watching you closely, sometimes looking for reasons to dismiss you?

Submission is not about blind loyalty or endorsing everything rulers do. It is about posture and purpose. Peter says this submission is “for the Lord’s sake,” which reframes everything. The motivation is not fear of punishment or even respect for power in itself. The motivation is allegiance to God. In a world where Christians could easily be seen as disruptive or even dangerous, the author encourages them to live in such a way that undermines those accusations. By doing good and showing respect, they “silence the ignorant talk of foolish people.” In other words, their lives become a kind of argument that no slander can easily defeat.

There is also a paradox running through the passage. Peter calls them to live as free people, but not to use their freedom as a cover for evil. Christian freedom is real, but it is not self-serving. It is freedom shaped by Christ, which means it is expressed in love and service. So even as they submit to authorities, they are not ultimately defined by those authorities. They belong to God. Their freedom comes from him, not from Rome.

The closing line pulls everything together in a series of short commands. Show proper respect to everyone. Love the family of believers. Fear God. Honor the emperor. The order is intentional. Fear is reserved for God alone. Honor is given to the emperor, but it is not the same as fear or worship. That distinction would have been especially important in a context where emperors often demanded divine-like loyalty.

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So this passage is less about endorsing any political system and more about shaping a distinctive kind of community. It is about Christians living visibly different lives, marked by respect, love, reverence for God, and a steady refusal to let the surrounding culture define their identity. In a tense and watchful world, Peter is urging believers to embody a quiet, resilient faith that speaks through action as much as words.

PRAYER: O God, whose blessed Son made himself known to his disciples in the breaking of bread: Open the eyes of our faith, that we may behold him in all his redeeming work; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer)

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Scripture

Psalm 23; Exodus 2:15b-25; 1 Peter 2:9-12

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Prayer

O God, your Son remained with his disciples after his resurrection, teaching them to love all people as neighbors. Open our hearts to your power moving around us and between us and within us, until your glory is revealed in our love of both friend and enemy, in communities transformed by justice and compassion, and in the healing of all that is broken. Amen. (Revised Common Lectionary)

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Reflection

Exodus 2:15b-25

Up to this point in Exodus, things have already gotten tense. The people of Israel are enslaved in Egypt, Pharaoh is paranoid about their growing numbers, and baby boys are being killed. Moses survives that chaos as an infant, grows up in Pharaoh’s household, and then everything unravels when he kills an Egyptian who is beating a Hebrew. When Pharaoh finds out, Moses runs for his life. That is where our reading picks up, with Moses sitting down by a well in the land of Midian, basically a refugee with no clear future.

At the well, Moses ends up defending the daughters of a priest named Reuel from some aggressive shepherds. It is a small act compared to confronting Pharaoh, but it tells you something about Moses. Even in exile, even when he has every reason to keep his head down, he steps in to protect the vulnerable. That moment leads to an unexpected turn. The daughters report back to their father, Moses is invited into their home, and before long he settles into a new life. He marries Zipporah and becomes a shepherd. It is a far cry from the Egyptian court. The man who once had status and power is now living on the margins, tending flocks in the wilderness.

Moses has a son, Gershom, and even the name reflects his situation. He says, “I have become an alien in a foreign land.” That line captures the emotional tone of this section. Moses is safe, but he is not home. He is alive, but he is also displaced. It feels like the story has paused, like everything has gone quiet after the earlier drama.

But while Moses is living this quiet life in Midian, something else is happening back in Egypt. The passage shifts focus and reminds us that the Israelites are still suffering. The king of Egypt dies, but their oppression does not end. They groan under their slavery and cry out for help. This is where the text takes a divine turn. God hears their groaning, remembers his covenant with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, sees the people of Israel, and knows their suffering.

Notice the verbs. God hears, remembers, sees, and knows. It does not mean that God had forgotten and suddenly remembered, like something slipped his mind. It means that God is now moving toward action, bringing those ancient promises into the present moment. The story is setting the stage for what comes next.

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This story sits in the middle of two kinds of waiting. Moses is waiting without really knowing it, living a life that seems far removed from his earlier calling. Israel is waiting in pain, crying out for deliverance that has not yet come. And God is in the middle of it, quietly attentive, preparing to act.

In the biblical story, the most important movements often begin in hidden places. A fugitive at a well, a family around a dinner table in Midian, a people crying out in the dark. None of it looks like a turning point, but it is. The silence is not absence. It is preparation.

PRAYER: Almighty and everlasting God, who in the Paschal mystery established the new covenant of reconciliation: Grant that all who have been reborn into the fellowship of Christ’s Body may show forth in their lives what they profess by their faith; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer)

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Miraculous Fishing, Lapeyrouse, Mornay France (20th century)

Scripture

Psalm 134; Exodus 24:1-11; John 21:1-14

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Prayer

Almighty Father, who gave your only Son to die for our sins and to rise for our justification: Give us grace so to put away the leaven of malice and wickedness, that we may always serve you in pureness of living and truth; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer)

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Reflection

John 21:1-14

It’s a quiet morning after everything big has already happened, when the dust has settled and nothing feels normal. The disciples have seen the risen Jesus, but they still seem unsure what to do next, so Peter does the most human thing possible and says, “I’m going fishing.” It is not a grand spiritual plan. It is just something familiar, something he knows how to do. The others follow him, which says a lot about how leadership works in moments of uncertainty. Sometimes people just follow the one who moves first. They spend the whole night out on the water and catch nothing, which is both frustrating and symbolic. These are experienced fishermen, and yet their effort produces emptiness. It echoes earlier moments in the Gospels where human effort alone comes up short.

As morning breaks, Jesus is standing on the shore, though they do not recognize him at first. How easily Jesus can be present and yet missed when people are caught up in their own discouragement or routine. He calls out to them, asking if they have any fish. When they answer no, he tells them to cast the net on the right side of the boat. It sounds ridiculous to cast only a few feet away, but they do. Suddenly the net is full, so full they cannot haul it in. This is the moment when abundance breaks into their emptiness. It is also the moment of recognition. The disciple whom Jesus loved says to Peter, “It is the Lord.” The unexpected abundance that reveals Jesus’ presence.

Peter’s reaction is impulsive and passionate, just as it has always been. He throws on his outer garment and jumps into the water to get to Jesus as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, the others stay with the boat, dragging the net full of fish to shore. When they arrive, they find that Jesus already has a charcoal fire going with fish on it, along with bread. Jesus does not actually need their fish, yet he invites them to bring some of what they have caught. It becomes a shared meal, a collaboration between divine provision and human participation.

After the trauma of the crucifixion and the confusion of the resurrection, Jesus meets his disciples in an ordinary place, doing an ordinary task, and provides for them in a tangible way. He invites them to eat, to rest, to be present with him. No one dares ask who he is because they know. The recognition is no longer just intellectual but relational and experiential.

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Resurrection life does not always arrive with spectacle. Sometimes it shows up on the shoreline of our ordinary routines, in moments when we are tired and unsure, offering quiet guidance and unexpected abundance. It reminds us that failure is not the end of the story. The empty nets of the night can be followed by overflowing nets in the morning, not because of human skill alone, but because of listening to the voice of Jesus and responding, even when the instruction seems small.

PRAYER: Creator of the universe, you made the world in beauty, and restore all things in glory through the victory of Jesus Christ. We pray that, wherever your image is still disfigured by poverty, sickness, selfishness, war and greed, the new creation in Jesus Christ may appear in justice, love, and peace, to the glory of your name. Amen. (Revised Common Lectionary)

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Scripture

Psalm 134; Proverbs 8:32—9:6; 1 Peter 2:1-3

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Prayer

Living God, long ago, faithful women proclaimed the good news of Jesus’ resurrection, and the world was changed forever. Teach us to keep faith with them, that our witness may be as bold, our love as deep, and our faith as true. Amen. (Revised Common Lectionary)

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Reflection

Proverbs 8:32—9:6

She calls from the doorway before dawn,
before the market noise,
before the arguments begin,
before the day decides who will be heard
and who will be swallowed.

Her voice is not a shout
but it carries—
like bread breaking in a quiet room,
like the memory of water
to a parched tongue.

“Now then, children, listen—
not because I demand it,
but because life leans this way.”

Blessed are those who linger at her threshold,
who learn the patience of waiting,
who do not mistake urgency for truth.
They sit at her gates
like students of light,
like those who know
that not all doors are worth opening.

For whoever finds her
finds more than answers—
finds breath that does not betray,
finds a path that does not collapse
under the weight of desire.

But those who pass her by
do not simply miss a lesson—
they wound themselves
with invisible knives,
they make a covenant with shadows
and call it freedom.

Still she prepares.

She has built her house
with seven pillars—
steady, deliberate, unshaken
by the winds that seduce lesser walls.

She has slaughtered what must be sacrificed,
mixed the wine until it sings,
set the table with intention,
each place an invitation,
each cup a quiet promise.

Then she sends her voice
into the highest places of the city—
where pride walks tall
and certainty wears a crown.

“You who are simple—turn in here.”

No insult in her tone,
only recognition:
we are all unfinished,
all standing at the edge
of what we do not know.

“To those without sense,” she says,
“come, eat of my bread.”

Not crumbs,
not scraps from another’s feast,
but bread that strengthens the bones,
bread that steadies the hands
that have trembled too long.

“Drink of the wine I have mixed.”

Not to forget,
but to remember rightly—
to taste joy without illusion,
to feel the world without being devoured by it.

“Lay aside your foolishness, and live.”

As if foolishness were a coat
we could finally shrug off,
heavy with rain and regret.

“Walk in the way of understanding.”

Not a sprint,
not a performance,
but a walk—
step by step
through a world that aches
for those who know how to see.

And still the table waits.

The bread does not harden.
The wine does not sour.
Her call does not fade with the morning.

She stands,
patient as truth,
gentle as gravity,
certain as dawn—

Wisdom,
serving a meal
that only the hungry
will recognize.

PRAYER: We thank you, heavenly Father, that you have delivered us from the dominion of sin and death and brought us into the kingdom of your Son; and we pray that, as by his death he has recalled us to life, so by his love he may raise us to eternal joys; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer)

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Scripture

Psalm 134; Genesis 18:1-14; 1 Peter 1:23-25

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Prayer

O God, who for our redemption gave your only-begotten Son to the death of the cross, and by his glorious resurrection delivered us from the power of our enemy: Grant us so to die daily to sin, that we may evermore live with him in the joy of his resurrection; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer)

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Reflection

Genesis 18:1-14

18:1 / “The Lord appeared to Abraham by the oaks of Mamre, as he sat at the entrance of his tent in the heat of the day.”

The opening of chapter 18 sets both the theological and physical stage. The appearance of the Lord is a theophany, yet the mode of that appearance is initially ambiguous. Abraham is located at the oaks of Mamre, a place already associated with covenantal promise. His position at the tent entrance during the heat of the day suggests watchfulness and readiness to receive visitors. Hospitality begins with attentiveness.

18:2 / “He looked up and saw three men standing near him. When he saw them, he ran from the tent entrance to meet them and bowed down to the ground.”

The narrative moves from divine appearance to human perception. Abraham sees three men, not explicitly the Lord. This tension between divine presence and ordinary appearance drives the story. Abraham’s response is immediate. Running and bowing convey urgency and humility. Hospitality in the ancient Near East was not optional. It was a moral obligation and a mark of righteousness.

18:3 / “He said, ‘My lord, if I find favor with you, do not pass by your servant.’”

The address “my lord” can be read either as a polite human greeting or as recognition of divine presence. The ambiguity of he text is intentional. Abraham positions himself as a servant and seeks favor. Hospitality is intertwined with relationship to God.

18:4 / “Let a little water be brought, and wash your feet, and rest yourselves under the tree.”

Abraham offers basic provisions. Water for washing feet addresses the physical realities of travel. Rest under the tree reflects care for the guests’ well being. The offer sounds modest, but it initiates a much larger act of generosity.

18:5 / “Let me bring a little bread, that you may refresh yourselves, and after that you may pass on, since you have come to your servant.”

Again Abraham understates what he intends to provide. The phrase “a little bread” contrasts with what follows. His statement acknowledges that the guests’ arrival is not accidental. There is a sense of divine purpose. The guests acceptance reveals the mutuality of hospitality.

18:6 / “And Abraham hastened into the tent to Sarah and said, ‘Make ready quickly three measures of choice flour, knead it, and make cakes.’”

The pace quickens. Abraham involves Sarah, indicating that hospitality is a shared household responsibility. The quantity of flour is large, far more than three individuals would require. Here is abundance. The urgency highlights the importance of the moment.

18:7 / “Abraham ran to the herd and took a calf, tender and good, and gave it to the servant, who hastened to prepare it.”

Abraham personally selects a choice calf. Meat was not an everyday meal, so this is a lavish gesture. Hospitality here is costly.

18:8 / “Then he took curds and milk and the calf that he had prepared and set it before them, and he stood by them under the tree while they ate.”

The meal is now complete, consisting of dairy and meat, a feast by ancient standards. Abraham stands while they eat, assuming the posture of a servant. The host does not join but attends.

18:9 / “They said to him, ‘Where is your wife Sarah?’ And he said, ‘There, in the tent.’”

The focus shifts. The guests inquire specifically about Sarah, signaling that their purpose extends beyond receiving hospitality. Sarah’s location in the tent reflects customary gender roles, yet she is central to what follows.

18:10 / Then one said, “I will surely return to you in due season, and your wife Sarah shall have a son.” And Sarah was listening at the tent entrance behind him.

Here is a turning point in the Abraham narrative. The visitor’s words shift from general hospitality to a divine announcement. The promise is explicit and time‑bound. The phrase “in due season” signals that God’s timing governs the fulfillment, not human capability. By naming Sarah directly, the visitor affirms her central role in the covenant, correcting earlier moments when she seemed peripheral to the promise. The announcement is a reminder of earlier assurances to Abraham, but now the promise is personalized and imminent.

18:11 / Now Abraham and Sarah were old, advanced in age; it had ceased to be with Sarah after the manner of women.

The narrator interrupts the dialogue to emphasize the biological impossibility of the promise. This reminder is not new, but here it heightens the tension between divine speech and human limitation. The fulfillment cannot be attributed to natural processes. The covenant’s continuation will depend entirely on God’s initiative. The mention of both Abraham and Sarah reinforces that the challenge is shared, not isolated to one partner.

18:12 / So Sarah laughed to herself, saying, “After I have grown old, and my husband is old, shall I be fruitful?”

Sarah’s laughter mirrors Abraham’s earlier response in Genesis 17, but the tone differs. Her laughter is internal, revealing disbelief mixed with self‑protection. She speaks from a lifetime of disappointment, interpreting the promise through the lens of her own history. Her private reaction contrasts with the public declaration of the visitor, highlighting the gap between divine possibility and human expectation. The verse also exposes Sarah’s vulnerability, showing how deeply the issue of childbearing has shaped her identity.

18:13 / The Lord said to Abraham, “Why did Sarah laugh and say, ‘Shall I indeed bear a child, now that I am old?’

The visitor’s question exposes Sarah’s hidden thoughts, revealing divine insight. The inquiry is not punitive but corrective. It invites Sarah to reconsider her assumptions about what God can do. The question also shifts the focus from Sarah’s disbelief to God’s reliability. By addressing Abraham, the visitor maintains the cultural norms of the household while still confronting the issue directly. The verse prepares the ground for the theological climax in the next line.

18:14 / Is anything too wonderful for the Lord? At the set time I will return to you, in due season, and Sarah shall have a son.”

This rhetorical question is the theological heart of the passage. The verse reframes the entire narrative: the promise is not about human fertility but about divine power and faithfulness. The repetition of the time reference (“in due season”) reinforces that God’s promise operates on a divine timetable. This line anticipates later biblical themes where God acts beyond human expectation, making it a foundational statement about God’s character.

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PRAYER: Mighty God, in whom we know the power of redemption, you stand among us in the shadows of our time. As we move through every sorrow and trial of this life, uphold us with knowledge of the final morning when, in the glorious presence of your risen Son, we will share in his resurrection, redeemed and restored to the fullness of life and forever freed to be your people. Amen. (Revised Common Lectionary)

SOURCES

Victor P. Hamilton, The Book of Genesis (New International Commentary on the Old Testament Series).

Tremper Longman III, Genesis (The Story of God Bible Commentary).

John H. Walton, Genesis (The NIV Application Commentary).

Gordon John Wenham, Genesis 16-50 (Word Biblical Commentary).

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“Road to Emmaus” Duccio di Buoninsegna (early 14th century)

Scripture

Acts 2:14a, 36-41; Psalm 116:1-4, 12-19; 1 Peter 1:17-23; Luke 24:13-35

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Prayer

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Reflection

Luke 24:13-35

Two travelers walk the long road from Jerusalem to Emmaus with the slow, dragging steps of people carrying disappointment. The recent days have unraveled everything once believed to be certain. Jesus, the one hoped to redeem Israel, has been executed, and the weight of that loss hangs in the air between them. Conversation circles around confusion, grief, and fragments of rumor. Some women have claimed the tomb is empty. Others say angels spoke. None of it settles easily.

As the road stretches on, a stranger joins the journey. There is something ordinary about the presence, almost unremarkable, yet attentive enough to ask what has been weighing so heavily on their hearts. The travelers seem almost stunned that anyone could be unaware of recent events. Words spill out in a mix of sorrow and restrained hope, recounting what had happened to Jesus of Nazareth, a prophet mighty in deed and word. The telling carries admiration and resignation, as if the story itself has already ended, even if questions linger.

The stranger listens and then responds with a surprising firmness and a kindly rebuke. There is talk of slowness to believe, of missing the deeper thread woven through the Scriptures. Then comes a kind of unfolding, like someone slowly opening a scroll and revealing a pattern hidden in plain sight all along. Moses and the prophets are brought into focus, and suddenly suffering and glory are no longer opposites but part of the same story. The road continues, but something has shifted. Hearts begin to strangely warm, though the travelers cannot yet name why.

By the time Emmaus comes into view, evening has arrived. The stranger appears ready to continue on, but the travelers urge a pause. Hospitality feels natural, almost necessary. Bread is placed on the table, and in that simple act, everything changes. The stranger takes the bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it. In that moment, recognition bursts into clarity. This is Jesus. And just as quickly, the presence vanishes.

Silence must have followed, thick with realization. The pieces fall into place all at once. The burning in the heart along the road now makes sense. The Scriptures had not just been explained. They had come alive. What seemed like defeat has been reframed as fulfillment. The ordinary act of breaking bread becomes the doorway to seeing what had been hidden.

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There is no lingering in Emmaus after that. The same road that felt heavy earlier is now charged with urgency. Night does not deter the return to Jerusalem. The news cannot wait. The Lord has risen, and the story is not over. It has only just begun to be understood.

Back among the others, the travelers share what happened along the road and how Jesus was made known in the breaking of the bread. Grief gives way to astonished joy. Confusion begins to turn into conviction. The journey that started in sorrow becomes a testimony, and the road that once led away from hope now leads straight back into it.

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PRAYER:

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SUNDAY: When the Scrolls Begin to Make Sense

MONDAY: When God Shows Up for Dinner: Explanatory Notes on 18:1-14

TUESDAY: Wisdom Serves a Meal

ADDITIONAL POST: There Are No Mustard Packets in Baseball!

WEDNESDAY: A Collaboration between Divine Provision and Human Participation

THURSDAY: Divine Moments in Hidden Places

ADDITIONAL POST: Who Were the Nephilim?

FRIDAY: Living as Aliens and Exiles

SATURDAY: From Scattered to Gathered: A Litany

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Scripture

Psalm 116:1-4, 12-19; Isaiah 25:6-9; Luke 14:12-14

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Prayer

O God, who by the glorious resurrection of your Son Jesus Christ destroyed death and brought life and immortality to light: Grant that we, who have been raised with him, may abide in his presence and rejoice in the hope of eternal glory; through Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom, with you and the Holy Spirit, be dominion and praise for ever and ever. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer)

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Reflection

Luke 14:12-14

Throughout his ministry, Jesus challenged societal customs, encouraging a reevaluation of what it means to be generous. The context is a meal, which in the first-century setting was more than just dining; it was about honor, social standing, and interpersonal connections. Guests often aimed for prime seating arrangements that conveyed their significance and prestige. Jesus observes this behavior and introduces a challenge. He advises hosts against inviting only friends, family, or affluent neighbors who are likely to return the favor. Rather, he emphasizes the importance of including those who cannot reciprocate: the poor, the disabled, the lame, and the blind. These groups were frequently marginalized in society; thus, their inclusion at a meal exemplifies God’s generosity given freely and abundantly without any expectation of recompense.

Inviting those unable to repay may appear impractical from a worldly perspective, yet it encapsulates a kingdom principle that prioritizes people over profit, relationships over reputation, and generosity over self-interest. By offering hospitality without anticipating reciprocity, joy emerges that eludes measurement by typical social or material standards. Acknowledging those who are often ignored affirms their inherent worth rather than their transactional value, transforming an ordinary invitation into an extraordinary act of grace.

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Additionally, this passage underscores humility. The guidance provided goes beyond mere seating choices or social niceties; it encourages an outlook that redefines priorities. Inviting marginalized individuals indicates an understanding that social status does not determine true value. Engaging with those who cannot offer anything in return reflects the principles of God’s kingdom where the first shall be last and the last shall be first. This radical approach to hospitality breaks down barriers and extends compassion to those who are usually overlooked. Generosity transcends material gifts and conveys God’s inclusive love.

The lesson derived from this passage stresses courage, creativity, and faith in God’s provision. It urges individuals to look beyond immediate rewards and align themselves with kingdom values where love and grace serve as true currencies. Meals and invitations transform into chances to engage in an alternative reality where everyone belongs and kindness is extended without expectations attached. Through such gestures, God’s heart is mirrored illuminating a world defined by generosity and inclusivity as fundamental aspects of community.

Jesus questioned accepted views on social interactions and acts of generosity. He portrayed hospitality as an expression of divine nature while welcoming those typically excluded from certain spaces. By focusing on individuals unable to reciprocate favors, Luke 14 redefines ordinary gatherings as occasions for grace—showing that genuine generosity surpasses both expectations and social ranks.

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PRAYER: Almighty God, who through your only-begotten Son Jesus Christ overcame death and opened to us the gate of everlasting life: Grant that we, who celebrate with joy the day of the Lord’s resurrection, may be raised from the death of sin by your life-giving Spirit; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer)

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Scripture

Psalm 116:1-4, 12-19; Isaiah 26:1-4; 1 Peter 1:13-16

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Prayer

Holy God, you have called us to follow in the way of your risen Son, and to care for those who are our companions, not only with words of comfort, but with acts of love. Guide us in the path of discipleship, so that, as you have blessed us, we may be a blessing for others, bringing the promise of the kingdom near by our words and deeds. Amen. (Revised Common Lectionary)

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Reflection

1 Peter 1:13-16

“Be holy, because I am holy.” At first glance, this phrase seems quite simple—almost like a motto suitable for decorative pillows or church banners. However, the more we contemplate it, the more profound its implications become. Holiness is not a trivial term; it carries significant connotation. It implies being distinct, embodying a purity that transcends mere appearances, and aligning oneself with God in a transformative manner. In his message to regular believers facing everyday challenges, Peter does not dilute this directive. He doesn’t suggest they simply “do their best” or “improve slightly from yesterday.” Instead, he recalls the voice of God—be holy, for God is holy.

The context in which Peter writes makes this message even more important. He addresses individuals who are not experiencing life under ideal circumstances; they are dispersed, often misunderstood, and in some instances suffering. Their lives lack neatness and simplicity. Yet amidst these realities, he encourages them to adopt a different way of living. He instructs them to prepare their minds for action, maintain clarity of thought, and fully hope in the grace that is forthcoming. He warns them against conforming to the desires they once followed when they lacked understanding—implying that their past should no longer dictate their present circumstances. A new beginning has commenced.

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Holiness is not about performing religious rituals or fulfilling spiritual obligations; rather, it revolves around belonging. If God embodies holiness and you now belong to him, life will begin to mirror that truth. It becomes less about striving for an impressive identity and more about living authentically as someone whose identity has changed. This calling is intentional; it stems from relationship. As part of God’s people, existence reflects the divine character.

However, embracing holiness is challenging. It often conflicts with our inherent instincts shaped by habits and desires that do not vanish overnight. Recognizing this difficulty, the writer emphasizes the importance of being obedient children and resisting the temptation to revert to old ways of living. There exists a daily struggle—a continuous reorientation of both heart and mind required for this journey. Thus, holiness manifests not as a singular momentous occasion but rather through countless small choices aimed at living differently.

What strikes me as noteworthy is that holiness does not exist in isolation or withdrawal; it unfolds within the complexities of real life among authentic individuals in frequently chaotic situations. It reveals itself in our reactions under pressure, our treatment of others, our management of desires, and our capacity to cling to hope—it remains profoundly practical despite its seemingly lofty nature.

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Therefore, when we hear “Be holy because I am holy,” we do not perceive it as an unattainable demand meant to overwhelm us; instead, we recognize it as an invitation into a transformed way of living—one firmly rooted in God’s nature and sustained by God’s grace. It’s a call for this reality to permeate every aspect of our lives gradually until our existence begins reflecting the character of the One who called us.

PRAYER: O God, whose blessed Son made himself known to his disciples in the breaking of bread: Open the eyes of our faith, that we may behold him in all his redeeming work; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer)

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Scripture

Psalm 116:1-4, 12-19; Isaiah 25:1-5; 1 Peter 1:8b-12

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Prayer

O God, your Son remained with his disciples after his resurrection, teaching them to love all people as neighbors. Open our hearts to your power moving around us and between us and within us, until your glory is revealed in our love of both friend and enemy, in communities transformed by justice and compassion, and in the healing of all that is broken. Amen. (Revised Common Lectionary)

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Reflection

Isaiah 25:1-5

Leader: O Lord, you are our God.
People: We exalt you and praise your name.

Leader: You have done wonderful things.
People: Plans formed long ago, faithful and sure.

Leader: You bring down the proud and the powerful.
People: You humble the strongholds of the ruthless.

Leader: Cities of chaos fall before you.
People: The fortress of the oppressor cannot stand.

Leader: Therefore the poor find strength in you.
People: The needy discover refuge in their distress.

Leader: You are a shelter from the storm.
People: A shade from the heat.

Leader: When the blast of the ruthless rages like a storm against a wall,
People: You silence the noise and still the fury.

Leader: When the heat bears down like the desert sun,
People: You bring relief with the shadow of your presence.

Leader: You weaken the song of the ruthless.
People: You quiet their boasting and end their oppression.

Leader: O Lord, you are our God.
People: We will exalt you and praise your name forever.

PRAYER: Almighty and everlasting God, who in the Paschal mystery established the new covenant of reconciliation: Grant that all who have been reborn into the fellowship of Christ’s Body may show forth in their lives what they profess by their faith; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer)

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Scripture

Psalm 114; Jonah 2:1-10; Matthew 12:38-42

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Prayer

Almighty Father, who gave your only Son to die for our sins and to rise for our justification: Give us grace so to put away the leaven of malice and wickedness, that we may always serve you in pureness of living and truth; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer)

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Reflection

Psalm 114

Psalm 114 begins by remembering when Israel came out of Egypt, but it is not a dry history lesson. It’s poetry is alive, like the land itself remembers what happened. Judah becomes God’s sanctuary, Israel his dominion, which is another way of saying that God did not just rescue a people, God moved in with them, claimed them, walked with them. And then the psalm starts describing nature as if it were a witness with emotions. The sea looks at what God is doing and runs away. The Jordan River turns back as if it suddenly realized it was in the presence of someone far greater. You can almost picture it, like the waters parting not just because they must, but because they want to get out of the way.

Then the mountains start skipping like rams, and the hills like lambs. It is like creation cannot sit still when God shows up. Everything starts moving, reacting, almost dancing. It makes you wonder if the psalmist is trying to say that God’s presence is not just powerful, it is joyful, disruptive in a way that shakes the ordinary patterns of the world. Mountains are supposed to be solid and unmoving, but here they are leaping around like animals in a field.

At some point the psalmist stops describing and starts asking questions. What is wrong with you, sea, that you flee? Jordan, why do you turn back? Mountains, why are you skipping around like that? It is not really a request for information. It is more like a kind of wonder, a way of saying this is so incredible that it demands a response. Why is everything behaving like this? And the answer, though not stated right away, is obvious. God is here. The presence of the Lord is enough to make creation itself react.

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By the end, the psalm pulls everything together and names what has been driving all this movement. Tremble, O earth, at the presence of the Lord, at the presence of the God of Jacob. That word tremble does not feel like fear. It feels more like awe, like standing in front of something so real and so overwhelming that you cannot stay the same. And then there is that final reminder of what this God does. He turns rock into a pool of water, flint into a spring. The God who shakes mountains also provides water in the desert. Power and provision come together.

Faith in this psalm is described as remembering a moment when everything changed, when God showed up and nothing stayed in its place. It invites us to see the world differently, to imagine that even the most fixed parts of life can move when God is present. And maybe it quietly suggests that we should not be so surprised when things shift, when the impossible starts to feel possible, because this is what happens when God draws near.

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PRAYER: Creator of the universe, you made the world in beauty, and restore all things in glory through the victory of Jesus Christ. We pray that, wherever your image is still disfigured by poverty, sickness, selfishness, war and greed, the new creation in Jesus Christ may appear in justice, love, and peace, to the glory of your name. Amen. (Revised Common Lectionary)

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Scripture

Psalm 114; Jonah 1:1-17; 1 Corinthians 15:19-28

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Prayer

Living God, long ago, faithful women proclaimed the good news of Jesus’ resurrection, and the world was changed forever. Teach us to keep faith with them, that our witness may be as bold, our love as deep, and our faith as true. Amen. (Revised Common Lectionary)

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Reflection

1 Corinthians 15:19-28

There is a shadow
that has followed us from the beginning,
quiet as breath leaving the body,
certain as dusk pressing out the light.

We have named it in whispers,
dressed it in black,
tried to soften it with flowers
and careful words spoken at gravesides,
as if gentleness could dull its edge.

It waits in hospital rooms
where machines hum like fragile hope.
It lingers in empty chairs
that still remember the weight of someone
who is not coming back.

Death has ruled like a patient tyrant,
taking kings and children alike,
never hurried, never satisfied,
writing its signature across history
in bones and dust.

We have learned to live around it,
to build our days in defiance,
to laugh loudly enough
that for a moment
we forget it is listening.

But there is a rumor
older than fear,
carried through broken stories
and stubborn faith:

that death is not eternal.

That it is not the end of the sentence,
only the last enemy
standing on a field already lost.

Somewhere beyond our seeing,
a victory has been declared
that death cannot overturn.

Not avoided,
not negotiated with,
but destroyed.

Not weakened,
not delayed,
but undone.

And so we stand in this strange in-between,
where graves still open
and tears still fall,
yet hope refuses to be buried.

Because one day
the shadow will be chased back into nothing,
the tyrant stripped of its throne,
the silence broken
by a voice that calls the dead by name.

And death,
for all its centuries of power,
will meet its end.

The last enemy
will be no more.

PRAYER: We thank you, heavenly Father, that you have delivered us from the dominion of sin and death and brought us into the kingdom of your Son; and we pray that, as by his death he has recalled us to life, so by his love he may raise us to eternal joys; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer)

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Scripture

Psalm 114; Judges 6:36-40; 1 Corinthians 15:12-20

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Prayer

O God, who for our redemption gave your only-begotten Son to the death of the cross, and by his glorious resurrection delivered us from the power of our enemy: Grant us so to die daily to sin, that we may evermore live with him in the joy of his resurrection; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer)

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Reflection

Judges 6:36-40

Gideon is not exactly riding high on confidence when we meet him in Judges 6:36-40. He’s a man who has heard God clearly and still cannot quite believe it. The call has come, the promise has been made, and yet Gideon is stuck in that very human space between hearing and trusting. So he does what a lot of us would probably do if we were honest. He asks for reassurance.

Gideon approaches God with a request. “If you will save Israel by my hand, just as you said, then let me set out a fleece of wool.” He lays out the terms carefully. In the morning, if there is dew only on the fleece and the ground around it is dry, then he will know that God really means what he says. It is a small test, or at least that is how Gideon frames it. He is not rejecting God’s word outright. He is just asking for a little confirmation, something tangible he can touch.

Morning comes, and the fleece is soaked. Gideon wrings it out and fills a bowl with water. It is almost excessive, like God is saying, I hear you, and I am not annoyed. The sign is clear. That should be enough.

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But Gideon is still Gideon. The doubt has not quite let go of him. So he goes back to God again, and this time he even acknowledges that he might be pushing it. “Do not be angry with me,” he says, as if he knows he is on thin ice. “Let me make just one more request.” This time, he flips the conditions. Let the fleece be dry and the ground covered with dew.

It some ways it’s almost comical. Gideon has already received what he asked for, and now he wants the opposite result, just to be sure. Yet there is something relatable here. Faith is rarely a straight line. It wavers, it questions, it circles back. Gideon is not trying to be rebellious. He is trying to quiet the voice inside him that keeps whispering, What if this is not real?

That night, God does it again. The fleece is dry, and the ground is wet with dew. No thunder, no rebuke, no sign of irritation. Just a quiet, steady response to a nervous man who needs a little more assurance.

What stands out in this story is not just Gideon’s hesitation but God’s patience. God does not shame Gideon for asking twice. He meets him right where he is, in the middle of uncertainty. It is as if God understands that courage sometimes needs to be built in layers, not demanded all at once.

Gideon will eventually go on to lead Israel into battle, but this moment reminds us that even those who do great things for God often start out unsure and a little afraid. Faith, in this story, is not the absence of doubt. It is the willingness to keep bringing those doubts to God and asking, again and again, Are you really with me?

And somehow, God keeps answering, Yes.

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PRAYER: Mighty God, in whom we know the power of redemption, you stand among us in the shadows of our time. As we move through every sorrow and trial of this life, uphold us with knowledge of the final morning when, in the glorious presence of your risen Son, we will share in his resurrection, redeemed and restored to the fullness of life and forever freed to be your people. Amen. (Revised Common Lectionary)

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“By Faith, Not By Sight,” Alix Beaujour

Scripture

Acts 2:14a, 22-32; Psalm 16; 1 Peter 1:3-9; John 20:19-31

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Prayer

Blessed are you, O God of our Lord Jesus Christ, in whom we receive the legacy of a living hope, born again not only from his death but also from his resurrection. May we who have received forgiveness of sins through the Holy Spirit live to set others free, until, at length, we enter the inheritance that is imperishable and unfading, where Christ lives and reigns with you and the same Spirit. Amen. (Revised Common Lectionary)

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Reflection

John 20:19-31

The room is closed tight, behind closed doors holding fear. The disciples have gathered in the shadow of crucifixion, trying to make sense of a world that has come apart. Then Jesus appears among them, not knocking, not waiting, simply present. Peace is the first word spoken. Wounds are shown, not hidden. Hands and side become testimony. Joy rises, though it is the kind that still trembles.

Thomas is not there for any of it. When the others tell the story, it sounds almost too complete, too neat. Resurrection, peace, mission, Spirit. Everything resolved in a single encounter. Yet Thomas stands outside that moment, holding only the words of others. Refusal comes quickly, but it is not shallow stubbornness. It is something more daring. Thomas names what everyone else must have felt but did not say aloud. Unless the wounds are seen and touched, belief will not come. It is a demand for reality, not illusion. A protest against easy answers.

A week later, the same room holds the same group, this time with Thomas present. The doors are still shut. Fear has not vanished just because hope has entered. Again Jesus appears, and again peace is spoken. Then attention turns directly to Thomas. The invitation is almost disarming in its openness. Touch the wounds. See for yourself. Bring doubt into the light instead of hiding it behind polite agreement. There is no rebuke in the tone, only an invitation to step fully into truth.

Thomas responds with one of the clearest confessions in the whole story. “My Lord and my God.” The one who demanded proof now offers recognition. Doubt, it turns out, was not the opposite of faith but a path into its center. By daring to speak the questions no one else voiced, Thomas makes space for a fuller encounter. The others believed through sight. Thomas believed through confrontation with both absence and presence, with both longing and fulfillment.

Jesus speaks one more word that stretches beyond the room. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe. This is not a dismissal of Thomas but an expansion of the story. Future followers will not have the same physical evidence. Faith will grow in a different kind of soil. Yet Thomas remains essential because the questions remain essential. Faith that never wrestles can become thin, easily shaken by the first real challenge. Faith that has passed through honest doubt carries a different kind of depth.

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The scene closes with a reminder that many other signs were not written down, but these have been recorded so that belief might take root. Life, in this telling, comes through trust in the one who still bears wounds. Thomas stands as a witness to the courage it takes to ask for truth when easy belief is available. That courage becomes a gift to everyone who comes later, still wondering, still hoping, still daring to ask.

PRAYER: Almighty and everlasting God, who in the Paschal mystery established the new covenant of reconciliation: Grant that all who have been reborn into the fellowship of Christ’s Body may show forth in their lives what they profess by their faith; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer)

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The Daily Lectionary Reflections are always free. Become a member of the Faithlings for access to additional posts and unlimited access to the archive.

SUNDAY: A Demand for Reality

MONDAY: Divine Patience When Faith Wavers

TUESDAY: The Last Enemy

ADDITIONAL POST: Undoing Manifest Destiny and Exposing the Mythologies

WEDNESDAY: When God Draws Near

THURSDAY: God Brings Down the Proud: A Litany

ADDITIONAL POST: Plain Truth for Plain People: The Folk Theology of John Wesley, “Upon Our Lord’s Sermon On The Mount: Discourse Seven” (Sermon 27)

FRIDAY: The Face of Holiness

SATURDAY: Hospitality as an Expression of the Divine Nature

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Mary Magdalene and the Rise Christ

Scripture

Psalm 16; Song of Solomon 8:6-7; John 20:11-20

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Prayer

We thank you, heavenly Father, that you have delivered us from the dominion of sin and death and brought us into the kingdom of your Son; and we pray that, as by his death he has recalled us to life, so by his love he may raise us to eternal joys; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer)

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Reflection

John 20:11-20

She stays.

After the running
after the shouting
after the folded linen logic of men
who saw and went home—

she stays.

Grief has a longer spine than belief.
It does not hurry.
It bends low to the ground
and peers into emptiness
as if absence might speak.

Two figures in white
sit where a body should be.
They ask her why she weeps
as though the question itself
could mend the tear.

Because he is gone.
Because love has been moved
and no one told me where.

She turns—
not toward heaven
but toward a man she does not know.

Gardener, she thinks,
because who else tends broken places
at dawn?

If you have carried him away—
tell me.
I will take him.
I will carry what remains.

Then her name.

Just that—
her name
spoken as it always was
before death tried to unmake it.

And the world turns inside out.

Not absence
but presence.
Not taken
but standing.
Not ended
but calling.

“Teacher,” she says,
and reaches
as if resurrection were something
you could hold onto
before it slipped again into silence.

But he is not for clinging.
He is for going.

Do not hold me here,
in this moment
that wants to become a monument.

There are brothers still locked in rooms,
breathing fear like stale air,
counting the cost of hope.

Go.

Tell them
that death does not get the last word.
Tell them
I am not where they left me.

So she goes—
apostle to the hiding,
preacher to the afraid,
bearing not proof
but proclamation:

I have seen him.

And evening comes
with doors shut tight,
with hearts barricaded
against rumor and miracle alike.

He comes anyway.

Through wood and worry,
through doubt thick as walls,
he stands among them
as simply as breath.

Peace, he says—
not as greeting
but as creation.

Peace
where there was none.

He shows them his hands,
his side—
wounds that do not accuse
but testify.

This is what love looks like
when it refuses to stay buried.

Joy breaks in them
like light through cracks.

And again—peace.
Because one word is not enough
to quiet a lifetime of fear.

As the Father sent me,
so I send you—

and breathes.

Not memory,
not metaphor,
but breath—

the same wild Spirit
that hovered over chaos,
now filling locked rooms
with beginning.

Receive it.

Forgiveness loosened into the world,
or held tight
until it suffocates the one who grips it.

Outside,
night gathers itself again.

Inside,
they are no longer alone.

And somewhere in the garden
where grief first learned to speak,
a name still echoes—
calling the living
out of their tombs.

PRAYER: Almighty Father, you have given your only Son to die for our sins and to rise again for our justification: grant us so to put away the leaven of malice and wickedness that we may always serve you in pureness of living and truth; through the merits of your Son Jesus Christ our Lord, who is alive and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. (Faith and Worship)

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The Appearance of the Lord on the Sea of Tiberius

Scripture

Psalm 16; Song of Solomon 5:9—6:3; 1 Corinthians 15:1-11

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Prayer

Almighty Father, who gave your only Son to die for our sins and to rise for our justification: Give us grace so to put away the leaven of malice and wickedness, that we m…

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Scripture

Psalm 16; Song of Solomon 2:8-15; Colossians 4:2-5

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Prayer

Almighty and everlasting God, who in the Paschal mystery established the new covenant of reconciliation: Grant that all who have been reborn into the fellowship of Christ’s Body may show forth in their lives what they profess by their faith; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and …

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Scripture

Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24; Joshua 3:1-17; Matthew 28:1-10

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Prayer

O God, whose blessed Son made himself known to his disciples in the breaking of bread: Open the eyes of our faith, that we may behold him in all his redeeming work; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer)

…

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Scripture

Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24; Exodus 15:1-18; Colossians 3:12-17

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Prayer

Living God, long ago, faithful women proclaimed the good news of Jesus’ resurrection, and the world was changed forever. Teach us to keep faith with them, that our witness may be as bold, our love as deep, and our faith as true. Amen. (Revised Common Lectionary)

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Reflection

Exodu…

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