It’s easy to look at the Bible as if it were a map, some sort of guide that shows us how to get to Disneyland or where to find a buried treasure. We start at Creation, take the exit for the Ten Commandments, turn right at the Beatitudes, trundle our way down the straight and narrow, make sure to avoid that oh-so-tempting turnoff for the byway to hell, and with enough time and luck, finally arrive at the Kingdom of Heaven…

Many ancient cultures expressed sorrow or repentance through the use of ashes. You’ll read about people throughout the Hebrew Bible who cover themselves with them—Job; Jeremiah; according to the book of Jonah, the entire city of Ninevah showed their collective repentance in that manner.

Today’s reading comes from the first half of [II Corinthians] and appears right after a discussion recognizing the “glory” of Moses’ teachings while emphasizing that Jesus’ life-giving Gospel appears even more glorious. He contrasts how after receiving the Torah, Moses had to cover his face to hide its radiance after standing in God’s presence. In Jesus, God’s glory is unveiled for all to see.

It isn’t part of our readings today, but our I Corinthians passage calls me back to the story of Cain and Abel from early in the book of Genesis. We still get caught up in sibling rivalry today, but it’s a problem that goes way back—all the way to the world’s first brothers.

…there is space for difference within the greater Church, for unity without uniformity, and there has been from the beginning. In fact, that’s the primary message of Paul’s letter to the Galatians! Those who wished to follow Christ in what’s now central Turkey weren’t required to adopt the common cultural practices of those first Christians living in Judea…

Jonah, better known from Sunday School than from the Revised Common Lectionary of Bible readings that we follow, is one of the Bible’s stranger books. In fact, passages from this particular Minor Prophet appear only twice in the course of our three-year cycle of Sunday readings—the 3rd week of Epiphany in Year B (aka today) and early autumn during Year A.

Modern American Christianity has developed a kind of weird, unspoken mythology regarding the idea of a “calling” that makes it a lot more complex—or at least more confusing—than it needs to be. Some treat it as a sort of vision quest, sometimes waiting for years to glimpse a supernatural indication that will reveal their life’s one, true purpose or else eventually assuming it’s something that only happens for other, more special people.

I wonder how often we might find that same reality reflected in our own lives today—how often we, even as Christians, reject or fight against the movement of the Holy Spirit as Christ continues to remake our world, restoring and revealing the full promise of the Reign of the Heavens.

Growing up, I remember one of our pastors having us sing “Joy to the World” in the middle of the summer, but it wasn’t because we were celebrating Christmas in July. “That isn’t a Christmas song,” he proclaimed, “that’s a Second Coming song!” And he wasn’t wrong.

Advent is a call to undo oppression—and not simply oppression but everything the Bible would call “sin,” all the trials and struggles life imposes on people. For those society has beaten down, Advent is an opportunity to reclaim the dignity inherent to them as true children of God. For those of us who may have forcibly imposed our will on others or inherited certain advantages from generations past, Advent is a time to recognize the mountains and hills on which we stand.

…people in the Bible wouldn’t necessarily think of sin as something someone does. It’s far broader than that. Nor is it as all-encompassing as being something a person inherently is—it’s far less static. In a more collective culture, sin isn’t something evidenced only through the action or inaction of an individual. Sin is more systemic, something that can happen to you, with or without any other person involved.

As Christians, we claim that God already has come. And we all know how that last time went. We were thrilled to finally have God walk among us, until we realized that God wasn’t who we thought he would be. Instead of settling nicely into our expectations, God challenged us to embrace his.

Thanksgiving has been my favorite holiday for pretty much as long as I can remember. I mean, Christmas was great as a kid, what with all the lights and toys and vast overload of stuff. And the Fourth of July was always exciting with the bands and parades and explosions and barbeques. But Thanksgiving has always just been better.

The Apostle Andrew, the saint for whom our church is named, tends to run somewhat under the radar, both in the Bible and the Liturgical Calendar. The formal date for his feast, November 30, always falls within the range of the final Sunday of the Church Year and the first two Sundays of Advent. With those three celebrations formally taking precedent over his festival, we in the United States don’t often recognize an opportunity to enjoy his feast.

Biblical weddings—whether parables or not—are just plain confusing. With our dependance on electricity and reserving venues and RSVPs and strict scheduling, most of us end up searching for clues to understand the what’s and the why’s of weddings in the ancient world. Things that apparently held deep significance for New Testament authors make no sense to us, leaving us lost in regard to what exactly the point is.

The Book of Revelation doesn’t exist to give us secret knowledge or to alert us to signs of “the End;” it isn’t a warning to eventually straighten ourselves out or start getting our lives in order once we notice certain troubling coincidences happening around us. Revelation is a vision of renewal and re-creation, of returning our worship to the one who truly deserves it: “to our God…and to the Lamb.”

Truly loving ourselves has little to do with pampering and coddling or chasing whatever I want to the exclusion of others’ needs. It involves the exact same thing we take for granted in the idea of loving God or loving our neighbors: respect combined with genuine, gentle care for or even a stance of mercy and kindness toward ourselves. And that, more than anything else, may be how we can finally unlock this enigma of the Great Commandment.

This week’s Gospel looks like a pretty straightforward application of the modern concept of the separation of Church and State, the idea that religion needs to settle down in one corner of our lives while politics isolates itself in a different space. It’s a genuinely noble ideal on a governmental level. Unfortunately, on a human level it’s incredibly difficult to keep the distinction between faithfulness to God and moral responsibility toward our neighbor, on the one hand, clear from laws and public expectations on the other.

Jesus’ primary statement about war simply tells us we need not walk in fear: “you will hear of wars and rumors of wars; see that you are not alarmed; for this must take place, but the end is not yet.” It isn’t a sin to be afraid; fear is one of the gifts God gave humans to help us survive. Fearful as we may be, however, Jesus reminds us that we don’t have to remain helpless in the face of its power. We are people called to turn love into action, and “there is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear.”

Even if you might not know each one by heart, chances are you’re at least familiar with the Ten Commandments. First appearing in Exodus as God proclaims them from a fiery blaze atop Mount Sinai and later restated as part of Moses’ final address to Israel before his death, the Ten Commandments have long been a cornerstone of Jewish and Christian tradition.