Luke 20: No death, no marriage

Heaven has always been a bit of a stumbling block to me, probably because my mind is weak and heaven is, literally, unimaginable -- our imaginations can't make an adequate picture of it, because it transcends the realm of our sensory experience. I've always found it one of the hardest parts of the faith, because the idea of heaven seems riddled with difficulties and intellectual puzzles -- which will, I am sure, seem silly if I ever get there.

So I'm always interested when Jesus talks about heaven, like when he says that those in heaven "neither marry nor are given in marriage, for they cannot die anymore" (20:35-36).

My gut reaction to this is always a twinge of sadness that, in heaven, my wife won't be my wife anymore. But then I wondered at Jesus' wording: "for they cannot die anymore."

Is death somehow intrinsic to marriage? Does marriage require death? No death, no marriage?

It sounded strange, even repulsive, at first -- but a moment's reflection revealed how obvious it was. For what are the ultimate ends of marriage? To confirm and strengthen the love between the spouses, to beget and raise children for the next generation, and to help the spouses get to heaven.

Well, if you're already in heaven, you no longer need help getting there; there's no need of future generations in eternity (as St. Augustine says: "marriages are for the sake of children, children for succession, succession because of death"); and in heaven, where we will be utterly purified and in communion with the Trinity, we will be able to love our former spouses (and everyone else) more perfectly than we ever could on earth.

So I guess heaven won't be so bad after all.

(Image: Gustave Dore, "Dante and Beatrice gaze upon the highest Heaven," 19th century)

Luke 19: Living fearlessly

The parable of the ten minas ought to be a wake-up call for those of us who tend to be a bit timid in living the Christian life.

Jesus tells the story of a nobleman who gives 10 of his servants each a mina, a rather large chunk of money, to do business with while he was away.

When the nobleman returns, one servant reports that he has made 10 more minas with his mina. And his master replies, "Well done, good servant! Because you have been faithful in a very little, you shall have authority over ten cities" (19:17).

Then another servant comes forward, saying, "Lord, here is your mina, which I kept laid away in a handkerchief; for I was afraid of you, because you are a severe man" (19:20-21). Suffice it to say, the nobleman isn't quite so pleased with him. He commands: "Take the mina from him, and give it to the one who has the ten minas" (19:24).

Like the nobleman with his servants, Christ expects us to be bold, diligent, and fruitful in our lives as Christians. We must use the resources and opportunities he has given us to do his work, and to do it well. We can't just hang back, whether out of self-satisfaction, indifference, or fear.

The latter servant was too scared to take a risk with his mina. Therefore he was unprofitable. As Christians, we must overcome our own fears and insecurities and act boldly in Christ's name, lest we go before him one day with nothing to show for our lives.

(Image: Rembrandt, "The Parable of the Talents," 1652)

Luke 18: Childlike faith

"Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it," Jesus tells his disciples (18:17).

Our faith must be childlike, but not childish.

St. Basil the Great, a 4th-century bishop and theologian, commented on this saying of Christ's: "We shall receive the kingdom of God as a child if we are disposed towards our Lord's teaching as a child under instruction, never contradicting nor disputing with his masters, but trustfully and teachably imbibing learning."

Accepting the teachings of Christ and his church like a child does not mean shutting off your brain. On the contrary, children are insatiably curious, always yearning to know more, to understand more. And when they find a true authority, they know it, and they listen eagerly and attentively. So must we.

But receiving the kingdom of God like a child means more than accepting truths with docility. We must receive the kingdom with childlike joy and gratitude. Picture a child on Christmas morning, unwrapping a long-desired toy -- the wide glowing eyes, the shrieks of joy, the repeated shouts of "Thank you! Thank you!"

The kingdom of God is a gift immeasurably greater than any Christmas present we've ever received -- it requires proportionate joy and gratitude.

(Image: Carl Vogel von Vogelstein, "Let the Children Come to Me," 1805)

Luke 17: Doing our duty

The Christian life requires humility. We must be content to work in obscurity; we shouldn't expect a pat on the back for every good deed we do, or prayer we say, or temptation we resist -- not even from ourselves.

Rather, Jesus tells his disciples, "[W]hen you have done all that you were commanded, say, 'We are unworthy servants; we have only done what was our duty'" (17:10).

The Christian life is one of duty. When we love our neighbor -- or even our enemy -- with heroic and indefatigable love, it's nothing more than what Christ expects of his followers. We're not doing God a favor; he is not in our debt. Everything we have -- indeed, our very existence -- is an utterly gratuitous gift from God. He doesn't owe us anything.

Nevertheless, God sometimes chooses to reward his unworthy servants. If we ever find ourselves in that position, we would do well to recall the example of St. Thomas Aquinas, the 13th-century Dominican priest who was one of the most brilliant philosophers and theologians of all time. Near the end of his life, Thomas was praying in a chapel and heard a voice coming from the crucifix which said: "You have written well of me, Thomas; what will you have as your reward?"

And Thomas replied, "Only yourself, Lord."

(Image: attr. Botticelli, "St. Thomas Aquinas," 1481-1482)

Luke 16: God and money

Jesus follows up perhaps the most puzzling parable in all the Gospels -- that of the dishonest manager (if you have any insight into that one, please let me know) -- with a perfectly straightforward teaching: "No servant can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and money" (16:13).

Straightforward but hard -- especially in a society that says wealth, pleasure, power, and esteem are the ultimate goods.

These are, of course, the false gods which Christians in every age are tempted to seek first, rather than the kingdom of God. There's nothing wrong with them in themselves, but they can so easily become tyrannical masters. They are addictive: If we're not solidly grounded in God, they will consume us, until our lives are nothing but a frustrating, fruitless, never-ending pursuit of the fleeting highs they afford.

Money is fine, but it's dangerous, and Jesus' prescription with respect to money -- repeated again and again -- is an attitude of (at least) profound detachment.

That's why I've never been sympathetic to "prosperity gospel" preachers like Texas mega-pastor Joel Osteen, who writes things like, "God wants to increase you financially, by giving you promotions, fresh ideas, and creativity."

Not only ought you to serve money, but God will help you? "God is my financial adviser"? There is pretty much nothing in the Bible that could even be twisted to suggest that. It's a recipe for spiritual ruin.

(Image: Evelyn de Morgan, "The Worship of Mammon," 1909)

Luke 15: The Crazy Shepherd

"What man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he has lost one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the open country, and go after the one that is lost, until he finds it?" Jesus asks (15:4).

"And when he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders, rejoicing. And when he comes home, he calls together his friends and his neighbors, saying to them, 'Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.' Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance" (15:5-7).

The obvious answer to Jesus' question is that no one would do this -- no reasonable shepherd would ever leave a flock of 99 to go searching for one lousy sheep. That would be crazy.

Fortunately, God is not like us. He is not bound by the constraints of prudence or economic necessity. Though he has absolutely no need of us, yet God loves each one of us with an utterly irrational passion. Thus, even in the darkest depths of our sin, when we have closed our hearts to him and fled his presence, he never ceases to pursue us, to search for us, to offer us his love and forgiveness.

All we have to do is admit that, in the truest sense of the phrase, we are lost without him, and let ourselves be found.

(Image: Jesus as the Good Shepherd, Catacombs of San Callisto, 3rd century)

Luke 14: The cost of discipleship

Jesus gives one of his hardest sayings as he talks about the cost of following him: "If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple. Whoever does not bear his own cross and come after me cannot be my disciple" (14:26-27).

Now, it is unlikely that Jesus is speaking entirely literally when he tells us to hate our families, considering he elsewhere tells us to love our neighbors and even our enemies -- and certain of our family members may fall into both those categories.

But he is nevertheless saying something extremely challenging about the Christian life -- that we must put following him above all else, that we must love him more than our families and even ourselves. And it's not going to be easy. Even if we're not called to physical martyrdom, being a faithful disciple means dying to self and taking up our cross daily.

Being a Christian cannot be a once-a-week-for-an-hour-on-Sunday kind of thing. It means living every day, every breath, consciously in the presence of God, and working in all things to love and serve him and others.

(Image: El Greco, "Christ Carrying the Cross," 1580)

Luke 13: Bearing good fruit

Jesus' parable of the barren fig tree presents us with an image that is at once frightening, comforting, and challenging:

"A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard, and he came seeking fruit on it and found none. And he said to the vinedresser, 'Look, for three years now I have come seeking fruit on this fig tree, and I find none. Cut it down. Why should it use up the ground?' And he answered him, 'Sir, let it alone this year also, until I dig around it and put on manure. Then if it should bear fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.'" (13:6-9)

Jesus has just warned that we must repent or perish (13:2-5), and here he drives home the point, made earlier by John the Baptist, that we must "Bear fruits in keeping with repentance" (3:8), for each one of us is that fig tree.

The parable is frightening because it means we will be cut down and cast away if we do not bear fruit; comforting because it reminds us that God gives us every possible help and opportunity to do so; and challenging because it's our responsibility to put that grace to good use and actually bear good fruit, works of love that give life to others. Mere vocal repentance, or claimed conversion to Christ, is not enough.

It reminds me of that oft-quoted (and apparently unattributable) question, "If you were arrested for being a Christian, would there be enough evidence to convict you?"

(Image: Ficus carica, in Otto Wilhelm Thome, Flora von Deutschland, 1885)

Luke 12: Eat, drink, and be merry?

Hilaire Belloc, the great early-20th-century English writer, Catholic apologist, friend of G.K. Chesterton, and all-around crank, once wrote a poem called "The Catholic Sun," which reads:

Wherever the Catholic sun doth shine,
There's always laughter and good red wine.
At least I've always found it so.
Benedicamus Domino!

The spirit of Belloc's poem seems at first to be at odds with Jesus' parable about the rich fool, who stores up earthly treasures and says to his soul, "Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry" (12:19), only to be upbraided by God: "Fool! This night your soul is required of you, and the things you have prepared, whose will they be?" (12:20).

But Jesus' parable cannot be a blanket condemnation of relaxation and earthly pleasures. After all, even God took a day off to rest after the six days of creation, and the Psalms say God made "wine to gladden the heart of man, oil to make his face shine and bread to strengthen man's heart" (Ps 104:15).

Rather, it is the rich man's spiritual complacency and delusion of self-sufficiency that are the problems -- he "lays up treasure for himself and is not rich toward God" (12:21), Jesus says. We must instead store up "a treasure in the heavens that does not fail, where no thief approaches and no moth destroys" (12:33).

And we must remember that our earthly possessions and pleasures, while not our salvation, are all gifts from God. Belloc's poem is truly Christian, for he concludes his paean to laughter and wine with a prayer of thanksgiving: "Benedicamus Domino!" -- "Let us bless the Lord!"

(Image: Mr. Hilaire Belloc, The World's Work, Vol. II, June to November 1903)

Luke 11: "The most perfect of prayers"

I often feel overwhelmed by prayer. There are so many different methods, and I never know whether I'm doing it right, and on top of all that, it's just very mysterious.

But when his disciples ask Jesus to teach them how to pray, he makes it all seem so simple: "When you pray, say: Father, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come. Give us each day our daily bread, and forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone who is indebted to us. And lead us not into temptation" (11:2-4).

The early Christian theologian Tertullian called the Lord's Prayer "truly the summary of the whole Gospel." St. Thomas Aquinas called it "the most perfect of prayers." And the Catechism of the Catholic Church calls it "the fundamental Christian prayer."

It is, then, a worthy model for all of our prayer. We begin with worship, and only then move on to petitions for our spiritual and material needs. Whether we have a perfect understanding of prayer or not, we know that we ought to do it, and that God will be faithful, for as Jesus says, "everyone who asks receives, and the one who seeks finds, and to the one who knocks it will be opened" (11:10).

(Image: Albrecht Durer, "Praying Hands," 1508)

Luke 10: The good part

In the famous sisters Martha and Mary, we have a concrete illustration of two of the essential components of the life of a disciple of Christ: the active and the contemplative.

When Jesus visits their home, Martha springs into action and bustles about serving him. Mary simply sits at the Lord's feet and listens to him. Eventually Martha gets fed up and essentially chastises Jesus, telling him to tell Mary to get up off her butt and help out.

And he replies: "Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things, but one thing is necessary. Mary has chosen the good part, which will not be taken away from her" (10:41-42).

Now, Jesus is certainly not suggesting that serving others is "the bad part." He constantly urged the importance of being a servant. Indeed, his entire life was one of service to others, and we as Christians must imitate him.

But in this exchange, Jesus is telling us something exceedingly important about himself, about prayer and the spiritual life, and about our ultimate destiny. Mary sits at Jesus' feet like a child, gazes up at him lovingly, and listens to his words attentively. And this, Jesus says, is "the good part," even more important than active service.

For he is the Lord, and if we do not take time to sit quietly in his presence and listen for his voice, then all our bustling work in his name will be in vain. And ultimately, Mary's choice, which we emulate in contemplative prayer, is "the good part" because it is a foretaste of the beatific vision of heaven, when we will bask for all eternity in the perfect joy of God's presence.

(Image: Tintoretto, "Christ in the House of Martha and Mary," c. 1580)

Luke 9: Not "conservative," not "progressive," just Christian

I'm always distressed whenever I perceive division between two factions within the church: on one side, the "conservatives" who emphasize the importance of theological orthodoxy, moral uprightness, and a personal relationship with Christ; and on the other, the "progressives" who focus on peace and justice and caring for the poor and marginalized. (Granted, this dichotomy is over-simplistic, but there's truth to it.)

But Luke tells us that Jesus "called the twelve together and gave them power and authority over all demons and to cure diseases, and he sent them out to proclaim the kingdom of God and to heal" (9:1-2).

According to Jesus, the church's theological mission (proclaiming the kingdom of God) is bound up with its mission to meet people's physical needs (healing), and vice versa. The two go together.

That's why the Catholic Church has traditionally emphasized both the spiritual works of mercy (instructing the ignorant, counseling the doubtful, admonishing sinners, bearing wrongs patiently, forgiving offenses willingly, comforting the afflicted, and praying for the living and the dead) and the corporal works of mercy (feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty, clothing the naked, sheltering the homeless, visiting the sick, visiting the imprisoned, and burying the dead).

You don't get to pick and choose. Being a Christian means living the whole package.

(Image: Master of Alkmaar, "The Seven Works of Charity," 1504)

Luke 8: Facing little martyrdoms

In the mid-2nd century, Polycarp, the elderly bishop of Smyrna, was arrested by the Romans for, essentially, being a Christian. He was given a choice: either deny Christ and go free, or else be burned alive.

And Polycarp said, Bring it on:

"For eighty-six years I have been his servant, and he has done me no wrong," he said. "[I]f you pretend not to know who I am, listen and I will tell you plainly: I am a Christian."

At least in modern-day America, there is little chance that we will face the possibility of literal martyrdom, as Polycarp did. But every day we are presented with opportunities to either bear witness to or deny our faith in Christ. We may boldly proclaim the truths of the Christian faith and face the "little martyrdoms" that result: the strange looks, the awkward silences, the cold shoulders, the misunderstandings, the discrimination. Or we can keep quiet and avoid a lot of trouble.

But, as Jesus says: "No one after lighting a lamp covers it with a jar or puts it under a bed, but puts it on a stand, so that those who enter may see the light" (8:16).

If we've been illumined with the light of Christ's grace and truth, we ought to let that light shine through us for all to see, difficult as that may be. But how can we best do it?

(Image: Jan Luyken, "Burning of Polycarp," 1685)

Luke 7: A glutton and a drunkard

I love it when we can catch a glimpse of Jesus' sense of humor, like when he calls out people who never fail to find something to complain about: "John the Baptist has come eating no bread and drinking no wine, and you say, 'He has a demon.' The Son of Man has come eating and drinking, and you say, 'Look at him! A glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners!'" (7:33-34).

Nearly 1,900 years later, the great English writer G.K. Chesterton was drawn to Christianity in part by his observation of a similar phenomenon. In his masterpiece "Orthodoxy," he wrote that, as a young agnostic, he noticed that Christianity was "attacked on all sides and for all contradictory reasons" -- for being both too optimistic and too pessimistic, too warlike and too pacifistic, too austere and too pompous.

"It looked not so much as if Christianity was bad enough to include any vices, but rather as if any stick was good enough to beat Christianity with," he wrote. "What again could this astonishing thing be like which people were so anxious to contradict, that in doing so they did not mind contradicting themselves?"

Chesterton summarized his eventual conclusion in an essay on "The Macbeths": "If you hear a thing being accused of being too tall and too short, too red and too green, too bad in one way and too bad also in the opposite way, then you may be sure that it is very good."

People will always find things to blame Christianity for. But the church is large -- it has room for fasts and feasts, silent monks and ebullient charismatics, saints and sinners, thank God.

(Image: Strickland, "G.K.C.," 1912)

Luke 6: Love your enemies

"Love your enemies" (6:27) Jesus says in his "Sermon on the Plain" (6:20-49). It's certainly counterintuitive, even surprising -- but it sounds simple enough in the abstract. A nice idea.

But then Jesus spells out exactly what it means in practice, and reveals how radical this commandment really is: "do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. To one who strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also, and from one who takes away your cloak do not withhold your tunic either. Give to everyone who begs from you, and from one who takes away your goods do not demand them back. And as you wish that others would do to you, do so to them" (6:27-31).

The passage is so familiar that it loses its bite; we become numb to its revolutionary power. Phrases like "turn the other cheek" turn into nearly meaningless platitudes. If we think about these commands at all, we write them off as unrealistic, impracticable ideals. That's just not the way things work in the real world.

But is it perhaps imprudent to regard the Second Person of the Trinity as a naive dreamer? What would the world look like if we put "love your enemies" into practice?

(Image: Icon of Christ Pantocrator, Saint Catherine's Monastery, Sinai, 6th century)

Luke 5: Radical faith

After listening to Jesus teach and catching a huge load of fish with his advice, Simon Peter, James, and John "left everything and followed him" (5:11). They know there's something special about Jesus -- he had healed Simon's mother-in-law with a word (4:38-39) -- and so they leave behind everything -- their jobs, their homes, their families -- to become his disciples.

They've only just met this guy, yet they commit themselves wholly to him. How much more ought we -- who have the benefit of seeing the whole picture, so to speak, of Jesus' life, death, and resurrection -- be willing to commit ourselves to him in such a radical way?

Over and over in the Gospel of Luke is emphasized the theme of forsaking all earthly possessions: Jesus tells his disciples, "Sell your possessions, and give to the needy" (12:33); he tells great crowds, "any one of you who does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple" (14:33); and he tells a righteous ruler, "One thing you still lack. Sell all that you have and distribute to the poor" (18:22).

This is a radical call, and it's always been a challenge to me. People say that Jesus is really calling us to not be too attached to our possessions and to be willing to part with them if necessary. They're probably right. But when I read Jesus' words, they seem pretty straightforward and uncompromising. Any thoughts?

(Image: Pieter van Edingen Aelst, "The Miraculous Draught of Fishes," c. 1519)

Luke 4: Spiritual discipline and resisting temptation

I'm terrible at fasting. When the hunger pangs set in, I can always find a way to rationalize giving up: I'm not getting anything out of this ... I'd actually be able to pray and serve God better if my stomach weren't growling ... and besides, fasting isn't all that important, anyway.

But Jesus fasts for 40 days in the wilderness before beginning his public ministry (4:1-13), and if fasting is good enough for Jesus, it should be good enough for me. Indeed, it must be a very important spiritual discipline if Jesus does it at this crucial point in his earthly life, and if the devil is so eager to tempt him out of it.

Of course, I usually fall for the devil's first temptation, to forget that "Man shall not live by bread alone" (4:4) but rather, as the Gospel of Matthew adds, "by every word that comes from the mouth of God" (Mt 4:4).

But luckily for us, Jesus does not succumb to the devil's temptation to abandon his path of suffering and self-sacrifice for one of earthly comfort, power, and glory (see 4:3, 4:5-7, and 4:9-11).

Returning to civilization "in the power of the Spirit" (4:14), Jesus proclaims that the words of the prophet Isaiah refer to him: "The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor" (4:18-19).

The church, the body of Christ, is called to carry on his mission of bringing good news to the materially and spiritually poor. And we can only do that if we are strengthened, through God's grace and spiritual discipline, to resist the temptations of the enemy.

(Image: Ary Scheffer, "The Temptation of Christ," 1854)

Luke 3: Unquenchable fire and Christ's saving mission

John the Baptist is not what most people would call a "nice guy." He's a prophet, which means he tells you God's truth about yourself even if you'd rather not hear it. He's fiery.

He proclaims "a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins" (3:3), and then when people actually show up to be baptized he calls them a "brood of vipers" and warns them to "flee from the wrath to come" (3:7). This may seem rude and bizarre, but his message is crucial: The water is not enough. You must turn you lives around and act justly.

John points beyond himself to Jesus, whose baptism "with the Holy Spirit and with fire" (3:16) will be far more powerful than his. The portrait he paints of Jesus is one that would make many people uncomfortable: "His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his barn, but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire" (3:17). We don't like to think about that burning-with-unquenchable-fire part, but it is undeniably part of the biblical message.

But ultimately, both John's message and Jesus' mission are about salvation. As the quote from Isaiah says, "all flesh shall see the salvation of God" (3:6). The universal nature of Jesus' saving mission is highlighted by Luke's genealogy of Jesus (3:23-38), which I'm often tempted to skim (or skip) over. While Matthew traces Jesus' lineage only from Abraham, the forefather of Israel, Luke traces it back all the way to Adam, the father of the whole human family.

For though we may make chaff of ourselves by rejecting him, there is no one for whom Jesus did not come.

(Image: Titian, "St. John the Baptist," 1542)

Luke 2: Steadfastness in faith

When, in 2007, a collection of Blessed Mother Teresa of Calcutta's personal writings was released that revealed that she had gone nearly 50 years without feeling God's presence, some people, like Christopher Hitchens, took this to mean that she was a closet atheist who knew deep down that religion was a man-made farce.

Of course, nothing could be further from the truth, for during that long "dark night of the soul" she remained steadfast in prayer and doing God's work.

In the account of Jesus' presentation at the temple (2:22-38), we meet Simeon and Anna, Scriptural exemplars of that most difficult demand of the life of a believer: perseverance in faith when there is no immediate reward, no consolation, and no end in sight.

Simeon was "righteous and devout, waiting for the consolation of Israel" (2:25), and "it had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord's Christ" (2:26). Did he ever wonder, in all his years of waiting, whether that assurance had been just a silly dream or hallucination, a product of his own imagination or of cultural conditioning? I think I would have.

But Simeon's patient, steadfast faith is finally rewarded as he meets his infant Lord face to face and holds him in his arms. And he rejoices, "Lord, now you are letting your servant depart in peace, according to your word" (2:29).

Likewise, the prophetess Anna "did not depart from the temple, worshiping with fasting and prayer night and day" (2:37). Her radical faithfulness is also rewarded.

When we're in the depths of a dark night of the soul or a spell of spiritual dryness, it's good to remember that, if we persevere in faith, we too, like Simeon and Anna, will one day see the Lord face to face.

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It was hard not to write about one of my favorite passages in the Bible, Luke 2:8-14, but I could not resist posting this narration of it in what has to be one of the greatest moments in television history:



(Image: Alexey Yegorov, "Simeon the Righteous," 1830-1840s)

Luke 1: Faith and courage

When discussing the Annunciation, it is customary to praise Mary's faith and obedience -- "I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word" (1:38). But what struck me as I read the account this time was her courage. Mary is tough.

First of all, angels must be terrifying. Whenever they show up, they have to tell people not to be afraid (see 1:13 and 1:30). If an angel appeared in my living room, I figure I'd make for the door. But Mary doesn't flee. She stays and receives the most earth-shaking news ever delivered: She is going to be the mother of the "Son of the Most High" (1:32).

She consents, though she must foresee the tremendous hardships her unusual pregnancy will bring -- the rumors and gossip, the misunderstandings and condemnations. She might even be stoned to death for adultery. Though she could not have known the far greater pains she would suffer watching her son die on a cross some 34 years later, she knew that being the mother of God incarnate would not be easy.

But with great courage, Mary says yes to it all, known and unknown. (And remember, she's just a girl, maybe 12 or 15.)

I initially thought to title this post "Faith demands courage," but on reflection I realized that it works both ways -- faith also fosters courage. It is Mary's great faith that gives her the courage to say yes to God and bear his Son for the sake of our salvation.

(Image: El Greco, "The Annunciation," 1570-1575)

My one-year New Testament reading plan

From time to time I'll develop an ambition to read through the entire Bible in a year. But it never lasts long. At least for me, that's just way too much daily reading. I need a more modest goal.

Then I realized that the New Testament is only 260 chapters long, which means that if I start today (Jan. 4) and read just one chapter each weekday, I'll finish the last chapter on Dec. 31. Very tidy. Very manageable.

So I'm going to do it. And I'm going to blog about it, writing a very brief reflection on each chapter as I read it. I'm neither a Scripture expert nor a saint, so I'll try to avoid pontificating and stick, rather, to viewing this as an opportunity for intellectual and (especially) spiritual growth.

A couple of procedural notes: 1) I plan to read the English Standard Version of the Bible, a revision of the Revised Standard Version that is both (as I understand) fairly literal and quite beautiful. 2) I'll be reading the books of the New Testament in their normal order, with the exception that the four Gospels will be interspersed throughout the year; I'm starting with the Gospel of Luke because Luke and the Acts of the Apostles are two volumes of the same extended work, and they stay together this way.

Below is my reading schedule, with the name of each book, the number of chapters it has, and the date it should be finished. I invite anyone who's interested to read along with me and leave your own comments.

UPDATE: The question was asked whether commenters should stick to discussing whatever theme I point out in a given chapter. The answer is no: Feel free to bring up any aspect of a chapter that you find worthy of comment.

Luke - 24 chapters - Feb. 4
Acts - 28 chapters - March 16
Romans - 16 chapters - April 7
Mark - 16 chapters - April 29
1 Corinthians - 16 chapters - May 21
2 Corinthians - 13 chapters - June 9
Galatians - 6 chapters - June 17
Ephesians - 6 chapters - June 25
Philippians - 4 chapters - July 1
Colossians - 4 chapters - July 7
1 Thessalonians - 5 chapters - July 14
2 Thessalonians - 3 chapters - July 19
1 Timothy - 6 chapters - July 27
2 Timothy - 4 chapters - Aug. 2
Titus - 3 chapters - Aug. 5
Philemon - 1 chapter - Aug. 6
Matthew - 28 chapters - Sept. 15
Hebrews - 13 chapters - Oct. 4
James - 5 chapters - Oct. 11
1 Peter - 5 chapters - Oct. 18
2 Peter - 3 chapters - Oct. 21
1 John - 5 chapters - Oct. 28
2 John - 1 chapter - Oct. 29
3 John - 1 chapter - Nov. 1
Jude - 1 chapter - Nov. 2
Revelation - 22 chapters - Dec. 2
John - 21 chapters - Dec. 31