The unity of the early church was in trouble. We know that from reading the letters of Paul and other pastoral leaders, who argue over table fellowship, circumcision, and dietary regulations.

Religious claims are a dime a dozen. You think Hindus and Mormons believe some outrageous things? Try Catholics. Virgin Birth, heaven and hell, the resurrection of the dead—none of that has a shred of “evidence” to back it up.

It’s always instructive to see what the world does with reformed criminals. Saul of Tarsus, formerly waging a zealot’s war against Christianity, seeks to join the ranks of the enemy in whole-souled conversion to Christ.

Last November we citizens faced an important question together: Who should lead? It has a related, shadow question that gets asked more rarely: Who will follow?

Last week in John’s gospel Thomas took the rap for demanding tangible signs of the resurrection of Jesus. This week in Luke’s account Jesus spontaneously offers concrete evidence of his presence to quell his disciples’ unuttered questions.

Where do we look for signs of love? And how do we prove our love to others? We all know the customary rituals: kisses, words, cards, and flowers. Over time the gifts become more expensive as greater investments of resources are made.

"Come, let us build the ship of the future.” With these remarkable words an Irish ballad invites us to participate in the world we are making with each new decision and every new day. Where do you want to be tomorrow, or a year from now?

The Passion narrative is so enthralling on its own terms it can be difficult to keep in mind that it is not simply a drama about the death of Jesus. Gospel stories are deliberately told in a way that always invites us to find our place in the story.

I’ve always felt a real affection for the anonymous Greeks who approach Philip in Jerusalem and make their request with disarming frankness: “Sir, we would like to see Jesus.”

To speak of faith as an activity may sound strange. Most of the time it seems like such a passive commodity. We make professions of faith, reciting lists of doctrinal statements that someone else wrote long ago.