Who is the real lawbreaker? The Pharisees thought Jesus was. In this series we’ll turn to Luke 5 and 6 to think about God’s Law, legalism and restoring grace.
We easily draw safe boundaries around God’s grace, welcoming those who seem familiar while overlooking those who feel foreign or difficult. Yet the distant wise men of Matthew 2 and the rejoicing Gentiles of Acts 13 confront those boundaries: Jesus came to reach the world. Who might God be placing beyond our comfort, yet within the reach of his good news?
We’ve all felt the pull to add one more pious act—fast a little longer, pray a little harder—convinced the right combination will finally make us right before God. In Matthew 9, John’s disciples bring that same assumption directly to Jesus, and his answer reframes not just the practice of fasting but the question of what season we’re actually living in.
We see lots of details but miss the main point when we come to Jesus mainly to eliminate problems here and now. In Matthew 9:18–26, two people reach out to Jesus with needs very much like the ones we have and must wrestle with the deeper point of Jesus’s ministry — just like we do.
We scramble to fix what’s broken, certain we know the one restoration that matters most. But when friends lower a paralyzed man before Jesus in Matthew 9, desperate only to walk, the first words he hears are “Take heart, my son, your sins are forgiven.” Do we trust Jesus enough to receive what he says we actually need?
Mothers mourn over children falling away, over ones they’ve outlived, over the ache of children they never had. That grief feels heavy for Mother’s Day, yet Jesus declares in Matthew 5:4, “Blessed are those who mourn.” How is it blessed to mourn?
It’s easy to talk about being bold for Jesus until opposition comes—when it’s dangerous, uncomfortable or people may look down on us. In Matthew 2, Joseph and Herod both have choices to make in response to God coming into the world. Do our own responses to God look show bold faith or frantic fear?
Most of us pray “thy kingdom come” without stopping to ask whether the kingdom we’re actually building day to day is God’s—or our own. That tension sits at the heart of Matthew 6:10, and Daniel 4 shows just how far God will go to get our attention when we forget who’s really in charge.
We’ve sung it since childhood: He’s got the whole world in his hands. Yet when the personal “you and me” gets stripped away, what’s left is a distant abstraction. In Matthew 8 a leper kneels and forces the real question—does the Lord who can hold everything actually will to hold him?
We've all known someone's birthday was coming, kept it in the back of our minds, and then realized two weeks too late that we never said a word—recognized it, but never responded. In Matthew 8, the demons who meet Jesus call him “Son of God” with more clarity than almost anyone else in the Gospel, yet that recognition leads somewhere unexpected and deeply unsettling.
