Alright, so who here knows what prostitution is? Anybody? What about sex? Maybe we should start there. Yes, it's how babies are made. Okay so a prostitute is a person who gets paid to have sex. What? No, not so she can have babies. Well, the prostitute in our story does have babies, but we haven't gotten there yet. But prostitutes theoretically don't make good husbands and wives because if they're still active in their job then they are having sex with other people and they should really only be having sex with you. You with me? No? It's okay.

Martha: Couple's therapy? Really? 

Mary: We need to talk this out and I figured counseling would help us some... 

Martha: It's couple's therapy, Mary. We are not a couple!

Mary: We're a couple of sisters. 

Martha: Of all the stupid... 

Mary: What was I supposed to do? Do you realize how many sermons have set us up as diametrically opposed? It's tearing us apart. We've been pitted against each other.

I was trying to write this science fiction short story about a guy who one night began shape-shifting, but couldn't control it. He transformed into whatever kind of person that frightened whoever he encountered; whoever they perceived was their enemy. It starts when he's pulled over and transforms into a black man. Panicked and acting erratically, the officers open fire when they think he's lunging for a gun.

Psalm 30 is listed as a psalm of David. Of course, psalms of David are kind of like Abraham Lincoln quotes on Facebook; genuine articles are certainly floating out there, but there is a fair amount from less famous sources too.  Psalm of David just sounds more impressive than Psalm of Phineas the Struggling Poet and Temple Lyre Player. All of which is to say David may or may not have authored Psalm 30, but his is the name we have.

I nearly didn't get to writing this. It's late. It's been a long day, but I feel like this passage is important. I don't have much to say, but especially in light of people hurting others because of their differences, I wanted to leave this here. The echoes of Orlando will linger for a long time. A presidential candidate has called for banning a religion from this country and even floated racial profiling as a sound strategy. It's terrifying. Unnerving.

So then there's this...

You have to wonder if Luke wanted to make the reader uncomfortable. The sinner woman. The kissing. The flowing hair. The feet*. Jesus, what on earth is going on here with this woman? Do you realize what she's doing?

There is this simple moment that is essential to my understanding of Jesus. Sometimes I think we see him as almost a miracle working robot, the unstoppable antithesis of the Terminator. He was sent to our Earth to save, heal, and point others towards God. And there are times in which he declares that is the reason for whatever miracle that Jesus is performing. But here and a few other places in the gospels we are reminded of his beating heart and thus God's beating heart.

He was never there. 

That realization struck me today. And, no, I'm not talking about finally figuring out what was going on in The Sixth Sense. I picked that one up the first time I saw it. I'm referring to the centurion in this week's gospel passage. It's a bit of poor reading on my part, but I had glossed over the fact that the man asking Jesus to heal his servant never actually spoke face-to-face with Jesus.