stumbling blocks, crooked path, and millstones
Reflection for Thursday in the Third Week of Lent
Luke 11:14–23
Jesus was casting out a demon that was mute; when the demon had gone out, the one who had been mute spoke, and the crowds were amazed. But some of them said, “He casts out demons by Beelzebul, the ruler of the demons.” Others, to test him, kept demanding from him a sign from heaven. But he knew what they were thinking and said to them, “Every kingdom divided against itself becomes a desert, and house falls on house. If Satan also is divided against himself, how will his kingdom stand? —for you say that I cast out the demons by Beelzebul. Now if I cast out the demons by Beelzebul, by whom do your exorcists cast them out? Therefore they will be your judges. But if it is by the finger of God that I cast out the demons, then the kingdom of God has come to you. When a strong man, fully armed, guards his castle, his property is safe. But when one stronger than he attacks him and overpowers him, he takes away his armor in which he trusted and divides his plunder. Whoever is not with me is against me, and whoever does not gather with me scatters.”
On Monday, I imagined the scene of Jesus getting up in the synagogue in Nazareth, as Luke reports in his fourth chapter, and what the people who raised him must have heard that day:
And then, Jesus gets up in front of them, and his words hit them like a ton of bricks. I’m not doing this for you, he says. My message of redemption and reconciliation and love is not just for you; it isn’t even just for the people of Israel. This message, Jesus says, is for everyone, and especially for the Gentiles and Samaritans and other outsiders and strangers. It’s as if Jesus were to stand up today, in the little white steeple church in the quaint Indiana town that raised him, amongst those so proud to see him embarking on a life of ministry and mission, and then declaring right from the pulpit: I’m here for the illegal immigrants and refugees, for the drug dealers and atheists, for the gay kids and the trans folks and drag queens.
I imagine that today’s passage, from Luke 11, sees a scene that carries echoes from Jesus’ rejection in his hometown. The people who want Jesus to fail, the ones who in today’s story question by what power Jesus is doing the things he is doing, they are still unconvinced. They still are offended. They can’t imagine a Messiah who comes to serve and heal and protect not just the people of Galilee, but also foreigners and prostitutes and sinners. And so, they cast aspersions. They whisper lies about Jesus and the Accuser. They put up stumbling blocks, and weigh down people with millstones.
The Way of Jesus is hard enough to see even when you have the best of intentions. Its made all the harder by those who obfuscate and lie, and especially by those who claim the mantle of Jesus and then lead the sheep astray, with false promises of wealth and power and influence. The good and gentle way of Jesus falls under suspicion. Feeding the hungry becomes socialism. Healing the sick becomes welfare. Welcoming the immigrant becomes open borders. Freeing the prisoner becomes lawlessness. Standing with those on the bottom becomes lawless riots.
I’m glad you came to read me today. But I think the most important thing you can read today is an essay posted by Hannah at Dispatches of a Feral Housewife, titled “Turning 33 on a Thursday.” Happy birthday to Hannah, and many many thanks to her for the best thing I’ve read on Substack so far in 2026. Here is just a little piece:
They say there’s a war going on and I see more bombs falling through the little glass screen in my hand and I want to shatter it all. They whisper there might be a draft and I look at my three young boys and rage rises in my gut. Every boy who could get called up is my baby in that moment. Throwing mud and kicking a soccer ball and bringing me a rock and saying “I found this for you” and settling in my arms when I sing “You Are My Sunshine” for the 700th time. They are children still, they don’t deserve what we’re going to do to them.
But we don’t care about the children, now do we? Because if we did, we would do something. If we did, we wouldn’t all be seeing millions and millions of pages with black bars across the names we need to see and the names we should be protecting exposed for the world to scorn. There would be consequences when horrific things are done to girls around the world, in secret rooms and behind closed doors in gilded mansions that have been advertised as paradise but are actually hell on earth. The system would collapse if justice was served? Then let it fall. I will stand shoulder to shoulder with every other parent in this godforsaken country and tear it down brick by brick, bare handed, if that’s what it takes to bring peace to those babies.
And when I say I want peace for all babies, I mean all. And maybe I’m being too literal, because when I say I want peace and shelter and safety for all humans, I mean all humans, including the ones that you love and specifically the ones that you hate and especially the ones you are afraid of. And when you inevitably what-about-me, I’ll hold my ground, because peace and shelter and safety aren’t finite, they are a right, and offering that right to all doesn’t take anything away from you and your children, but it does save someone else’s.
Amen, amen, amen to all of that.
Go read it all.
Grace and peace,
Justin