Lectionary Commentaries for July 13, 2025
Fifth Sunday after Pentecost

The Parable of the Good Samaritan is perhaps one of the most popular parables in the New Testament. This parable has single-handedly reshaped the reputation of the Samaritans, now associated with care and compassion for strangers rather than with the longstanding civil and religious disputes they had with their Jewish neighbors. But in many ways, its familiarity can make it more challenging for the exegete and preacher.

Parables are meant to provoke, to challenge the listener’s assumptions through vivid and often unexpected storytelling. But what happens when a story is so familiar that its strangeness is lost? When, in the retelling over centuries, the sharpness of the point is smoothed out? The goal of the preacher for a text like this one is to recapture some of that sharpness so that it might be able to challenge us to hear a new truth about the Kingdom of God.

A subverted question

While often we are tempted to lift this parable out of its Lukan context, focusing only on the details of the story Jesus tells, the setup for why Jesus tells this story is essential for understanding it. Luke tells us that Jesus was approached by a lawyer, who sought to test him, asking Jesus: “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” (verse 25). Jesus responds not by answering the question, but by asking the lawyer his thoughts on the question. The lawyer responds by quoting the Shema from Deuteronomy 6, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind” and includes Leviticus 19:18, “and [you should love] your neighbor as yourself” (Luke 10:27). Jesus affirms the lawyer’s correct answer, saying if he does these things, he will live.

But the lawyer is not satisfied. He goes in for one last question: “And who is my neighbor?” (verse 29).

It is in response to this question that Jesus tells the story of the Good Samaritan.

And because Jesus loves a good reversal of expectations, we first meet the priest and the Levite, who the audience would assume would help the man in need, only to watch them pass by on the other side of the road.

Then we are introduced to the Samaritan, an opponent of the Jewish people. The Samaritans were despised by their Jewish counterparts, being viewed as having both questionable lineage and questionable theology. Yet it is this person who goes above and beyond in his care of the injured man. He not only cares for the wounds of the man, but he also carries him to help and then pays for his continued care at the inn.

Having told the story, Jesus turns back to the lawyer: “Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?” (verse 36).

The lawyer answers, albeit indirectly: “The one who showed him mercy” (verse 37). He cannot bring himself to say “The Samaritan.”

And in this way, Jesus has flipped the question upside down. The lawyer was asking for boundaries over who should be considered a neighbor. If neighbors must be loved as oneself, surely there must be limits. Jesus refuses to set any and instead doubles down. Instead of describing who is a neighbor, he discusses how to be a neighbor. He switches the conversation from neighbor as an object you decide to love to neighbor as the subject—how you embody being a neighbor.

Some interpreters have felt that in doing this, Jesus does not actually answer the man’s question, but I would argue that he intentionally subverts the question. In his answer, he tells the lawyer that his question was the wrong one. The question should not have been “Who is my neighbor?” The question should have been “How do I love my neighbor?”

As Franz Leenhardt argued: “One cannot define one’s neighbor; one can only be a neighbor.”¹

And in his answer, Jesus teaches that one is a neighbor by going above and beyond in caring for those in need. The act of neighboring, like love, does not have a limit.

No boundaries in the Kingdom

Yet Jesus is not merely redefining what it means to be a neighbor; he is also deliberately choosing an enemy to be neighbor to make his point even sharper, adding another layer to this story. By selecting a nearby enemy of his audience, someone who is clearly part of an opposing “team,” he is pushing them beyond the fact that everyone is their neighbor. He is pushing them to see that, in fact, their enemy is also and especially their neighbor.

In this way, Jesus makes it clear that loving our enemies is not optional. Rather, it is essential to discipleship. Luke has already introduced this theme earlier in the Gospel, when, in the Sermon on the Plain, Jesus proclaims: “But I say to you who are listening: Love your enemies; do good to those who hate you; bless those who curse you; pray for those who mistreat you” (Luke 6:27–28). Now, in this parable, Jesus fleshes out that teaching. The Samaritan does not simply tolerate his Jewish neighbor; he loves him actively and abundantly, despite their hostility.

But Jesus pushes even further. This parable dismantles the very notion of boundaries, exposing the false divisions we draw between “us” and “them.” The Samaritan and the Jew were divided by history, culture, and theology, yet Jesus declares that their obligation to love supersedes all of it. In doing so, this story confronts the sin of racism for what it is: an attempt to carve out exceptions to God’s command to love, to create boundaries where none should be. The Kingdom of God allows no such divisions, and neither do the scriptures, which call us to love our neighbor as ourselves. And so, like the lawyer, we are left not with the question “Who is my neighbor?” but with the much harder one: “Will I choose to be a neighbor?”

Notes

1. Franz Leenhardt, as quoted in Klyne R. Snodgrass, Stories with Intent: A Comprehensive Guide to the Parables of Jesus (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2008), 357.

The narrative context of Deuteronomy situates this passage at a crucial theological and rhetorical climax. Deuteronomy is a book presented as Moses’ farewell address to Israel before his death on the plains of Moab, right before the Israelites finally enter the Promised Land. This passage is embedded in Moses’ third and final speech (chapters 29–30). 

Here, Moses summons the children of Israel to renew their covenant with YHWH. He urges them to commit decisively to God. This speech is notably framed in rational and persuasive terms, grounding its appeal in the immediacy and accessibility of divine instruction. In the lead-up to this passage, Deuteronomy 27–28 outlines blessings and curses that vividly portray the consequences of covenant faithfulness or rebellion. Deuteronomy 29 then calls the children of Israel to reaffirm their covenantal bond with YHWH by remembering their long, formative journey through the wilderness, a journey marked by God’s faithful presence and providence. 

Building on this trajectory, chapter 30 marks a profound prophetic turn. It anticipates Israel’s eventual failure and exile, yet it also promises their return. This return is made possible through repentance and the transformative action of God, who restores, gathers, and circumcises the heart (30:1–10). Against this backdrop, Deuteronomy 30:9–14 delivers a moving and persuasive appeal that engages both reason and emotion. It insists that God’s command is not far away or impossible to understand—it is right here, close at hand, already in your heart, and on your lips. It isn’t a burden too heavy to carry or a mystery too deep to grasp. It is a word meant to be lived. 

What makes this moment so compelling is how it reaches into the very core of human experience: the longing to choose life, to do what is right, and to know that such a choice is truly possible. These verses do not just instruct—they invite. They urge Israel to see that covenant faithfulness is not beyond them; it is within them. This stirring message, filled with both urgency and grace, brings together the central themes of the whole book—obedience, choice, life, and blessing—into one final, unforgettable call. As Israel stands on the threshold of the Promised Land, this passage prepares them not just to enter it, but to live in it with full hearts and clear purpose.

Hear the force of Moses’ words: “The word is very near you; it is in your mouth and in your heart so that you can do it.” This is not a command meant to crush you under its weight or send you searching to the ends of the earth for answers. No, the logic of grace is clear and persuasive: What God asks of you, he also places within you. 

After Pentecost, this truth burns brighter than ever. The Spirit has come not to impose but to indwell, to take the law once written on stone and write it on living hearts. What once stood outside as demand now lives within as desire. What was once law is now love—spoken from your mouth, beating in your heart, empowering you to live the very life God calls you to. This is the gospel’s reasonableness: that obedience is no longer about striving alone but about the Spirit’s nearness, God’s word becoming your own. You can do it—not because you are able in yourself, but because God is near, within, and for you.

Listen closely to the logic of grace and the compelling call of covenant: God does not ask for obedience as cold compliance or external conformity—he invites you into a relationship marked by love, fidelity, and trust. Deuteronomy 30:9–10 makes it clear: Obedience is not a test you’re doomed to fail. It’s a response to a God who has already drawn near in compassion and unilateral, preemptive covenant loyalty. These verses speak of a God who delights in restoring, gathering, and blessing his people—not because they have earned it, but because they have returned to him with all their heart and soul. The logic is unmistakable: Divine grace precedes our human response. God initiates restoration, and obedience follows not as a burden or coercion, but as covenantal fidelity born of natural gratitude and love. 

This is why verses 11–13 deepen this invitation with striking clarity: You don’t need to ascend to heaven or cross the sea—the word is already near. In the time after Pentecost, this becomes even more profound. You don’t need to ascend, because Christ has descended. You don’t need to search, because the Spirit has been poured out. The will of God is not hidden or withheld; it is near, accessible, and internal. This nearness is not just a theological idea—it is a personal experience. The Spirit speaks not from mountaintops or burning bushes, but from within your very flesh. 

In this post-Pentecost moment, obedience is no longer about striving toward a distant ideal. It is about walking with the One who now dwells within. This is not obedience under compulsion, but voluntary, Spirit-empowered transformation. God has not only shown you the way—he has become the way in Christ. So choose the path of life. Not because you must, but because the Word made Flesh came down and made it possible for us to walk on it.

In this way, the sense of exuberance in verse 9 makes sense! Verse 9 crowns the passage not by concluding it, but by opening it with unmistakable clarity about God’s posture toward his people—a posture of delight, abundance, and eagerness to bless. It sets the emotional and theological atmosphere in which the call to return, obey, and embrace the nearness of the Word can be rightly heard. 

Before any appeal is made to the heart or to the will, God’s gracious intention is already declared: to make God’s people prosper, to rejoice once more in their flourishing. This is not an incentive in the transactional sense, but revelation. It reveals the kind of God who issues the command in verses 10–14. Without the exuberance of verse 9, the invitation that follows could be heard as duty. With it, obedience becomes the natural response to a divine joy already in motion. It is this initial declaration of God’s overflowing desire to bless that makes the entire appeal to return not only reasonable, but irresistible. 

The prophetic books are often divided into two categories. The books of Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel are considered the Major Prophets, and the remaining twelve books (Hosea, Joel, Amos, Obadiah, Jonah, Micah, Nahum, Habakkuk, Zephaniah, Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi) are designated as the Minor Prophets. This nomenclature is a bit misleading because these monikers do not indicate the importance of one collection of books relative to the other. The designation has everything to do with the physical size of the books. The books of Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel are long, and their length would have required more papyrus or parchment scrolls to produce them. The books of the Minor Prophets are simply shorter than the Major Prophets. Importantly, in many Christian traditions, the Minor Prophets are also referred to as the Book of the Twelve.

The book of Amos is found among the Book of the Twelve. Amos has four major sections: superscription (1:1), oracles against the nations (1:2–2:16), oracles against Israel (3–6), and visions (7–9). 

The superscription is important because it includes a description of Amos and establishes the historical setting for the book’s contents. Amos is a shepherd from the southern region of Tekoa, who prophesied regarding the people of Israel (northern region) during the reigns of King Uzziah and King Jeroboam. As a shepherd, Amos responds to a call to prophetic ministry from obscurity. Unlike prophets who were often already part of the elite inner circle of the king, Amos will not only speak to the northern kingdom from the southern kingdom, but his voice will travel to the palace from the literal heartland of Tekoa. In modern vernacular, as a prophet, Amos will “punch above his weight class.” 

The second and third parts of the book of Amos include a series of oracles. Within the prophetic material, an oracle is a message from God delivered by some intermediary. When a prophet delivers an oracle, it tends to carry a negative message. While many oracles are directed to foreign nations (for example, Isaiah 31 and Nahum 1 contain oracles against the peoples of Babylon and Nineveh, respectively), biblical prophets also delivered oracles against Israel and Judah. For example, the prophet Ezekiel declares an oracle concerning “the prince in Jerusalem and all the house of Israel in it” (Ezekiel 12:10, New Revised Standard Version), and the prophet Jeremiah warns of and laments the destruction of Jerusalem by the Babylonians (Jeremiah 4:5–22; 8:18–9.26). 

Amos 7 contains warnings against Israel in the form of three vision-oracles. The Lord God shows Amos a vision of locusts (verses 1–3), a devouring fire (verses 4–6), and a plumb line (verses 7–9). Each of the three vision-oracles builds to the dreaded conclusion that Israel will be destroyed. In the remaining verses (verses 10–17), the priest Amaziah reports Amos’s proclamations as conspiratorial toward King Jeroboam of Israel, and Amos responds with a personal judgment upon Amaziah and the reiteration of Israel’s pending exile.

The Hebrew word ‘anakh is often rendered as “plumb line” in English translations of the Bible. The biblical writers paint a picture of the Lord God using a plumb line to measure the integrity of Israel. In the same way a modern mason might measure the structural integrity of a wall, the Lord God measures the spiritual integrity of the people of Israel. In this third vision-oracle, the Lord God explains that, as a result of the plumb-line measure, Israel will “be made desolate, and the sanctuaries of Israel shall be laid waste, and I will rise against the house of Jeroboam with the sword” (verse 9). Conquest, destruction, and death are coming to Israel.

Commentary

Undoubtedly, most readers pay great attention to the plumb-line vision-oracle because it foreshadows the Babylonian exile. Modern readers tend to read this passage with great attention to the fact that Israel did not meet the Lord God’s expectations. This passage is interpreted as an admonition for faithful and righteous living to avoid divine punishment. Readers focus on measuring but give little regard to the wall being measured. This reading strategy may distance believers from the understanding that they are the wall being measured.

Like walls that have endured over time, as humans go through life, we may lose our steadiness.  In truth, we are not always consistent in our faith practices. We live through major disappointments that challenge our faith. Our hope may be built on a firm foundation, but over time, we may experience our hope “leaning” unsteadily to one side or another. Over time, our spiritual houses may weaken and become less precise.  

A wall may erode and get out of alignment for many reasons. A settling foundation is a major reason why a wall or building structure may be out of alignment. Anyone who has spent any time in an older home has walked over an uneven or creaky floor, applied extra pressure to open or close sticking doors, noticed cracked or bowed walls, or repositioned loose bricks on fireplaces or stairs. “Oh, you know how these old houses are. That is a function of settling.” Hearing that explanation, we accept the quirks of the old home and do not give it much more attention … until the evidence of the settling home becomes so pronounced that we must take action.

When a visitor trips on uneven floors, when the ceiling collapses because of a crack in the wall, or when someone suffers from a health condition due to mold growth precipitated by missing bricks, we call a professional to correct the structural damage and preserve the integrity of the home. The building professional assesses the damage and begins the work of fixing the problem before it gets any worse. And that professional will usually offer some advice about the maintenance of the home to avoid future problems.

So it is with our spiritual walls. This Amos text reminds modern readers of the need for maintenance to preserve the integrity of our spiritual foundation. Before the Lord God shows up with a plumb line, there are some things we can do to realign and maintain the integrity of our spiritual walls. When we notice cracks in our foundation, uneven floors, or misalignment in our relationship with the Divine, we can consider (re)instituting daily prayer and meditation, engaging in practices of love and gratitude, and attending to the care of our neighbors, among other correctives for modern believers.

Psalm 25 is an alphabetic acrostic poem.¹ Though its structure is obvious in Hebrew, it is obscure in translation.

But when we attend to the structure of Psalm 25 we can start to comprehend its message. In short, the psalm claims that God shows us the way. God provides the way out of danger, the way to live in harmony with others, the way to order our lives. And this psalm shows us the way to pray.

The structure of the psalm

Psalm 25 is one of several alphabetic acrostics in the Psalter (Psalms 9-10, 34, 37, 111, 112, 119, 145). As such, each line begins with a successive letter of the Hebrew alphabet, with the 22 verses of the psalm corresponding to the 22 Hebrew letters. The chart below contains the initial words of the first three lines of poetry to illustrate the pattern.

The alphabet is the fundamental element of one’s education. It is the first thing that any young student learns on the pathway to literacy. In ancient Israel, writing was seen as the special medium of God’s revelation. Thus the alphabet became associated with God’s word. Since the Torah, God’s law or instruction, came to Israel through writing, the structure of the alphabet was understood to reflect the structure that God provides the community through the law.

Many of the alphabetic acrostic psalms revolve around the theme of the law or instruction. Psalm 119 is the prime example. At 176 verses, it is an extended meditation on the law of God. In this case, the poem contains 22 eight-line stanzas, the first word of each line starting with the same Hebrew letter. The theme that unites all of these verses is the instructive value of God’s word, epitomized in its most famous verse: “Your word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path” (verse 105).

Walking and learning

Psalm 119:115 suggests that the psalmist is walking, going along a way and in need of instruction and guidance. The word of God, the law, illuminates the path. Psalm 25 has the same message and a similar structure. It makes frequent use of words related to teaching, learning, walking, and being led along pathways.

In Psalm 25, the psalmist asks God to show him God’s ways, to make them understandable (verse 4), and then to lead him in those ways (verse 5). The Hebrew verb at the beginning of verse 5 means literally “cause me to walk” (hadrikheni). God is the one who reveals the path, and God is the one who makes the psalmist walk it.

Everyone benefits from God’s instruction, both the humble (verse 9) and sinners (verse 8). Sinners can learn the right way by attending to God’s word. The psalmist should know; he himself is a sinner (verse 7). He has failed to walk uprightly in the past, but hopes that God will instruct him and keep him on the right track as he goes forward (see verses 11, 18).

Teaching one how to pray

The poem’s structure enables one to memorize it easily, at least in Hebrew. The acrostic guides the one reciting it from one line to the next. Similarly, the psalm contains a series of “hinge words” that facilitate memorization. Hinge words are words that appear in one line and are then repeated in the next, often in slightly different but related form.

In verses 2-3, for example, we find two forms of the Hebrew verb bosh, “to be ashamed”: ’evoshah (“do not let me be put to shame,” verse 2) and yevoshu (“let them be put to shame,” appearing twice in verse 3). In verses 4-5 two words about walking occur that are drawn from the root drk: derakheka (“your ways,” verse 4) and hadrikheni (“cause me to walk,” verse 5). In the same two verses, the imperative form of the verb “to teach” is repeated: lammedeni (“teach me,” verses 4-5). And in verses 6-7 the verb zkr, “to remember,” appears three times: zekhor (“remember [your compassion],” verse 6) and al-tizkor … zikhor-li-attah (“do not remember [the sins] … remember me,” verse 7).

There are other examples across the psalm, but these alone, and especially the verbs of memory, highlight the fact that this psalm has been carefully arranged so that it can be memorized. The acrostic form and the hinge words enable one to commit these words to memory. And once memorized, the psalm provides a roadmap for the faithful to pray. The psalm, like God’s law, becomes a guide. It travels with you whenever you go. The psalm thus becomes a way for God’s order to be realized in one’s life through prayer.

The instruction of Psalm 25

The psalm begins like a classic lament (see, for example, Psalm 6), with a statement of trust and a series of direct requests for God’s aid. The psalmist is in trouble. And when trouble besets him, he thinks about the law of God. The psalmist is keenly aware of the ways that he has failed to keep the law. Indeed, the specter of shame, guilt, and sin hangs over the psalmist (verses 2-3, 7-8). Even so, the psalmist understands that salvation comes in the form of divine instruction: “Teach me, for you are the God of my salvation” (verse 5). The psalmist imagines his salvation in the form of learning.

So what can we learn about God from Psalm 25? The psalmist articulates a set of characteristics about God. These characteristics are revealed explicitly through his direct claims about the divine character (verse 8-10) and implicitly through his requests for God’s action (verses 1-7). God provides order and meaning for human life through the law (verses 4-5). God forgives (verses 7-8). God acts on behalf of the faithful, satisfying those who wait on God (verses 3, 5). God is in it for the long haul; that is, God has been faithful in the past, and God will continue to be faithful in the future (verses 6, 8-10).

And what can we learn about the psalmist and, by extension, about ourselves? The psalm reveals much about what it means to walk the path of life in a relationship with God. Being a sinner doesn’t exclude us from the ability to learn from God (verse 7). Even those who have experienced great shame and oppression can experience God’s redemption (verse 2). God’s mercy overwhelms any of our failings (verses 8-9). Following God’s paths leads us to salvation (verses 1-2, 5, 10).

Psalm 25 shows us these paths of salvation. It shows us the way.

Notes

1. Commentary previously published on this website for July 14, 2019.

Colossians 1:1–14 includes the greeting and thanksgiving of what we know as Paul’s letter to the Colossians. Among the 13 Pauline letters, Colossians is a disputed epistle. Importantly, “disputed” does not mean that Paul did not write a given letter; it simply means that a significant number of scholars dispute that Paul wrote it. Although there is no consensus on the matter, contemporary scholars increasingly believe Paul played at least some part in authoring Colossians. For simplicity, I refer to the author as Paul, though my discussion does not depend on a particular theory of authorship.

Colossians also fits the category of a Pauline prison letter (4:3), along with Ephesians, Philippians, and Philemon. If indeed Paul authored Colossians, it is not clear in which period of incarceration he did so. Additionally, Paul did not establish the community of Christ-believers in Colossae. Rather, they seem to have been evangelized by a man named Epaphras (1:7; see also 4:12), whom Paul also names as a fellow prisoner in Philemon 23. Paul is, therefore, removed from the Colossians’ experiences, and he writes based on what Epaphras reported to him (1:8).

In sum, Colossians presents itself as a letter from Paul, who is imprisoned, to a group of Christ-believers in Colossae. Paul is, therefore, a step removed from the Colossians’ experiences, and he writes based on information he received from Epaphras.

In the greeting (1:1–2), Paul refers to himself as “an apostle of Jesus Christ through the will of God” (my translation). Typically, Paul opens epistles by presenting himself in ways that are pertinent to particular occasions and useful for his rhetorical purposes. He introduces himself, for instance, as a “slave (doulos) of Christ Jesus” (Romans 1:1; Philippians 1:1 [plural]), an apostle (apostolos, Romans 1:1; 1 Corinthians 1:1; 2 Corinthians 2:1; Galatians 1:1; Ephesians 1:1; 1 Timothy 1:1; 2 Timothy 1:1), a prisoner (desmios, Philemon 1), or simply as Paul (1 Thessalonians 1:1).

In Colossians, Paul’s self-presentation simply as an apostle likely functions to underscore his apostolic authority, perhaps in anticipation of his later attempts to counter what he views as false teachings (see more below). Correspondingly, Paul addresses the Colossians as “the saints (hagios) and faithful brothers and sisters in Christ in Colossae” (1:2, New Revised Standard Version). There, one finds the only occurrence of Paul greeting a community as “siblings” (adelphois). That label at once acknowledges the audience as part of the larger “family of Christ” and places them on similar footing as “Timothy the brother” (1:1, my translation) in relationship both to Paul and to the wider network of believers who share familial relationships.¹

Although the New Revised Standard Version adds punctuation to simplify Paul’s long and winding discourse, Colossians 1:3–8 comprises a single sentence in the Greek. As with the whole of 1:1–14, these verses anticipate themes that occur later in the epistle. For instance, Paul’s famous themes of faith, hope, and love (1 Corinthians 13:13) make an appearance.

He notes that he has “heard of [their] faith in Christ Jesus” (verse 4; see also 2:5, New Revised Standard Version). Later, he encourages them to “continue securely established and steadfast in the faith” (1:23). Paul has likewise heard of “the love [they] have for all the saints” (1:4; see also 1:8). In 3:14, he instructs the Colossians, “Above all, clothe yourself with love” (New Revised Standard Version). In 1:5, Paul mentions the “hope being stored away for you in the heavens” (my translation). Later, in the same statement in which Paul encourages them to continue “steadfast in the faith,” he adds, “without shifting from the hope promised by the gospel” (1:23).

These examples illustrate the “you have … but continue in” pattern that characterizes much of the letter: They have faith, and they should continue in the faith. They possess love and are continually to clothe themselves in it. Hope is stored for them in heaven, and they should remain in that hope.

Paul also establishes in 1:3–8 that the Colossians have heard about hope “in the word of truth, the gospel” (New Revised Standard Version). In 1:9–11, Paul references his prayers that the Colossians would “be filled with the knowledge of God’s will in all spiritual wisdom and understanding,” themes that also anticipate later discussions in the epistle (for knowledge [epignōsis], see also 1:10; 2:2; 3:10; on wisdom [sophia], see also 1:28; 2:3, 23; 3:16; 4:5; for understanding [sunesis], see also 2:2). These early references to truth, wisdom, knowledge, and understanding not only affirm his readers but seemingly function to prepare them for his later warnings and instructions about what he views as false teachings.

Concerning such teachings, Paul writes, for example, about the possibility of the Colossians being deceived by “plausible arguments” (2:4). He warns them not to be taken “captive through philosophy and empty deceit, according to human tradition, according to the elemental principles of the world, and not according to Christ” (2:8, New Revised Standard Version Updated Edition). He instructs them not to be condemned for “matters of food or drink or observing festivals, new moons, or Sabbaths,” not to be disqualified by those “insisting on self-abasement and worship of angels, initiatory visions,” or “puffed up without cause by a human way of thinking” (2:18–19, New Revised Standard Version Updated Edition).

Scholars have attempted to (re)construct the nature of the teaching or philosophy that some unknown group was sharing with the Colossians, if indeed there was a single group with one teaching. I caution against granting significant interpretive weight to such (re)constructions; our only evidence is from the epistle itself. Rather, my concern is with Paul’s rhetorical strategy in 1:1–14 of anticipating his later discussions: He does not begin by deconstructing the claims of specific alternative teachings; he emphasizes the gospel that the Colossians have received as a reminder about who they were and have become.

As he puts it, they have been “rescued … from the power of darkness” and “transferred … into the kingdom of [God’s] beloved Son” and are now, therefore, both redeemed and forgiven (1:13–14). Rhetorically, Paul grounds them in their reception and experience of the gospel that Epaphras taught them.

Notes

1. Jerry L. Sumney, Colossians, The New Testament Library (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2008), 28.