EDITOR’S NOTE: File this one under “bait and switch.” I surely thought I’d be preaching a brilliant sermon about how Jesus calls us into the mysterious, unfathomable deep. Then I remembered…Holy Communion…and a 10-minute presentation about the completed organ repairs. That leaves me about 16 seconds to preach. I shifted gears and prepared a simpler sermon about the God who calls us and who also makes us worthy for service. Look for “Deep Water” in three years! (No, I won’t remember, either.)
Luke 5:1-11
Here is a story you’ll never read in the Bible.
A man was herding the goats in the wilderness. His name was Carl. In the far distance, halfway to the horizon, Carl saw a tall pillar of thick smoke. It was racing across the desert floor like a tornado, zigzagging this way and that, but it was coming right at the man. It didn’t look dangerous, but Carl looked around for a hiding place just in case.
The pillar of smoke came closer and closer, and at about 50 feet, it made a complete circle around Carl, sending the goats scattering in all directions. Then the pillar of smoke circled around again before it stopped in front of him.
“Carl, this is God. You must cover your eyes. I am hidden in the smoke, but I am coming out to speak with you.”
Carl scowled and looked around at the goats running around on the hills. “Are you going to help me round up these goats again?”
“Never mind that. Just cover your eyes. I have something important to tell you.”
“It took me a really long time to herd them up this morning.”
“COVER YOUR FACE!” The ground shook.
Carl covered his face with the long sleeve of his robe. “Happy now?”
There was a sound like a gust of wind in the tops of the trees, and the voice said, “Carl, I am the Lord God. I have heard the cries of my people, and I will have compassion on them. I am sending you to them, to bring them to freedom.”
Carl said, “You’ve come to the right man. There is no one better to carry out your great and holy plans than me. I always knew there was a better way to use my talents than herding my brother-in-law’s goats. Excellent choice, Lord.”
“Uh…I don’t think you understand what I’m asking you to do. This is a perilous task. There will be times when you doubt yourself. You will even wonder if I still have your back. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Piece of cake, God. Finally, I have a chance to show everybody back home what I can really do. I may have failed seminary and flunked out of clown college, but I got skills.”
God considered this for a moment. The voice said, “I think maybe…on second thought…maybe you’re not the one I was looking for. I may have made a mistake.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re Carl the Carpenter, right? 613 Summerland Road?”
“No, I’m Carl the Goatherd. I live on Pacific.”
“My mistake,” said the voice. There was a whooshing sound, and a rumbling, and the cloud disappeared into the distance. Carl took his sleeve away from his face, and he was alone.
“What about my goats?!”
* * * * *
When God comes to people in the Bible to tell them they have been chosen for an important job, they all have similar reactions. Moses encountered the wonder of the burning bush and said he wasn’t fit for the job; he had a speech impediment. When Isaiah had a vision of the throne of God, he immediately confessed his unworthiness. He and his people were too sinful. God had to put Jonah in the belly of a fish and make Paul blind in the middle of the highway in order to prevent them from running away from their divinely appointed tasks. In our text this morning, as soon as Simon Peter faced the holiness of God on display in Jesus through the miraculous catch of fish, he fell to his knees, terrified. “Get away from me! I am a sinful man.”
The Bible tells us that when a person has an encounter with God, it is not inspiring, and it does not fill you with confidence. To meet God is to be terrified and immediately humble. There is an awful understanding that the gulf between the utter holiness of God and sinful human nature is unbearable. If a meeting with God inspires anything, it is fear.
And so, when in that moment when God also says, “I have a job for you,” the response must be one of disbelief.
“Who me? No way you can mean me. I am sinful. I am weak. I am ill prepared. I am completely and totally unqualified to bear your grace to the world.”
And God says, “I knew that.”
“I knew that.” Don’t you think that God already knows that not one of us is qualified to lead the people to the Promised Land or to share the prophetic word of God to a desperate nation or to call a foreign city to repentance or to share the love of Christ in a new mission field…or to preach a sermon from holy scripture or to sing an anthem about God’s grace in the sanctuary or to teach the little ones who belong to Jesus or even to share a cup of cold water in the name of Christ? Don’t you think God already knows that we are not holy enough and not equipped to serve?
But even so, the call comes. “You will soon be catching people, gathering them in, rescuing them in my name. Stay on your knees if you must, but don’t be afraid. I already know you are a sinful man, Simon Peter, but if I call you, I will make you worthy. I will equip you to serve me. I will see to it that you accomplish the purpose for which I send you.”
I have had people tell me that they are not ready to set foot in a church. “Pastor, there are too many things in my life I need to fix first. I’m way too messed up. Once I get my own house in order, then I’ll come into God’s house.” Rubbish. You may be sinful. You may be broken and incomplete. You may lack confidence and all the right stuff. In God’s eyes all that is of no account. The only thing that God sees is the imprint of the divine that is stamped right on your soul. It marks you as God’s own.
So when that call comes to you, be afraid. Be reluctant. Try to weasel out, because anybody who wants the job isn’t fit for the job. But remember that the issue isn’t whether or not you’re good enough and smart enough and, doggone it, people like you. The only thing that matters is that God wants you and says “Go for me. Love my people. I’ll get you through this. Just go.”
Some people say that there is a call to be found in Holy Communion. They say that sometimes when you come to the table, as you are waiting in line, if you really listen, if you pay attention to the texture of the bread in your mouth, the tang of the grape juice on you tongue, that you can discern a call. Some people say it is really there. I don’t know…maybe…
This is to me the most interesting of the accounts of Simon Peter’s call. I am drawn to the description of Simon on his knees, awed at the raw power on display in and through the person of Jesus. It is a moment of self-understanding—“I am not worthy to remain in the presence of someone so holy.” I have preached on that before, usually in conjunction with Isaiah 6:1-13, but this week, I think I will focus on the image of the “deep water.” What does it symbolize in the text, and what does it mean for us to go to the deep water ourselves?
5:1-3 This section sets up the rest of the story. I haven’t discerned much preachable material in these three verses. Have I missed something?
5:4-5 Simon, if he was annoyed at having a non-fisherman tell him how to do his job, didn’t seem to show it. He very well could have said, “Buddy, don’t you think I know how to do my job? I don’t tell you how to preach.” Maybe he was simply being polite. Or perhaps, like many in the crowds, he recognized something special about this wandering prophet. A sermon around these verses could emphasize obedience, especially when the instructions don’t seem to make much sense. Do I fail to be obedient because I think I know better than Jesus? Am I afraid that he is too naïve for the real world?
I’ll use, verse 4, but I’ll go in a different direction. The phrase “deep water” always seems to come to the forefront when I read this text. Deep water may have meant something different for Luke, but for me, it symbolizes a place that is unknown (since you can’t see to the bottom) and a little dangerous. My family and I have often rented a boat to go fishing at a mountain lake called Lake Sabrina. We usually troll around the edges or anchor at one of the inlets. The only time we go into the deep water is to cross to the other side or make a quick run to or from the dock. It is always something of a thrill to move deeper, to watch as the ghostly outlines of the rocks disappear into the deep blue-green.
There is something of the unknown in the deep. It is unfamiliar territory, and there are few landmarks in the deep. We keep our eyes firmly planted on the shore as we move across. Yet Jesus calls us out there with him. Will I go to face the thrill despite my fear? I can always catch a few stocked rainbow trout near the shore, but there is a promise that in the deep, a big, fat brown trout might be lurking, waiting out the heat of the day, there for anyone who might venture into the deep water. Stay by the shore or go out into the deep? That is the question of my sermon.
5:6-7 Of course Luke tells us that there was great success for Simon in the deep water. The large catch strained the nets to the breaking point and threatened to swamp the boats. The catch was divine, but could not have happened if Simon hadn’t said “yes” to Jesus.
5:8-9 Verse 8 is the first place “Simon” is called “Simon Peter” in Luke’s Gospel. When he understood what was happening, Simon felt that close encounter with the divine. There was a holy power and a holy presence, and he felt an extreme unworthiness. He was mortified. His was painfully aware of his own sinfulness. Simon begged Jesus to go away.
It is not always pleasant to be a lost sheep found by God. There are times when the lostness feels better than being found. That is because there is some comfort in the place we’ve always known, even if it is an unhealthy place. Or we feel that we are not worthy of anything better. It must be a scary feeling, to hear the Holy One is calling and fear that we are not worthy. In a similar way—but perhaps less extreme—sometimes we are called and we do not feel equipped or ready. Who am I to teach Sunday School? Who am I to pray at a hospital bedside? It is the same fear Isaiah felt. He felt unworthy to attempt the divine work? The simple answer is that the God who calls also makes worthy. The seraph told Isaiah that his guilt had departed and his sin was blotted out (Isaiah 6:7). Jesus told Simon not to be afraid. The God who calls you will also make you worthy of the call. It is not your doing, but it is God’s.
5:10-11 The best part of this call story is that there is no call. Jesus told Simon not to be afraid, that he would soon be catching people. Luke does not put “follow me” on Jesus’ lips. There is only an assumption that once Simon Peter has encountered the divine, he will be swept up in the power and the grace. That is exactly what happened. Simon and his partners left everything and followed Jesus.
An interesting sermon might trace the thoughts and actions of those who had to clean up Simon’s mess. Who put the boats away? Who mended the torn nets? What about the piles of stinking, rotting fish on the shore? Or did the crowd get to enjoy the bounty? Did they take fish home to their families? If you’re up for a narrative sermon, take it from the perspectives of those who were left behind with the boats.
What are your plans this week?
Luke 4:21-30
I have been stunned by the number of negative comments about the generosity of Americans who are helping the relief efforts in Haiti. I’m not talking about representatives of foreign governments or Haitians who are frustrated because the situation on the ground is so chaotic. I have been shocked at the number of Americans who are upset simply because we are helping people of another nation.
Several Facebook users wrote things such as “since we have so many poor and needy in our own country—including children—why are we sending money to help people somewhere else?” or “where were the Haitians when Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans. They didn’t help us, so why should we help them?” or even “they are responsible for their own poverty. They could have made changes in their government, but they didn’t, so it isn’t our responsibility to help.” It is difficult for me to imagine hearing about the devastation that hit an already destitute population and not feel compassion.
Of course, it is easy for me to sit in judgment of the authors of those comments, but they are simply expressing a common human trait, even though they have taken their feelings far beyond what most of us do. It is a fact that we human beings—along with many other animals—have a biological imperative to take care of our own. We are built with an instinctive drive to protect those people who are closest to us. I can bristle with anger if the checker at the grocery store is slightly rude to my wife, but my only thought when I see a traffic accident ahead of me on the freeway is “I hope this won’t make me late.” And when the next serious earthquake hits Southern California, there will be millions of live affected, but my first thoughts will be for my own family.
It is right and good for us to take care of our own. We should care for our families. We should care for the millions in this country who are jobless and hungry, sick and without access to medical care, lost and lonely. But I believe there is a compassionate part of us that also believes it is right to care for the unknown stranger on another shore as well as the stranger in our midst. There is something in us that recognizes that common thread of humanity that binds us together. That is why we pour millions of dollars from our own pockets into Haiti, and into a school in India and dozens of other places around the globe.
A common theme in scripture is the command to care for the widow, the orphan and the sojourner among us. This theme is emphasized in the Torah, through the prophets and into the New Testament. God says again and again to our ancestors in faith and to us, “Remember that you were once aliens in a foreign land, and you found comfort. Do likewise.” When we are living out our better selves, we can affirm that. “Amen!” we cry.
But we are not always our better selves. We hear the voice that reminds us of that. When we are in the middle of wringing our hands over unmanageable immigration and the cost to taxpayers, and the drastic chances it brings to our society and to our neighborhoods, we hear the voice that reads aloud the inscription at the base of the Statue of Liberty,
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to be free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
http://www.statueofliberty.org/default_sol.htm
The voice says, “Remember that the door did not close right after your own ancestors made their way, tempest-tost, to this land to build a good life for their families. The door is still open for others, even if they aren’t ‘your kind of people.’”
That voice upsets me. And it disturbs me even more when it reminds me that when “my kind of people” did come to this place, there were already others who had been living here for millennia. That voice is annoying.
Then, when there is a massive terrorist attack on our own soil, and even before the dust has settled on the rubble of the Federal building in Oklahoma City, we are placing the blame with extremists from another land and another culture who hate us, the voice speaks up again. It says, “Remember, it isn’t only crazy foreigners that are capable of hate and senseless violence. It is in your own soul, too.” I want to throttle that voice. I want to say “be quiet! Now is not the time. You don’t understand the world we live in.” If I had my way, I’d be perfectly happy to throw the bearer of that voice off a cliff, just like the people of Nazareth wanted to throw Jesus out of their midst.
Jesus spoke with that same annoying voice in his hometown. As soon as he said, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing,” he launched in to a tirade. “Of course you have heard of the amazing things I did in Capernaum and in Wilmington and in Long Beach. But I won’t be doing those things here. No doubt you remember the stories of our great prophets Elijah and Elisha. There were plenty of needy people in our own land, but those great men went somewhere else—to Haiti and Afghanistan and Iran—and fed hungry widows and healed desperate lepers.”
It seemed to come out of nowhere. The people were perfectly pleased with Jesus until that moment. After his speech, though, they were ready to throw him off the cliff. They tried, but somehow Jesus simply slipped through their midst and walked away.
That’s why I would never let Jesus preach here in this church. I’m afraid he might make us angry or offend us. I don’t want the next headline in The Daily Breeze to be “San Pedro Methodists throw Jesus off cliff.” I don’t think Jesus would say those things to us because we’re evil. We’re not. We do a lot of good for a lot of people, many of whom we will never meet. I don’t believe the people in Jesus’ hometown synagogue at Nazareth were evil, either. They were probably good, faithful, compassionate people.
So why, Jesus? Why incite us? Nobody likes to be nagged. Don’t you have a nice story about a mustard seed or lilies of the field? Tell us again about the time you fed the crowd with fish and bread. We like that story.
Maybe Jesus talks like that to us because he knows how important it is for us to hear. The Bible does tell us that we should take care of our own, but it tells us much more often that we should have compassion for the stranger—the widow, the orphan and the sojourner. Our biological drive to care for those closest to us is strong, and our understanding of and compassion for our common humanity is less so. That’s just the way we are programmed. Nobody has to tell me to take care of my wife, children and granddaughter. But when a stranger walks into my office and it is obvious she needs help, I have to remind myself to be compassionate, to treat that person as if she were Jesus.
If it weren’t for Jesus sometimes speaking to me in that irritating voice, that says to me, “Eric, that man, who fried his brain with heroin years ago, who now can’t take care of himself, well, he’s as much a child of God as your granddaughter is. And his momma and daddy love him just like your parents love you,” if it weren’t for that voice, I’d probably be a cold, hard man, with a fortress around my family and around my heart, keeping everything only for myself and the ones I love. And I know that’s not my best self.
Jesus knows our human nature. He lived it. He most certainly struggled with his biological imperative to care for his own as well as the divine imperative to care for the stranger. I guess I’ve got to listen when he reminds me of my duty toward others.
The truth is that there can be enough amazing grace for me and for others. There can be enough love for me and for others. There can be enough compassion for me and for others. There can be enough forgiveness for me and for others. Yeah, I guess Jesus is right.
But still, don’t you just want to throw him off a cliff sometimes?
I have read a lot of Facebook comments this week that are critical of Americans’ generosity toward the people of Haiti in their time of need. People have written things such as “we have our own poor to take care of, so why should we help theirs?” and “did the Haitians help us after Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans?” I certainly don’t disagree with the sentiment that we should help our own people. We should, and we do a poor job of caring for some segments of our population. The Christian in me (at my better moments), however, knows that God makes no distinction between American and Haitian, and that we are called to love our neighbors as ourselves. This is, of course, a possible point of contact with this week’s lesson from Luke. Jesus inspired anger in Nazareth because he elevated the outsiders above his own people. He seemed to be giving others priority in his ministry.
4:21 The first verse of our reading this week is the final verse from last week’s scripture. Since it provided the centerpiece for my preaching last week, I will only mention it (as well as verses 14-20) in order to provide background for those who weren’t in worship last week or—like me—simply forgot what we were talking about.
4:22 The people had no complaints about Jesus’ reading, or even his message that the scripture was fulfilled “today.” Everything is set for a nice story about Jesus and a successful homecoming.
4:23-27 Here is where Jesus seemed to get out of line. There is nothing in the text to this point that would prompt such harsh words, yet he goaded his former neighbors into anger. What did they do to deserve such treatment? John Stendahl, in a Christian Century piece (“Living by the Word: The offense,” January 21, 1998, 53.), suggests that perhaps Jesus was upset because the people missed the point. They focused on how wonderfully this nice boy had turned out and what a credit he was to his father Joseph. But what about the content of his message? They couldn’t see past Jesus to glimpse the power and promise of God’s gracious action that was already beginning. They were too close to him, and so they couldn’t truly hear his words. Outsiders, on the other hand, didn’t know Joseph. They hadn’t watched Jesus grow from an awkward boy into a man. The outsiders heard and understood the message.
4:28-29 This is an extreme form of rage, to want to hurl the offender off a cliff. Did they think he was speaking blasphemously? Or had hometown fervor overwhelmed their reason? In any case, the crowd was murderously angry. I have been in more than one church meeting in which people have become unglued, though not upset enough to commit homicide (I hope!). Is there a message for us in the Nazareth congregation’s reaction? You could preach this as a negative response to the message of Jesus. There are times we do not agree with Jesus’ bold extremism. Perhaps we can train ourselves to move past the immediate emotional response to hear what Jesus is really saying to us. Maybe we can learn to stop running ahead of Jesus, already certain we know what he will preach. That is a particular danger for some of the more familiar texts.
4:30 I am not sure what to do with this verse, but if you are feeling daring, you could prepare something imaginative based on Jesus, almost magically, moving through the crowd. They were so angry, yet he just “passed through the midst of them.” What was happening there? Was it Jesus’ demeanor? Had the anger melted away? Was this the power of the Spirit?
Three years ago, I preached this text while focusing on the outsider, and our distrust and fear of those who are other. I think I will do so again. We may have been fixed with a biological imperative to take care of our own, but Gospel imperative causes us to focus on the outsider.
What is your take on this text? What will be the theme of your preaching this week?
Luke 4:14-21
We have heard the stories from Haiti for nearly two weeks. They give us a window into an odd mixture of pure heartbreak and suffering, extreme joy, and firm hope that the people of Haiti are experiencing. Young and old alike have been killed and injured, and their lives devastated. Both rich and poor have been victims. No one was safe.
A young girl was playing outside her home when without warning, the earth began to tremble. Her family tried to run outside the house, while a portion of the structure tumbled down and punched a hole in the girl’s skull. She survived, but one of her parents and a sibling did not make it out of the house, and now she will be fortunate to receive adequate medical care since the hospitals have been seriously damaged and there are thousands who need help. There are too many stories like hers. Not everyone will be helped.
A boy lay beneath the rubble for hours—days—not knowing if he would be found and rescued in time. His legs were crushed, and he could hear the rescuers, but he barely had enough strength to call out for help. All he could do was wait, hope and pray, hour after hour. Would they come in time? Fortunately for this boy, he was found, and after even more hours of careful digging, he was freed. The boy had no strength, and the rescuers not much more, but they all shout for joy and begin singing. Even with everything lost, tens of thousands dead and a broken body, there is an opportunity to sing for joy.
And others, huddled together beneath pieces of sheet metal and weary tarps strung up between crumbled buildings, find enough hope to pray. They pray for those who have died and for those who are still lost beneath the rubble. They offer prayers of thanks for their own safety. They sing songs of praise. It is a wonder that anyone in Haiti could dare to have hope during these days, but they do. Despite the brutal reality they face, there is hope and trust in God. (These stories are composites from various news reports from Haiti. The initial story of the young girl comes from a Public Radio International report on its show The World, January 21, 2010. I cannot locate the specific report.)
It is cold and cruel and unchristian—not to mention bad theology—for anyone to suggest that the people of Haiti are suffering like this because they deserve it or because they are being punished. Our Bible witnesses to a God who stands with the poor and the powerless; the widow, the orphan and the sojourner; and all who suffer. Scripture may not answer all our questions about why suffering happens, but it does make one thing clear: God stands with anyone who is afflicted, and God stands with the people of Haiti. In fact, the ministry of Jesus, including his own crucifixion, tells us that God suffers with the people of Haiti.
Of our four gospels—Matthew, Mark, Luke and John—it is Luke’s gospel that makes this statement most clearly. We get our first clue in Mary’s song in chapter two. After Mary learned that she was pregnant by the Holy Spirit, and as she visited her relative Elizabeth, she burst into joyful prayer:
My soul magnifies the Lord…for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant. He has…lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things…He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy. (Luke 2:46, 48, 52, 53, 54, selected portions)
Luke took this prayer we call “The Magnificat” from a well-known Old Testament prayer. We find it in 1 Samuel, where the barren woman named Hannah prayed fervently for God’s mercy.
Our scripture reading today takes up this same theme, though in a very different context. Today, we read about how that young child given to Mary has grown up. He has been baptized by John and endured a season in the wilderness tempted by Satan. Luke wrote that the Holy Spirit now filled and upheld Jesus for his coming work.
Jesus was still held captive by the power of the Spirit when he returned to his hometown of Nazareth. His people had heard about his teaching and preaching. Here was the native son come home. Can you imagine their pride? One of their own was beginning to make his mark in the world, and now he was come home.
On the sabbath day, Jesus went to the synagogue as was his custom. Luke tells us that Jesus and his family were faithful men and women. They traveled to Jerusalem to observe the high holy days. They attended synagogue regularly. They knew and lived the scriptures. It is from this nurturing environment that Jesus emerged with the gifts and graces for his unique ministry.
On that day, Jesus was invited to be one of the speakers. Most of the men in Nazareth would have had the opportunity to read and interpret scripture in the synagogue (Fred Craddock, Interpretation: Luke [Louisville: John Knox, 1990], 61-62.). Jesus was given the scroll of the prophet Isaiah, essentially the same Isaiah that is in our Bible. He opened the scroll and read what Isaiah had spoken to those who listened to him hundreds of years earlier. The message fits perfectly into what Luke emphasized throughout this gospel:
The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor. (Luke 4:18-19)
At this point, Jesus has only read the words an honored prophet had spoken many years earlier. It was nothing more than the day’s reading. He rolled up the scroll and handed it back. Then he sat down to interpret. Now, everybody leaned forward. They watched him carefully. They waited in eager expectation for what this young man would say. What would their favored son teach them now that he had come home?
“Today.” Today, not some long ago yesterday when God acted in great power to bring the exiles home from Babylon to rebuild Jerusalem. Today, not some vague tomorrow when God might act again to drive out the foreign armies so that the people could have their own homeland and dignity back again. Today, certainly not an ethereal someday when maybe poverty and suffering and blindness and hatred and injustice and oppression will be no more. Today. “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”
Perhaps no one can understand the importance of “today” more than someone who is suffering right now. The little girl with a hole in her skull and her mother and sister dead from the earthquake needs help today, now, this very minute. The boy who is buried under a ton of rubble silently begs for rescue today, now, this moment. The thousands who are yearning for food and clean water and shelter don’t need a reminder of how God rescued the people in generations past. They don’t need a promise that tomorrow the boat will sail into the harbor with supplies. To them, the far off hope that someday all suffering will cease and every tear will be wiped away is irrelevant. They desperately need help today. They need rescue today. Today is the only day that matters.
You and I can afford to reminisce about yesterday and to make plans for tomorrow, because I have clean clothes on my back and clean water at my fingertips. After this worship service, I will go back to a cozy home where I will find all of my family safe and happy. Today is pretty easy for me, so I can afford to take it for granted. But for millions and millions, today is urgent and desperate.
Jesus Christ, the prophet, savior and Messiah, lives in that desperate today. Today this scripture is fulfilled. That is the vital mission and ministry of Jesus. And we are his Church. Fred Craddock tells us that in Luke’s account of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection, and in Luke’s sequel, the book of Acts, the story of the early Church, that today of Jesus’ ministry “never is allowed to become ‘yesterday’ or to slip again into a vague ‘someday.’” He reminds us that it is the Church’s job to be sure that the power and urgency of today is alive in our ministry. (Fred Craddock, Interpretation: Luke [Louisville: John Knox, 1990], 62.) We who follow Jesus and who carry out his work in the world realize the importance of today because it isn’t simply the Haitian masses who suffer from the ravages of the earthquake, and it isn’t simply the millions of women in Africa who walk for miles to get clean water, and it isn’t simply the hundreds of thousands of American children who don’t get enough to eat. These are God’s children who suffer, and God suffers with them. Today we act to fulfill again the promise of Jesus who shares good news with the poor, release to the captives, recovery of sight to the blind and freedom for the oppressed.
Today…because some people can’t wait until tomorrow.
