In the gospel of Luke, the Spirit of God drives the plot. The story begins with the births of John and Jesus. John, we’re told, would be filled with the Holy Spirit while still in his mother’s womb (1:15). Jesus’ mom would give birth to a holy child, because the Holy Spirit would come upon her (1:35). When the two mothers meet, John leaps in his mother’s womb and she is filled with the Holy Spirit (1:41). Then his father is filled with the Holy Spirit and prophesies (1:67). Then we meet old Simeon to whom the Holy Spirit had revealed that he would see the Lord’s Anointed before his death; and guided by the Spirit he comes to the temple when Mary and Joseph bring their child (2:25-27). Soon Jesus comes to the Jordan to be baptized by John and the Holy Spirit descends upon him, and led by the Spirit, Jesus enters the wilderness where he is tempted by the devil (3:22; 4:1). Then, as we heard again this morning, Jesus, filled with the power of the Spirit, returned to Galilee, where he began to teach in the synagogues and was praised by everyone (4:14-15). Women and men, the old and the young, entrust themselves to God’s presence and direction through the Spirit, and that is how the good news unfolds—scene by scene, generation by generation.
Jesus has returned to Nazareth where they’ve known him all his life and where they’ve heard stories, bits and pieces, about his teachings and other wondrous things he’s done down in Capernaum and other places near the lake.It’s the Sabbath, and he’s in the synagogue, and handing him the scroll of Isaiah, they invite him to do the second reading and teach. He opens the scroll. He finds the passage he wants to read. It’s like all the movement in the opening chapters— the back and forth from Nazareth to Bethlehem, back to Nazareth and down to Jerusalem, to the Jordan and into the wilderness and back to Galilee— it’s like all the movement slows down to this moment: Jesus reads from Isaiah.
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.
Jesus reads the ancient words of promise and hope, and then he sits down to teach. The eyes of all in the synagogue are fixed on him, Luke tells us; he wants us to notice the expectation in the room. Everybody wants to know what Jesus has to say. They are hungry for a teaching, for a word to assure them that the ancient promise is still theirs and firm, a word of encouragement not to give up hope that the day of release would come; that captivity and oppression would come to an end one blessed day, and God’s people would live in freedom.
When Jesus speaks, the first word out of his mouth is “today”— not some day or some day soon, but today. He identifies himself with this Spirit-bearer, anointed and sent to bring good news to the poor, to the captives, the blind, and the oppressed. Jesus wasn’t merely reading, it turns out, he was giving his inaugural address. This is who I am. This is what I’m about. This is my mission: Good news for the poor. Release for the captives. Sight for the blind. Freedom for the oppressed.
His Sabbath talk is short because his whole life is the teaching, because all he is and says and does and suffers is the embodiment of who God is for us, and who we are, who we are made to be as creatures made in the image and likeness of God, for a life of unending communion with God and all that God has made.
In the gospel according to Luke, the Spirit drives the plot, and in the second part of Luke’s work, the book of Acts, the Spirit is poured out, continuing to inspire and empower people from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, for God’s mission. Baptized into Christ, immersed into his death and resurrection, and filled with the power of the Holy Spirit, the church is called, anointed and sent to be the proclamation of good news to the poor, release to the captives, recovery of sight to the blind, and freedom for the oppressed — the church is called, anointed and sent to embody the life of Christ.
Good news for the poor — that is as simple as Room in the Inn, as simple as making a bed in fellowship hall, so a veteran who can’t escape the ghosts of war can escape the cold and find rest for a night. Good news for the poor is as simple as the Little Pantry That Could, as simple as pushing back against the harsh logic of the marketplace with the bold witness to the abundance received and shared in the household of God. Good news for the poor is as simple as a little store where the lady behind the counter tells you to take what you need. Good news for the poor is as simple as food for the hungry, shelter for the unhoused, and a couple of nights at the inn for the man who was beaten and left for dead by the side of the Jericho road. But it doesn’t end there; it can’t end there, because the Spirit of the Lord who is driving the plot, is the Spirit of life that is nothing but life, fullness of life, for all.
When Jesus said, “Today” he meant that very day, and when we hear him say, “Today” he still means today. He’s addressing our captivity, our impaired vision, our entanglement in oppression, and he invites us to let him break our chains, open our eyes, and lead us out. Jesus invites us to let his life of profound trust in God and deep compassion for others be our life, to find fullness of life in his company.
Commenting on Psalm 19, April Berends writes,
Creation bears witness to God’s glory by living out its created goodness, each element giving praise by being what God made it to be. So it is with God’s people. Living according to God’s [torah] enables us to live as God made us to live, taking our place in the created order with eyes opened to God’s glory.[1]
The heavens are telling the glory of God, and so are we when we let the life of Christ be our life. I remember a cold fall morning, a few years ago, when the sky hung low like a grey blanket. We were driving to Chattanooga, on to Cleveland, and up the Hiwassee, all the way waiting for the sun to rise. Eventually we put in our kayaks, pulled away from the bank, and started paddling down the river— and with every paddle stroke, it was as though the clouds were thinning a little more, until suddenly the sky was bluer than anything anyone could ever dream up or find words to describe, and the light awakened the colors all around us: specks of yellow and red in the trees on the banks, hues of silver and copper on ancient rock faces, bright green meadows of eelgrass in the water just below us, and on a small patch of dry, rocky ground in the middle of the rapid flow, the bravest, brightest little flower blooming impossibly red. The rising sun had kissed the world awake and everything was singing. We were paddling down the river surrounded by an anthem of praise— but there was no speech, no words, only the lovely sound life makes when it is very good.
Kathleen Norris taught creative writing for a while at an elementary school in Dakota. She met a little girl who had recently moved there from Louisiana, and who wrote what Norris says is “the best description I know of the Dakota sky”: The sky is full of blue / and full of the mind of God.[2]
The psalmist knows what it is like when we see more than we can say, when we marvel at one glorious moment and wait for words to rise to give voice to our wonder. In the psalm we heard, the sun rises like a groom coming out of his honeymoon suite, and it runs its course like a champion, shining its light on all things under heaven. And from that lovely scene the psalmist pivots to praise with equal exuberance the perfection of God’s word which gives life, makes wise, gladdens the heart, and enlightens. God’s word instructs us to perceive the wisdom in which all parts of creation are knit together in mutual belonging. Wendell Berry writes,
We are holy creatures living among other holy creatures in a world that is holy. Some people know this, and some do not. Nobody, of course, knows it all the time.[3]
We are forgetful, easily distracted, fickle, and notoriously bad at distinguishing the living God from more convenient idols. But Jesus isn’t—forgetful, easily distracted, fickle, and prone to idolatrous confusion. And so it doesn’t end with amnesia, blindness, captivity, and oppression, because the Spirit of the risen Lord who is driving the plot, is the Spirit of life that is nothing but life, fullness of life, for all.
And so we gather again and again to listen for the word of God in the words of the witnesses. And we let the word do its work in our stubborn hearts, and we entrust ourselves to the Spirit’s guidance until with all of creation we declare the glory of God, with all that we are and all that we do.
[1] April Berends, Feasting, Year C, 275.
[2] Dakota: A Spiritual Geography (New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1993), 21.
[3] Wendell Berry, “Christianity and The Survival of Creation,” Cross Currents, 1993, Vol. 43, Issue 2.