Tuesday, June 5, 2012

For I the LORD love justice

And the book of the prophet Isaiah was handed to Him. And He opened the book, and found the place where it was written, ‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me, Because He anointed Me to preach the gospel to the poor. He has sent Me to proclaim release to the captives, and recovery of sight to the blind, To set free those who are downtrodden, to proclaim the favorable year of the Lord.' And He closed the book, and gave it back to the attendant, and sat down; and the eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed upon Him. And He began to say to them, "Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing." Luke 4:17-21/Isaiah 61:1-2


This is it.  Why He came.  Why the Spirit filled Him with power.  Why He was anointed.  And He understood this and a singleness of focus marked His life, his refusal in the desert to be distracted from the task at hand.  And His before-dawn prayer moments in lonely places were not so much talking, as He instructed me not to babble on like the pagans do, but listening. Allowing the Spirit to sort through the clutter of the day, the demands, the reaching crowd that waited outside the door, and listen.

And to step into each day with His face set steadfastly towards Jerusalem, His life emanated peace because His decision had already been made.  No fretting, no second guessing.  Each moment was framed by this outcome.  

There are all sorts of poverty and bondage. Economic, spiritual, emotional, physical.  What matters is what I am supposed to be about: proclaiming freedom.  Setting free.  Being sent.  Day in and day out.  The measurable objective with which to measure every activity, every bustle, even every thought, if I want to be like Him.

And how did the world react?

And they rose up and drove Him out of the town and brought him to the brow of the hill on which their town was built, so that they could throw Him down the cliff. But passing through their midst, He went away.

Living in the sweet spot, nothing can harm me in the real sense.  Even the cross proclaimed, cried out in victory, "Death, where is your sting?"

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