We have seen images from Haiti all week. Some have been heartwarming, like seeing the eight year-old boy freed from the rubble after all this time; most have been heartbreaking – people screaming without pain medicine while having an amputation done with a hacksaw, bodies being piled high with a bulldozer.

And I suspect that there has been a part of each of us that has said, “I need to do something. I should go down there. At least I can dig through the debris, hold a hand, pass out a bottle of water.” But a more reasonable part of us says, “You’d be in the way. Maybe later, but right now they need supplies and money and our prayerful attention.”

There is a yearning within each of us to make a difference, to contribute to the well-being of others, to do something that matters. We hope that it does not take a disaster to put us into touch with that yearning. We want to have that feeling about things on a smaller scale – the phone call to someone who is grieving, the gentle touch for someone who has experienced a stroke, the simple directions to someone lost in the Loop and is holding the map upside down, the extra cookie in our pocket for the guy on the street corner, the invitation for a cup of coffee extended to the friend who has lost a job. We want to make a difference.

That desire is a critical part of being a Christian, though it is not exclusive to Christianity. That is, there are billions of people in the world who are not Christians who want to make a difference as much as we do. The Jews are there in Haiti working next to the Muslims next to the Christians next to the none-of-the-above. Wanting to make a difference is a universal human impulse. It is not exclusive to Christianity, but it is essential to Christianity. We cannot call ourselves “Christian” unless we dedicate ourselves to doing in the world what Jesus did.

Here it is in the first words that Jesus publicly speaks about his ministry, according to Luke. He already had started his work. Luke says that reports had spread across Galilee about the wonderful work he was doing, and everybody was praising him. So now, he returns to his hometown, Nazareth, and he goes to the synagogue where he grew up. He is invited to read the scripture and is handed the scroll from the prophet Isaiah. He unrolls it and reads, “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.”

And then he rolls up the scroll, gives it back to the attendant, and sits down, presumably not back to where he had been when he was called forward to read. Rather, he sits in a conspicuous place, the seat of authority, where the teacher sits, the rabbi, and all eyes are fixed on him. Then he says, “Today the scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” And the people murmur with delight. “Isn’t this Joseph’s son? My, what wonderful words he speaks. His mother must be so proud of him.”

But they have not caught the full impact of what Jesus is claiming. “I am the fulfillment of the ancient prophesy,” he is saying. “I am the messiah for whom you have been waiting all these centuries. My life will be that scripture in flesh and blood.” To put it into our terms, “I have read from the sacred book. Now, my life will be an open book. What I have read I now will do.” Putting God’s word into action, making a difference as God has decreed.

Living life as if it were an open book – that has some drawbacks. Jesus discovers this immediately because he begins to interpret the scripture to mean that he will serve Jew and Gentile alike, male and female, free and slave, rich and poor, liberal and conservative, gay and straight, Cubs fan and Sox fan. And the adoring congregation one minute in the next becomes a murderous crowd who wants to throw him over the cliff. “No one can be a prophet in his hometown,” he says, as he passes through them and makes his way out into the waiting world.

Making a difference in the world does not always open to rave reviews. I saw on the internet news this week that a promising outfield prospect for the Oakland A’s has decided to leave baseball and follow a calling into the priesthood. He was one touted to make it from the minor leagues to the majors within a year or two, but he is leaving that behind, including the promise of a big salary to go to seminary. I read this on a Yahoo baseball site, and the very first comment following the article was, “Such a moron!” The next, “Giving up all that money! He could do more good for people by making them happy by having a Hall of Fame year than by working in the Church. Let him make his millions, and then he can give some of it away.” Trying to make a difference can look moronic to others. 

There was a survey published this week in which first year college students were asked about their goals in life. At the top, clearly above all else, was, “Make money.” Yes, having a family was on the list, and so was helping others. But in first place among their goals in life, make money. I guess that we ought not to be surprised. It probably always has been there at the top. But it is into that kind of value system that Jesus speaks the peculiar message that we are to serve the poor, release the captives, help people see what matters most, and free the oppressed.

Let us not kid ourselves – doing these things will look crazy to some and irrelevant to others. Making a difference is countercultural. And if our lives are an open book, like Jesus living out the prophesy of Isaiah, we living out the example of Jesus, people may read our “open book” and be dismissive. But others, there may be others, who will look at us and see right through us to Jesus. They will see in us God’s love. That is the role of a disciple.

When people look at us what do they see? If our lives are like an open book, how does the story go? Can people see in our actions what we consider to be most important in our lives? You know the saying about those who “talk the talk” and then those who “walk the walk;” well, are our actions coincidental with our profession of faith? People are watching; what are they “reading?”

The Church exists, in part, to help people make a difference. It is easier to do it together than alone. It is easier to feed the hungry on Saturday morning with a crew of 15 or 20 volunteers than by oneself. It is easier to tutor a school child if there is a system set up and supplies in place and others around who are doing the same thing. It is easier to take medical supplies to the Philippines if we travel together. It is easier visiting someone in the hospital if we go along with another caller, and not alone. And it is sometimes easier to grieve with others who understand and are willing to listen then to be isolated, or with other people around who avoid us because they do not know what to say.

And it is easier to make a difference in Haiti because we can do it together through the United Methodist Committee on Relief than individually, with UMCOR working in cooperation with the Lutherans, the Presbyterians, the United Church of Christ, and all others in Church World Service. Sam Dixon and Clint Raab died from injuries caused by the earthquake, Dixon the international director of UMCOR, Raab the head of Volunteers in Mission. They were there before the catastrophe as part of a “presence” of Christian people trying to make a difference. Their lives should be an open book for us to read, and our book should continue their story, which is Jesus’ proclamation, which is Isaiah’s prophesy, which is God’s word.

We learn by watching, by “reading,” one another. For the three and a half years before I was appointed to serve as a minister here at the Chicago Temple I was on the staff of the Northern Illinois Conference. I went from Trinity in Wilmette to the Conference staff to here. Bishop Joseph Sprague asked me to assist the Conference in shifting some of our priorities from maintaining the way things were going to trying to start some new ministries. I agreed, telling him that I could keep 35 committees and task forces going, if that was needed, but I would much rather that he give me a wall and a broom so that I could paint a picture. I like the cosmic view of things.

So, during that time we started a lot of after school programs in churches, a Native American prayer circle in LaSalle-Peru, an inner-city camping initiative, and a support group for Bosnian widows on the north side of Chicago. It was fun, and I learned a lot about the Conference and how much more we can do together than if we work separately. I am a big supporter of the Conference because I have seen what it can do.

But I also learned a lot by watching the Bishop, reading his “book,” that is, looking at how he lived day to day. He was a controversial leader. His theology was so unorthodox that some accused him of being heretical. His social sensitivity had him leading marches against the War in Iraq, stranding with union laborers, advocating for full human and ecclesial rights for gays and lesbians, and championing the causes of the poor. He had the courage of his convictions, no doubt about that.

But what I also saw was a very kind and loving man, consistently, day in and day out, publicly and privately. I traveled with him all around the Conference for his official district visits, and most people loved him. But his enemies were vociferous, vicious, vile – people shouting, wagging fingers in his face, even tape-recording his conversations with individuals to get “evidence” on him. He sometimes was stern, not soft, but he unfailingly was kind in the Christian sense of “love is patient and kind.” He lived and led as if his life were an open book, and I read it carefully and closely, and saw Jesus . . . imperfectly to be sure, but a glimpse of the divine.

Our lives are an open book; what do people see?

A counter-example. I am somewhat visible, being a minister. When you are the only minister in a small town, people see every move you make. But it is true even in metropolitan area. So, for several years when we lived in Wilmette we had season tickets for Northwestern University basketball. We sat eight rows up from the court right behind the scorer’s bench, a conspicuous spot. I confess that I would go to blow off steam. Maybe you ought not to yell at the custodian at church or the chair of the trustees around the big table in the office, but it is okay to yell at the referees. It was worth the price of admission. And if it were against Indiana, it was therapeutic to start yelling at Bobby Knight even during the warm-ups.

So, during the first half of a particularly frustrating game for the Wildcats, well, not “particularly” but “routinely” frustrating game, I had a lot of suggestions for the referees. I was really good at pointing out traveling by the other guys, as well as hacking under the basket. So, I was pretty vocal.

At half-time a man who had been sitting a few rows away came over to me and said, “Are you Rev. Blackwell?” I said, “Yes.” He said, “You did my aunt’s funeral last week, and I thought that you did a wonderful job, and I just wanted to thank you for it.” That was the last time that I yelled at a referee, well, almost. It told me loudly and clearly that my life is an open book, and people are going to read it.

When people look at us, what do they see? What is the story our lives tell about what we think is most important? Bringing good news to the poor, releasing captives, helping others to see, freeing the oppressed – do people see us making a difference? Amen.