Even in times of fear, loss, and uncertainty, God’s goodness is not absent—it is our anchor. David declares confidence in God’s goodness not after deliverance, but while still waiting. This Psalm calls us to a faith that sees God’s goodness through the fog of hardship, not just in hindsight.

As this part of Luke wraps up, we get the list of the twelve people Jesus handpicks to be His closest friends and followers—His apostles. Some of the names jump out right away: Peter, James, John. They’re all over the gospel stories and go on to become major leaders in the early church. But then there are others—guys like James, son of Alphaeus—who we honestly don’t hear anything else about, apart from their names. It’s a mix of personalities, backgrounds, and even political views. You’ve got Matthew, a tax collector who worked for the Romans, and then Simon, a Zealot who probably couldn’t stand Rome. That’s a pretty wild combo to put on the same team.

There’s no one type of person Jesus chooses. No spiritual résumé required. Some of these guys had serious doubts, some made huge mistakes, and one of them even betrayed Him. Still, Jesus chose them—flawed, messy, regular people—to be part of His mission. And that’s the reminder tucked into these few verses: Jesus can call anyone, and He’ll use everyone who’s willing to say yes to following Him.

Imagine it: it’s your day off, the sun’s out, there’s a soft breeze, and you’re just walking through a wheat field with Jesus. As you stroll, you casually pick a head of grain, rub it in your hands, and pop it in your mouth—just enjoying the moment and the peace of being with Him. The whole scene just feels like rest.

But not for the Pharisees. They’re watching this peaceful moment and instead of seeing rest, all they see are broken rules. And it’s the same thing in the next scene, when Jesus heals a man on the Sabbath—they’re upset, not amazed. Why? Because somewhere along the way, they lost sight of what the Sabbath was really about.

The Sabbath wasn’t meant to be a burden—it was meant to be a gift. It’s not about control; it’s about letting go. It’s a weekly reminder that we’re not in charge and we don’t have to be. The world keeps turning even when we stop working. Jesus, the Lord of the Sabbath, is our true rest. And He invites us into that rest—not just once a week, but in every part of our lives. Taking a break, pausing, resting—it’s not laziness. It’s trust. It’s us saying, “Jesus, you’ve got this.”

We kicked off this part of Luke with Jesus calling some pretty unexpected people to follow Him—but now, He takes it even further. In this story, Jesus doesn’t just invite someone unlikely… He invites someone most people would’ve seen as completely undeserving.

Back in the day, tax collectors weren’t just unpopular because, well, no one loves paying taxes. In first-century Judea, they were seen as traitors. They worked for the oppressive Roman Empire, collecting money that funded the very soldiers keeping their fellow Jews under control. And to make things worse, most of them padded their own pockets by overcharging people.

And yet—Jesus looks at one of them, Levi (aka Matthew), and says, “Follow me.” Just like that. No lecture. No conditions. Just an invitation. And Levi? He’s so overwhelmed that he throws a huge party and invites all his fellow outcasts to meet Jesus—the one who reaches out to the people everybody else rejects and says, “You’re invited.”

And here’s the thing: Jesus is still doing that today. He’s still inviting the unexpected, the outcasts, and the ones who feel like they don’t belong. And every time one of them says “yes”? Heaven throws a party. The only question is—are we joining the celebration? Or are we standing off to the side like the religious folks back then, complaining about grace because we’ve forgotten just how much we need it too?

After watching Jesus forgive sins —and then seeing Him and His disciples hanging out and feasting with tax collectors and other outcasts—the Pharisees are done. They’ve had enough. So, they confront Him. “Why,” they ask, “don’t your disciples follow the traditions? Why aren’t they fasting like John’s disciples or ours?”

Jesus’ answer probably didn’t help their frustration. He doesn’t dismiss the old ways outright, but He makes it clear: the traditions and practices of the past, while meaningful, just aren’t enough. He didn’t come to tweak the system or give religion a little makeover. He came to do something entirely new.

What Jesus is bringing isn’t a patch job. It’s a whole new way of connecting with God—a new covenant that goes way beyond the limitations of the old one. What’s needed isn’t just reformation. It’s transformation.

That’s the heart of it. Jesus didn’t come just to give us better rules or habits to clean up our lives a bit. He came to give us new life. A whole new way of living and being.

And here’s the thing: the people who struggle the most with this new life? Often, it’s the ones most invested in the old ways—the ones who’ve grown comfortable with the rules, the rituals, the structure. Sometimes religion itself can become the biggest barrier to real relationship with God.

News of Jesus has gotten out. The crowds are swelling, wanting to see this man who has the power to heal and cast out demons, this Jesus who speaks with an authority none of them had ever experienced before. And then something truly incredible happens: Jesus withdraws from the crowds who are clamoring for Him and heads elsewhere. Often our greatest moments of testing come, not in moments of failure but in moments of perceived “success.” What allows Jesus to resist the temptation to be drawn into the adulation of the crowds? What allows Him to resist getting comfortable where He is? What allows Him to make a decision that cuts against the grain? It’s that He knows His purpose. As Christians, as a church, the temptation to achieve worldly success and adulation will lead us into a failure to live out God’s real purpose for us if we don’t have clarity on what God’s mission and purpose for us truly is.