The very first sermon I ever preached was delivered
to a congregation that had formed my faith as a child
and a teenager. Vandalia Presbyterian Church in
Greensboro, North Carolina, was a second family for
me. And so, when I was a freshman in college, the
congregation invited me back to deliver a sermon
during the time between my father’s departure as
pastor and the arrival of the new interim minister. It
was a good thing that the church members already
knew and loved me. The sermon was terrible. In
fact, I would wager that it was the worst sermon
ever preached from that pulpit. An embarrassment
of cliched illustrations, overused metaphors, and
gratuitous theological jargon meant to prove the
preacher’s intelligence. The sermon tried way too
hard, and (I know you will find this hard to believe) it
was also far too long. At the doors of the sanctuary,
a parade of sweet older women gave me hugs
and assured me that God was calling me to do…
something. I noted they were deliberately vague on
any details.
Despite my lingering self-consciousness about the
quality of that sermon from two decades ago, I am
glad that I kept a copy. Now, after the 8:15 service,
a member asked if they could see that copy. The
answer is no. But it is humbling for me to keep on
hand. Good for the occasional laugh. But perhaps
most importantly, it is a reminder of the danger of
over-explanation, of too many words. Inexperienced
preachers are often guilty of cramming everything
they know about the Bible, theology, and the
world in general into a single sermon, and I was
certainly an offender that day. The sermon (get
this) was titled “Why Religion Matters,” (quite a
weighty topic for a seventeen year old) and it was
essentially a theoretical argument for the necessity
of Christian faith and a diatribe against its detractors
in contemporary culture. Religion matters, I said
with a wholly unearned confidence, because of its
psychological benefits, its contribution to a settled
social order, and its discouragement of immorality.
You know, all the reasons you come to church!
For a refreshing contrast, how about the first sermon
of Jesus in the Gospel of Luke? As I mentioned to the
children, if you blinked during the scripture reading
this morning, you might have missed it. The pace of
Luke’s gospel in its first four chapters is swift. Jesus
appears on the scene a grown man. He is baptized by
his eccentric relative John. He is driven by the Spirit of
God into the desert of trial and temptation. He returns
to Galilee and begins to teach in the synagogue.
After baptism, after temptation, Jesus goes home to
Nazareth. He returns to his home congregation. And
this is where he preaches his first sermon.
The scripture reading that day was from the prophet
Isaiah, the sixty-first chapter. It would have been a
well-known passage among that congregation — a
text that they had heard often before. For it is an
image of God’s future of abundance and a summary
of the prophet’s call to preach. Jesus reads that
passage out loud in his home church. You can image
the scene: parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles,
Sunday school teachers and children’s choir directors
beaming with pride. The young man rolls up the
scroll, clears his throat, and begins his sermon. Now
perhaps they thought he would start with a joke,
or maybe a cute story, or at least a few words of
gratitude for their role in shaping his faith. But the
preacher Jesus, it turns out, has no patience for such
pleasantries. This is no theoretical presentation on
the merits of religion; it is a revelation. In my hearing,
there is an urgency in his voice.
And here is what he says: “Today, this scripture has
been fulfilled in your hearing.”
That’s it. That’s all. The words of the prophet have
come true here and now. End of sermon.
In utter amazement, the family and friends who have
come to hear the boy preacher turn to each other in the
pews. “The Spirit of the Lord? Here? Now? On him?
Isn’t that Joseph’s kid? The carpenter’s apprentice?”
Well, I regret to inform you that by the end of the
chapter, their confusion will turn to rage. They will
drive Jesus out of his hometown, literally pushing him
to the edge of a cliff. Talk about a tough congregation.
Those politely deflating comments I received at the
door don’t seem so bad!
So, what happened? How did things turn so quickly
against the homegrown preacher, the pride of
Nazareth? Luke here is thin on details, but I think it
had something to do with the sermon. Specifically,
one word.
Today.
Oh, Jesus, you could have gone a different route.
Perhaps focus on the historical context of Isaiah’s call,
that return from exile and the joy surrounding it. The
return of God’s people to their promised land. The
golden age of the prophets. Perhaps give a trip down
memory lane. A survey of the past.
Or, cast the vision—this ultimate promise of God’s
coming kingdom in the sweet by and by when all will
be restored and right. And God will be on the throne.
Give a vision for the future.
Today is contested. Today hits closer to home.
I say this with some degree of familiarity. Communities
of faith tend to be mildly obsessed with treasured
memories of the past (accurate or not). The past—
when the pews were filled every single Sunday, or the
stores were closed every single Sunday, or children
knew how to sit still in church. Or, we project our
hope into a distant future that absolves us from any
meaningful action in the present. We say, “God will
make it all right one day. Someday.”
We’re caught between nostalgia that immobilizes us
or escapism that absolves us.
There is a temptation to relegate this morning’s
scripture in the same way. In other words, to do the
opposite of what Jesus did with the passage from
Isaiah. To confine Jesus’ sermon to the past (Wasn’t
that Jesus courageous? Wasn’t that a powerful sermon
he preached?) or to project it into the future (What a
wonderful vision Jesus gives us of the world that is to
come! Someday the kingdom will arrive and life will
look like that!).
But—stay with me here—what if it is meant for today?
What if we are meant to say, as Jesus did, the spirit of
the Lord is upon us today? The year of Jubilee is this
year. What if we are to preach good news to the poor
now? Release to the captives. Recovery of sight to
the blind.
The sermon may have been succinct, but the rest
of Luke’s gospel tells the whole story. These few
words become the mission statement by which
Jesus lives his life. In other words, the man practices
what he preaches. Not only that, he asks, demands,
that others do the same. “If any would follow me,
let them deny themselves, take up their cross, and
follow after me.” In fact, just when Jesus begins to
attract a crowd, he has a way of speaking hard truths
about inconvenient changes and radical reversals.
Things like: give away your possessions. Welcome
the outcast. Blessed are the poor, the hungry, those
who mourn. None of these blessings, none of these
commands, is set in the distant past or a hopedfor future. They are to be lived now. His absolute
commitment to the words he speaks is unwavering,
and the more passionate his actions become the
more uncomfortable his followers feel.
For it turns out that when he read Isaiah’s words, he
really meant them. Not as self-righteous platitudes, or
theological jargon, cliches, or easy truths. His sermon
and his life are inseparable. The themes are the same.
It starts with one word: today.
Today. It’s the most challenging word in the sermon
because it will not let us get by with warm feelings
about what was or hopes about what could be. The
Spirit of the Lord is upon us. Today.
If we really believe it, then we’ll start right now. If the
Spirit of the Lord is with us, then our lives—and our
life—must bear witness to its presence and power.
And so, let me say that the time has come for the
Church of Jesus Christ to put aside divisive platitudes
or smug self-righteousness and really live what we
proclaim and profess, to choose the way of depth in
place of simplistic messages aiming only for ease or
abstract statements about a distant God’s fleeting
hopes for us. I believe that if we take the fourth
chapter of Luke, Jesus’ mission statement, seriously,
we will recapture the audacity of faith and its claim on
our life. That is, we will be different because we follow
Jesus. We will deny ourselves, take up our cross,
and follow because it matters. Think of baby Weldon
and Jane. What faith will they wait to hear? Not that
following Jesus is easy, but that it is important. That
something is at stake here.
For if the Spirit of the Lord is upon us now, we will
not be silent when voices claiming the authority
of Christian leadership preach racial superiority, or
stoke the fires of fear, or incite acts of violence.
If the Spirit of the Lord is upon us now, we will not
hoard what we have when our neighbors don’t
have enough.
If the Spirit of the Lord is upon us now, we will look
and listen with ears and eyes and hearts for the
conditions in our community that most need our
faithful response. And we will do something about
them. We will see children whose promise for the
future is comprised by a lack of investment early in
their life. And we will do something about it. We will
hear the voices of those who are squeezed by rising
costs and stagnant wages. And we will do something
about it. We will bear witness to the lives of those held
captive by a constant fear of violence. And we will do
something about it.
When Jesus stood and read those words from Isaiah,
when he proclaimed this is happening today, it was
no sanctimonious reflection meant to please the
hometown crowd. No, this sermon—it set the world on
notice that something significant is happening here.
Now. That the faithful are being called out of their
sanctuaries of safety and into a world desperate for
hope. That God really is doing a new thing when God’s
people choose to act as if God’s Spirit is present.
And so, though I pray that I have grown as a preacher
and a disciple in the years since I delivered that first
sermon, my central conviction has not changed at
all. I believe, even more fiercely than before, that our
faith matters.
Here’s why: because I believe the Spirit of the Lord
is with us. Today. Today. It’s the riskiest word in the
sermon. A charge. So, let’s get started. Amen.