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.