Sermon for the Spring Ministerium 2026
Luke 4:16-21
St. Paul-Reformation Lutheran Church, St. Paul
Grace and peace to you in the name of the Living God. AMEN.
Jesus never imagined that two thousand years later we would still critique his first sermon. Did he fiddle with his over-the-ear mic? Did he pause and take a sip of water? When he unrolled to scroll did he come right to the passage he was seeking, or did it take him a minute of fumbling to find the right text? And what do you think – does he look gaunt after his time in the wilderness? Do you think he is taking enough care of himself and his work-life balance? Look at what he is wearing. Is that his sabbath best – all those wrinkles and the worn hem? (pause) And all that before Jesus opens his mouth to speak.
Do you remember your first sermon? Maybe you were in campus ministry and you were tapped to bring the Word as a college student, as some from the U do these days. Maybe you were home for the summer after your first year in seminary, your head full of all that fancy learning. Or maybe you were scheduled for your first sermon on Low Sunday – the Sunday after Easter – or for the Sunday between Christmas and New Year’s – when the regular preacher wanted a Sunday off.
Whatever the context for our first sermon, since then many of us have shouldered the preacher’s task for years. What would it be – two thousand sermons over a lifetime? Maybe less; maybe more. Each one heard and critiqued in a way that is unique to the vulnerability of those called to a Ministry of the Word.
We all know about critiquing the preacher because it is built into the art and the ritual of the sermon. And often the most severe critique comes right here – from our self.
St. Luke gives no clue about what Jesus thought as he rose to preach in his hometown. What we have in today’s Gospel is the memory of a text from two passages in Isaiah and the single sentence homily Jesus offered after he returned to his seat. “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” (Luke 4:21). It’s hard to beat his brevity and harder still to master the self-assurance with which Jesus delivered that message.
You see, from ancient times, people of faith have longed to hear this Word of God’s intervention into the here-and-now. Good news for the poor and those excluded and pushed aside. Release and forgiveness to captives. Sight for the blind. Relief for the oppressed. The time of God’s jubilee and the necessary reordering of society.
This winter, people took that message from Isaiah literally. Food was gathered. Gas cards purchased. Diapers bought. Rent money contributed. Rides offered to the workplace or to school for those too intimidated by the threats of ICE agents to drive themselves. And not just for family members and close friends in our personal pandemic-era “bubble,” but for strangers, who were for once seen as the neighbors they really are. This winter so many took the scriptures to heart – listened to our sermons with ears that were surprisingly open – not because any of us are Jesus, but because we have been commissioned and sent out in the power of his name.
Almost every day, I listen to breaking news that features the comments of someone “not authorized to speak publicly” but speaking to a reporter, nonetheless. But friends, we have been authorized to speak the Word of a Living God. And if that doesn’t give you pause when you preach, it may be time to step back and reflect on the source and ground of your call. You have been authorized to speak – in season and out. Not only from pulpits and chancel steps but in every aspect of your very human life.
Many of us wear collars and some of you wear stoles out in the streets. Our whole lives are public whether we desire that or not. In truth, the life of every baptized Christian is a public testimony to the power of God at work in our world, but that is especially true for deacons and for pastors.
What has prepared you for your vocation? Luke reminds us that Jesus was in the synagogue that sabbath because it “was his custom” (4:16).
Jesus grew up in a family and within a community where faith formation was a part of daily life. And I don’t mean that it was so subtle that the young Jesus didn’t notice that the values, the north star, the orientation of his life ran counter to those with great power in his day. Growing up, he didn’t get to do what the Roman kids did. He didn’t get a pass on his need for religious training and practice because it was inconvenient and time-consuming. He wasn’t even excused because he was the Son of God. No, synagogue and prayers, food and Jewish rituals were a part of his daily life long before his public ministry was acknowledged at his baptism in the River Jordan.
Some of you came later to your formation, being mentored and taught the Christian way of life as adults. And I am so grateful for the way that experience impacts your outreach to others, who hunger to know God’s grace. Meanwhile, many others of you can look back to your childhood – to parents and grandparents – who helped you grow into your baptismal identity.
That’s how faith formation happens. Slowly, in a community, season after season, over a lifetime so that some of us acknowledge that the faith in us is still being deepened and refined today.
Metro Surge, though both unwelcome and cruel, offered a good test of that faith. But the test did not hit home in the same way for all of us. Some of you have waited a lifetime for the opportunity to speak out as boldly as you spoke this winter. You have named this your Bonhoeffer moment. You rose to speak in a pulpit where the congregation applauded your courage. I am grateful for your witness in this season in which you have given some of your best sermons.
But for others, this winter has been an unwieldy season for preaching. Maybe there are ICE agents, who belong to your congregation, and you have baptized their children. Maybe you serve in one of the many “purple” congregations in this synod where you know in your gut that the feedback at the door of the sanctuary will be brutally honest and scalding. You have had to weigh what is your own deeply held perspective and what is the Word of the Living God. I wish there was more applause for you, because you are truly laboring in the heat of the day, and you know more about ambivalence over your preaching on Sunday afternoon than do those who drive home encouraged and affirmed.
Because we are a mixed lot – we, who preach — I give thanks for these opportunities to be together. There is no need for pretense or boasting in the ministerium of this synod. We are here together this morning to hear afresh that God’s grace is for us. For us not because we rose above the fray and spoke up and showed up and did everything in a righteous way this winter, but because we know we all fall short – each and every one of us.
What prepares us to live out our vocation today is the divine grace poured out for us in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, the one whose first sermon was initially received with a high approval rating in his hometown and then was quickly discounted by those who knew him best and drove him out.
Friends, this Jesus is the good news for each and every one of us here. Thanks be to God. AMEN.
Bishop Patricia Lull
March 26, 2026
