David Horton, Minister of Music & Worship + February 2, 2025
Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany
Jesus' first sermon in Luke wasn't just a reading of Isaiah—it was a declaration of his mission: to bring good news to the poor, freedom to the oppressed, and healing to the broken. But when he expanded the vision beyond his hometown’s comfort, they rejected him. Today, we face the same challenge—will we embrace a faith that moves beyond words to embodied justice? The Gospel isn’t just something we say; it’s something we live, in how we touch, welcome, and uplift the most vulnerable.
Sermon Manuscript
Grace and peace to you, from the God who fills our bodies with the Holy Spirit. And we say, amen.
People of God, if someone followed you around for a week, observing your actions, not just listening to your words, what would they conclude about your faith? Have you ever thought about where your faith lives in your body? Do you feel it in your gut, your heart, your hands? Finally, what stories does your body tell about your faith? The ways you carry yourself, the way you use your hands, the way you engage with the world – what do these things communicate about what you truly believe?
Today, we're exploring how Jesus’ presence resonated with his hometown of Nazareth and what it whispers to us even now. We'll wrestle with this potent story from Luke – not just reading it, but living it. What happens when we truly let these ancient words breathe within us? We’ll talk about the importance of the Holy Spirit and how it fired Jesus to act. And finally, we need to talk about inclusivity. It was a challenge then, and let's be honest, it's a challenge now.
Bodies. Oh, Lordy, bodies. They’re just… there, aren’t they? Magnificent, intricate, sure. Maybe yours feels like a rusty Schwinn found in your grandpa’s barn, the one with the wobbly handlebars and the seat that gives you a wedgie. Bones and flesh and sinew, all held together by hope and maybe some industrial-strength Gorilla Glue. Billions of cells. Billions! It’s enough to make you want to lie down in a dark room with a cool compress on your forehead. How do they all know what to do? It's a miracle, or maybe it’s just really really good plumbing. Either way, I’m grateful.
Our bodies possess an incredible capacity for expression, a language spoken long before words. Mexican phycologist, Clarissa Pinkola Estés eloquently describes the body as "multilingual," communicating through color, temperature, and a range of physical sensations – from the flush of recognition to the coldness of non-conviction. Modern Dance guru, Martha Graham reinforces this idea, stating simply, "The body never lies." Writer, Frank Gillette Burgess adds that our bodies are essentially "our autobiographies," and English dancer, Deborah Bull emphasizes the power of body language, suggesting that it constitutes 80% of our understanding in conversation.
The power of the body to communicate volumes has been on my mind lately, especially after attending the Byberg preaching workshop in Seaside, Oregon, last week. This continuing education event for ELCA and partner denomination leaders featured Dr. Luke Powery of Duke University, who emphasized how the body's message often surpasses the spoken word. As someone with a background in dance and yoga, I'm keenly aware of my own body and its communicative potential. So, I'm applying this understanding of embodied communication and how it intersects with today's gospel reading.
Both last week’s and this week’s gospel, Luke 4:14-30, often referred to as Jesus' inaugural sermon, is a masterclass in communication. These events highlight the multifaceted nature of how meaning is conveyed, a crucial element in Jesus' ministry, and one we aspiring preachers find particularly compelling. While we often think of sermons solely in terms of spoken words, communication is far broader. It encompasses both oral and written language, all working together to transmit a message. This is distinct from nonverbal communication, which includes gestures, facial expressions, and body language—which, in my opinion, often adds a powerful, unspoken dimension to the message.
Hear these words again from last week’s passage:
“When he came to Nazareth, where he had been brought up, he went to the synagogue on the sabbath day, as was his custom. He stood up to read, and the scroll of the prophet Isaiah was given to him. He unrolled the scroll and found the place where it was written:
“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 he rolled up the scroll, gave it back to the attendant, and sat down. The eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed on him” (4:14-20).
A close listening reveals a fascinating detail often overlooked in this hometown "sermon": the text never explicitly states that Jesus spoke. He reads from Isaiah, yes, but did he utter a single word of explanation or commentary? This subtle, yet provocative, detail invites us to re-imagine the scene. What are the implications if his proclamation wasn't delivered orally? How might that silence shape our understanding of the event? More importantly, how did those "hearing" understand and react to these events, given the potential lack of spoken words? How might their interpretations have differed, and what does that say about the nature of communication itself?
It's striking to consider that Jesus's ministry may have begun not with pronouncements, but with presence. Imagine the scene: every eye in the synagogue riveted on him, their gazes not merely seeing him, but perceiving the very essence of his mission. Luke strategically positions this moment as the touchstone, the plumb line for everything Jesus taught. This passage isn't just about Jesus's purpose; it is his purpose, revealed. And aligning ourselves with it is how we truly follow him.
Just prior to this event, we read how Jesus was "full of the Holy Spirit," led by the Spirit in the wilderness. Now, he returns to Galilee "in the power of the Spirit," claiming the words of Isaiah: "The Spirit of the Lord is upon me." Spirit and body it seems, are inextricably linked.
This Spirit thing in our tradition, we talk about it, of course, the way we talk about the weather—something always happening, always just out of reach of easy description. But it's not out there. It's in here, a current humming beneath the surface of our skin. We say the Spirit moves, and what we mean is that we feel something—a stirring, a quickening, a warmth that spreads from the center out. We ask, sometimes tentatively, sometimes boldly, "Holy Spirit, where do you dwell in me?" And the answer, if we’re willing to listen, isn't a word at all. It’s a tug. A rising. An urge to sing, to sway, to speak truth even when our voices tremble.
Jesus knew this. He knew the visceral reality of the Spirit, the way it could ignite a fire in your belly and send you out into the world, unafraid. It wasn't an abstraction to him. It was breath, it was blood, it was bone-deep knowing. He understood that the Spirit doesn't just whisper; she dances. She inhabits the spaces between words, the silences that hold more truth than any pronouncement. She lives in the body—in the way a hand reaches out, a foot finds its rhythm, and a heart breaks open.
And this brings us to the core of Dr. Luke Powery's powerful message this week: It's not enough to simply feel the Spirit; we must act on it. The most powerful sermon we preach is the one we live. Our bodies preach this sermon more powerfully than any words—a sermon of movement, physical action, and embodied compassion. It's the way we move through the world, extend our hands, and offer our presence. This is the kind of sermon Jesus preached with his very life. His teachings are essential, but it's how he embodied them—his actions, his compassion, his very presence—that truly defines the Gospel.
And now we arrive at this week’s reading. In Nazareth, a backwater village burdened by disinheritance, dislocation, and dispossession, the people yearned for a message of liberation. Luke shows us their hunger for a gospel of hope, a gospel that would address the uncaring systems and oppressive structures that denied their dignity and diminished their humanity. When Jesus finally spoke, he offered just that. "The eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed on him" (4:20). Empowered by the Holy Spirit, Jesus spoke a liberating gospel—and, crucially, he lived it. "I must proclaim the good news of the kingdom of God to the other cities also, for I was sent for this purpose" (Luke 4:43). His words and his life were one. He was, after all, Mary’s son. Let us not forget that she was the one who first sang that song of liberation.
(pause)
Today, those on the margins—immigrants, refugees, migrants, the elderly, queer and trans youth, women, the impoverished, racial minorities, and the LGBTQIA+ community—experience heightened vulnerability. Fear and anxiety are palpable. Where is the compassion of Christ for those who feel most at risk? Even in this space, our presence acknowledges the inherent privileges some hold within systems that perpetuate inequity. The justification "we must prioritize our own" resonates with the very impulse that sought to silence Jesus. His message directly confronts the notion of "us" versus those seeking sanctuary.
How often do we, as Christians, unknowingly echo the very resistance Jesus encountered? We often interpret this passage as the moment of his rejection, placing the blame squarely on "them." But perhaps their anger wasn't a rejection of Jesus himself, but rather a desperate clinging to a narrow, exclusive understanding of divine favor. They weren't necessarily rejecting him so much as they were rejecting the radical inclusivity he embodied. Does this sound familiar? Does this feel familiar? Throughout history, Christians have used this very narrative to bolster their own sense of election, declaring, "We are the chosen," while dismissing any Gospel interpretation that challenges their privileged worldview.
What transformative shift might occur within us, within our faith communities, if each Sunday, from our pews, we proclaimed, not just to God, but to one another: "This day, and this day alone, is given to us to bring good news to the marginalized, release to the imprisoned, sight to the blind, freedom to the oppressed, and new beginnings to those who have stumbled"? Just as Jesus went forth empowered by the Spirit, a conduit of God's mercy to the outcast, so too are we called. He didn't just preach this message; he lived it. And so must we.
My fellow Christians, followers of Jesus, members of Christ's body, we stand at the precipice of crucial work. I won't deceive you; the path ahead will be arduous. We will be called to engage not just our minds, but our very bodies—to march, to walk long miles, to raise our voices in unison until they echo with the urgency of our convictions. Words alone are insufficient; we must act with our whole being. I beg you, care for the vessel that carries your spirit—that intricate, billion-celled creation of blood, bone, nerve, and feeling. And above all, protect that most vulnerable of organs, your heart. We search for guidance, for a clear path forward, but the answer, while profound, is also beautifully simple, as Paul reminds us in 1 Corinthians 13:
“Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.” (13:4-8).
Inhale: Love is patient.
Exhale: Love is kind.
Inhale: Love never ends.
Exhale: Love never ends.
We're left with this: bodies, spirit, words, and actions. It's not enough to just say we believe. It's not even enough to feel it. We have to embody it. We have to let the Spirit move us, not just to sing hymns and nod in agreement, but to get our hands dirty, to get our feet moving, to get our hearts broken for the things that break God's heart. Because, let's face it, the world is full of beautiful words and empty gestures. What it desperately needs is a church that stops talking about love and starts living it. A church that doesn't just welcome the marginalized, but fights for them. A church that doesn't just preach about justice, but practices it. A church that understands that the most powerful sermon isn't spoken from a pulpit, but lived out in the messy, beautiful, broken reality of our everyday lives. So go. Go and be the body of Christ. Not just in here, but out there. Because the world isn't waiting for our pretty words. It's waiting for our messy, embodied, radical love.
And for that, we say, amen.
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