Sermon for the fourth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 9, Year C)
Click here to read the biblical texts.
When I was in the seventh grade, I used to get picked on a lot. And I mean a lot. It was a hard time for me. Like many teenagers, I was lanky, awkward, and definitely didn’t have much in the way of social skills. Eventually, things got so bad that the vice principal of my school sat down with my parents and gently suggested that I take karate lessons for self-defense.
So I did. I signed up for a local dojo, and it turned out to be a great experience. I got active, I made a few friends, and I really liked my teacher: Shihan Jessie Bowen. He was a fifth-degree black belt and the founder of the school. On the dojo wall was a picture of him shaking hands with action movie star Chuck Norris. For a twelve-year-old boy, that’s about as cool as it gets!
I, on the other hand, was very much not Chuck Norris. I was barely good enough to show up to beginner-level sparring class. So you can imagine how much anxiety I felt when, one night at the end of class, Shihan Bowen called me up to fight him—one-on-one—in front of the entire group.
It was a five-point sparring match. We danced around each other. He threw a kick; I dodged. I lunged; he parried. Somehow, by sheer grace or fate or dumb luck, I managed to land the final point. I had beaten Shihan Bowen—Grand Master and founder of the school—by one point!
I couldn’t believe it. For the first time in my life, I felt powerful. I was used to being the one getting pushed around in hallways. But now, something I did made an impact on the world around me. I wasn’t invisible. I wasn’t powerless. I was victorious.
It wasn’t until almost fifteen years later that the truth of the situation finally dawned on me: Shihan Bowen was a grown man—a martial arts master. I was a twelve-year-old novice. Obviously: He let me win.
But here’s the thing: it still mattered. That moment changed something inside me. I stood a little taller after that match. I walked a little differently in the world. For the first time, I had tasted what empowerment felt like. And even though it was a gift, it was a gift that stayed with me.
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This week’s gospel reading from Luke is all about that kind of empowerment. Jesus sends out seventy of his followers in pairs—no supplies, no money, no backup plan—just each other and a blessing of peace. He tells them to cure the sick, cast out demons, and proclaim the nearness of God’s kingdom.
This isn’t the first time Jesus does this. Back in the previous chapter of Luke’s gospel, he sent out twelve disciples with a similar mission. But here, the number is bigger. And in Scripture, numbers always mean something. The number twelve symbolized the twelve tribes of Israel—Jesus sending out the Twelve was like saying, “This mission I’m on? It’s not just about me. It’s for all of God’s chosen people.”
The number seventy, on the other hand, is the number of nations named in Genesis, chapter 10. In the ancient Jewish imagination, it represented the whole world. So when Jesus sends out the Seventy, it’s not just an expansion in logistics—it’s a cosmic statement: “This isn’t just about me, and it’s not just for Israel. It’s for everyone. Every nation. Every people. Every one of you.”
This is Jesus deputizing the Body of Christ.
He empowers them. Just like Shihan Bowen empowered me. They go out, they do the things he told them to do, and they come back ecstatic, saying, “Lord, even the demons submit to us in your name!”
You can almost hear the excitement: “We did it! We really did it! It worked!”
But then Jesus does something surprising. He doesn’t throw a party. He doesn’t say, “Great job, team!” Instead, he says, “Do not rejoice in this, that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.”
It’s kind of a buzzkill, isn’t it? It’s like scoring the winning goal and having your coach say, “That’s fine, but it’s not the point.”
But actually—it’s a beautiful moment of truth. By saying, “Your names are written in heaven,” Jesus is reminding them, and us, that their worth does not lie in their victories or their usefulness. Their worth lies in their belovedness.
Jesus is saying, “Do not rejoice in what you can do for God. Rejoice in who you are in God.”
That’s the heart of the gospel. Everything else flows from that.
You see, we live in a world that constantly tells us our value depends on what we accomplish. Your job title, your productivity, your bank account, your social media following—those are the metrics that define worth in our culture.
But the gospel tells us otherwise.
You are not the sum of your successes. On the other hand: You are also not the sum of your failures. You are not defined by the worst thing you’ve ever done. You are not your resume. You are not your criminal record. You are a beloved child of God, cleverly disguised as an accountant, or a teacher, or a retiree, or a sleep-deprived parent, or a seventh grader in a sparring match.
Your name is already written in heaven. That’s not just a metaphor for some far-off afterlife. It’s a present-tense truth about your identity right now.
What you can do flows out naturally from who you are. Empowerment comes from belonging. Jesus doesn’t say, “Go do this so that God will love you.” He says, “You are already loved. Now go act like it.”
Your identity—the deep, unshakeable truth that you are loved—is what empowers you to go out into the world and do the work of healing, reconciling, casting out the demons of hatred and despair, proclaiming peace, and planting flags of hope in a broken world.
In psychological terms, we might call this “self-efficacy”—the belief that you can take meaningful action, that your choices matter, that you are not powerless in the face of overwhelming odds.
That belief doesn’t just come from inside your head. It comes from the heart of God. You are internally anchored and outwardly faithful. Your power comes from your belovedness.
That’s why this passage ends not with fireworks but with a steady, grounding reminder. It’s not about demons submitting. It’s about walking through the world knowing your name is already written in love.
And from that place, you go.
You go to meet whatever lies ahead—not because you have to prove your worth, but because you carry it with you.
In 1955, a seamstress named Rosa Parks decided not to give up her seat on a segregated bus. A young pastor—only 26 at the time—named Martin Luther King Jr. joined the cause. Together, they sparked the Montgomery Bus Boycott, one of the early fires in the movement for civil rights.
At the end of that long protest, someone asked an elderly woman if she was tired after walking instead of riding the bus for over a year. She famously said, “My feets is tired, but my soul is rested.”
That’s what it looks like to be loved and to act like it. Tired feet. Rested soul. Internally anchored. Outwardly faithful.
Not everyone is called to make history. But all of us are called to make peace. To bear one another’s burdens. To plant a flag of love in our corner of the world.
So where is Jesus sending you?
You might not be called to march in Montgomery or cast out demons on command. But there is still injustice to confront. Still healing to offer. Still Good News to proclaim.
You might be called to speak peace in a family dispute.
To walk gently with someone in grief.
To show up for someone who thinks they don’t matter.
To bring your quiet presence to a place aching for hope.
To speak your “yes” or your “no” with courage and clarity.
And maybe most of all: to believe again that your life matters, and that your presence, however small it seems, makes a difference in the unfolding of the kingdom of God.
You don’t have to be dramatic. You don’t have to win.
You just have to show up.
Show up with your name written in heaven. Show up with nothing but love in your pocket. Show up knowing that even when the demons don’t flee and the healing doesn’t come, even when the sermon flops and the email goes unanswered, you are still loved.
That’s your true power.
That’s your unshakeable dignity.
That’s how you make a difference in the world.
One act of faithful presence at a time.
Amen.
Hopping Hadrian's Wall 