Luke 4:21-30
“But passing through the midst of them he went away.”
At first glance, this last line from this morning’s Gospel seemed like a perfect metaphor for this season of Epiphany. Jesus passes through the midst of the crowd. Which is, in a way, what Epiphany is all about – God making God’s self known in our midst, our learning to recognize God all around us. The problem of course, which is so often the problem with pieces of scripture that at first seem very promising, is that that isn’t all. The context isn’t the greatest – the crowd that Jesus is passing through the midst of just happens to be an angry, unruly, blood-thirsty mob. And there’s the small problem of the few words tacked on to the end of the hopeful part about passing through their midst – after passing through, “he went away.” I’d much prefer Jesus to have passed through their midst and then have them realize their error; or maybe Jesus could pass through their midst and they finally understand exactly who it was that had been with them; or maybe Jesus could even pass through their midst and go away but just for a little bit and then come back to give them another chance. As a general matter, I’d like the keep the nice, reassuring bits and explain away the rest.
And this morning I’m in good company, because I think that’s precisely what the people of Nazareth wanted too.
At the 8:30 service last week, when John went to read the Gospel for the day, he accidentally started reading this morning’s Gospel. It was an understandable mistake because this week’s reading is a continuation from last week. The setting is the same – Jesus standing up in the synagogue in his hometown reading a piece of scripture from Isaiah. And the last line of last week’s Gospel is actually the first line of this week’s: “Jesus began to say to them, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”
But boy are these Gospel stories different. Last week seemed so hopeful. Jesus read the piece from Isaiah that was all about how he had come to bring good news to the poor, release to the captives, recovery of sight to the blind, freedom for the oppressed. And everyone’s eyes were “fixed on him.” The hometown crowd seemed to realize their need for a Savior, and seemed open to recognizing Jesus as being that Savior.
And it starts out that way this week as well. At first, this same hometown crowd was amazed at Jesus’ announcement that Isaiah’s promise of restoration had been fulfilled in their lifetime. The Jews in Nazareth considered themselves among the downtrodden that the prophet Isaiah spoke about and they welcomed the news about God’s help coming for them. They were tired of Roman rule, limiting their possibilities, keeping them on edge, and taking away so much of their wealth. They were also tired of being looked down upon by the fancier, more purebred Jews in Judea. Nothing good was expected to come from Nazareth, or so the saying went. And so they perceived Jesus’ message of hope to be aimed right at them. They were more than ready for this promised restoration – ready for all the good news and privilege and prosperity they could get. And so at the first, they seemed proud of their homegrown Jesus – they spoke well of him and wondered at his gracious words.
But with lightening speed that rosy picture fades. This morning, as if from a Paul Harvey radio show, we get “the rest of the story.” The part where Jesus’ neighbors and friends from Nazareth are ready to shuck him off a cliff in their rage. It’s like the scene in The Lord of the Flies where the fairly innocent school kids turn into the angry mob that circles around Piggy chanting and ready to kill.
What changed so much since last week’s reading? What’s happened in that handful of inscrutable verses in between “all spoke well of him” and “all in the synagogue were filled with rage”?
At first everything Jesus was saying sounded good to the folks from Nazareth, but wait just a minute! They haven’t seen or benefited from any of the signs and wonders they’ve heard Jesus had been performing elsewhere. None of their lame had been made to walk, none of their blind had been made to see, none of their lepers had been cleansed. In other words, “What have you done for us lately, Jesus?”
And so Jesus reminds them about the Old Testament prophet Elijah who passed over Jewish widows in order to perform a miracle for a penniless Gentile. And the prophet Elisha who passed over Jewish lepers in order to heal a Gentile occupier. In other words, God’s promise wasn’t just for the Jews of Galilee, although they certainly needed it. Jesus was there to bring the healing and loving activity of God far outside the boundaries of the supposed “People of God.” God’s promise was, is, and always will be bigger and better and far more scandalous that what we might expect or even wish for – it’s a promise for everyone who finds themselves on the margins of humanity.
And that was an uncomfortable little add-on that the people of Nazareth weren’t prepared for. If God’s promise of recovery and good news wasn’t just for them, then that meant that something was required of them – something big and uncomfortable. They didn’t get to just sit back and hear the impressive words Jesus spoke and be the lucky recipients of all kinds of cool miracles. They had to open their hearts, extend their hospitality, spread their arms wide. They had to think differently, live differently, love differently.
And so Jesus’ hometown crowd got angry. Beyond angry – they were filled with rage at the idea that they might not be God’s intended “insiders.” And so they drove Jesus out of town and led him to the brow of the hill on which their town was built, so that they might hurl him off the cliff. They were prepared to kill the messenger, and hoping also to kill the message -- or at least the piece of the message that said they weren’t its sole beneficiaries; the piece that required them to join in welcoming others into its fold.
It seems awfully extreme, but it also seems disturbingly familiar. We appreciate the message of God’s mercy but not so much the judgment bits. We crave the forgiveness part, but not so much the requirement that we forgive others or even ourselves. We are comforted and overjoyed by God’s love for us, but not so much the insistence that we have to share that love with others that we don’t find so loveable.
And our problem isn’t just about who the message of mercy, forgiveness and love is intended for. It’s a bigger, far more universal problem that we struggle with. We’d like to limit God more generally – to make God more palatable, easier, less invasive.
Someone named Wilbur Reese (no relation) wrote a poem about this human problem called “Three Dollars Worth of God”:
I would like to buy three dollars worth of God, please.
Not enough to explode my soul or disturb my sleep,
but just enough to equal a cup of warm milk or a snooze in the sunshine.
I don’t want enough of God to make me love a black man or pick beets with a migrant.
I want ecstasy, not transformation.
I want warmth of the womb, not a new birth.
I want a pound of the eternal in a paper sack.
I would like to buy three dollars worth of God, please.
This season of Epiphany seems like the perfect time to think about how we might be missing the opportunity of seeing Jesus passing through the midst of us because of our discomfort with the size and inclusivity and challenge of our God – because we’re more comfortable with just three dollars worth of God than what might come with the whole package. It’s the perfect time to pay attention so that we don’t become like that crowd at Nazareth who turned their backs on God in their midst and let him get away. Amen.
“But passing through the midst of them he went away.”
At first glance, this last line from this morning’s Gospel seemed like a perfect metaphor for this season of Epiphany. Jesus passes through the midst of the crowd. Which is, in a way, what Epiphany is all about – God making God’s self known in our midst, our learning to recognize God all around us. The problem of course, which is so often the problem with pieces of scripture that at first seem very promising, is that that isn’t all. The context isn’t the greatest – the crowd that Jesus is passing through the midst of just happens to be an angry, unruly, blood-thirsty mob. And there’s the small problem of the few words tacked on to the end of the hopeful part about passing through their midst – after passing through, “he went away.” I’d much prefer Jesus to have passed through their midst and then have them realize their error; or maybe Jesus could pass through their midst and they finally understand exactly who it was that had been with them; or maybe Jesus could even pass through their midst and go away but just for a little bit and then come back to give them another chance. As a general matter, I’d like the keep the nice, reassuring bits and explain away the rest.
And this morning I’m in good company, because I think that’s precisely what the people of Nazareth wanted too.
At the 8:30 service last week, when John went to read the Gospel for the day, he accidentally started reading this morning’s Gospel. It was an understandable mistake because this week’s reading is a continuation from last week. The setting is the same – Jesus standing up in the synagogue in his hometown reading a piece of scripture from Isaiah. And the last line of last week’s Gospel is actually the first line of this week’s: “Jesus began to say to them, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”
But boy are these Gospel stories different. Last week seemed so hopeful. Jesus read the piece from Isaiah that was all about how he had come to bring good news to the poor, release to the captives, recovery of sight to the blind, freedom for the oppressed. And everyone’s eyes were “fixed on him.” The hometown crowd seemed to realize their need for a Savior, and seemed open to recognizing Jesus as being that Savior.
And it starts out that way this week as well. At first, this same hometown crowd was amazed at Jesus’ announcement that Isaiah’s promise of restoration had been fulfilled in their lifetime. The Jews in Nazareth considered themselves among the downtrodden that the prophet Isaiah spoke about and they welcomed the news about God’s help coming for them. They were tired of Roman rule, limiting their possibilities, keeping them on edge, and taking away so much of their wealth. They were also tired of being looked down upon by the fancier, more purebred Jews in Judea. Nothing good was expected to come from Nazareth, or so the saying went. And so they perceived Jesus’ message of hope to be aimed right at them. They were more than ready for this promised restoration – ready for all the good news and privilege and prosperity they could get. And so at the first, they seemed proud of their homegrown Jesus – they spoke well of him and wondered at his gracious words.
But with lightening speed that rosy picture fades. This morning, as if from a Paul Harvey radio show, we get “the rest of the story.” The part where Jesus’ neighbors and friends from Nazareth are ready to shuck him off a cliff in their rage. It’s like the scene in The Lord of the Flies where the fairly innocent school kids turn into the angry mob that circles around Piggy chanting and ready to kill.
What changed so much since last week’s reading? What’s happened in that handful of inscrutable verses in between “all spoke well of him” and “all in the synagogue were filled with rage”?
At first everything Jesus was saying sounded good to the folks from Nazareth, but wait just a minute! They haven’t seen or benefited from any of the signs and wonders they’ve heard Jesus had been performing elsewhere. None of their lame had been made to walk, none of their blind had been made to see, none of their lepers had been cleansed. In other words, “What have you done for us lately, Jesus?”
And so Jesus reminds them about the Old Testament prophet Elijah who passed over Jewish widows in order to perform a miracle for a penniless Gentile. And the prophet Elisha who passed over Jewish lepers in order to heal a Gentile occupier. In other words, God’s promise wasn’t just for the Jews of Galilee, although they certainly needed it. Jesus was there to bring the healing and loving activity of God far outside the boundaries of the supposed “People of God.” God’s promise was, is, and always will be bigger and better and far more scandalous that what we might expect or even wish for – it’s a promise for everyone who finds themselves on the margins of humanity.
And that was an uncomfortable little add-on that the people of Nazareth weren’t prepared for. If God’s promise of recovery and good news wasn’t just for them, then that meant that something was required of them – something big and uncomfortable. They didn’t get to just sit back and hear the impressive words Jesus spoke and be the lucky recipients of all kinds of cool miracles. They had to open their hearts, extend their hospitality, spread their arms wide. They had to think differently, live differently, love differently.
And so Jesus’ hometown crowd got angry. Beyond angry – they were filled with rage at the idea that they might not be God’s intended “insiders.” And so they drove Jesus out of town and led him to the brow of the hill on which their town was built, so that they might hurl him off the cliff. They were prepared to kill the messenger, and hoping also to kill the message -- or at least the piece of the message that said they weren’t its sole beneficiaries; the piece that required them to join in welcoming others into its fold.
It seems awfully extreme, but it also seems disturbingly familiar. We appreciate the message of God’s mercy but not so much the judgment bits. We crave the forgiveness part, but not so much the requirement that we forgive others or even ourselves. We are comforted and overjoyed by God’s love for us, but not so much the insistence that we have to share that love with others that we don’t find so loveable.
And our problem isn’t just about who the message of mercy, forgiveness and love is intended for. It’s a bigger, far more universal problem that we struggle with. We’d like to limit God more generally – to make God more palatable, easier, less invasive.
Someone named Wilbur Reese (no relation) wrote a poem about this human problem called “Three Dollars Worth of God”:
I would like to buy three dollars worth of God, please.
Not enough to explode my soul or disturb my sleep,
but just enough to equal a cup of warm milk or a snooze in the sunshine.
I don’t want enough of God to make me love a black man or pick beets with a migrant.
I want ecstasy, not transformation.
I want warmth of the womb, not a new birth.
I want a pound of the eternal in a paper sack.
I would like to buy three dollars worth of God, please.
This season of Epiphany seems like the perfect time to think about how we might be missing the opportunity of seeing Jesus passing through the midst of us because of our discomfort with the size and inclusivity and challenge of our God – because we’re more comfortable with just three dollars worth of God than what might come with the whole package. It’s the perfect time to pay attention so that we don’t become like that crowd at Nazareth who turned their backs on God in their midst and let him get away. Amen.
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