Jesus (18 page)

So when, where, and what was this reign of God?

On the one hand, the reign of God is already realized in Jesus's own presence among the people; on the other, it's not completely here because, as anyone can see, vengeance, injustice, and suffering still endure. Theologians refer to this idea as the “already but not yet.” But even that elegant phrase cannot encompass Jesus's idea of the “time” of the reign. In Jesus's day, most people delighted in paradoxes, so there was no reason for Jesus to have to specify any particular time. E. P. Sanders writes:

Nor did Jesus have in mind a clear-cut definition. The reign of God (“reign” is a better translation of the Greek
basileia
than “kingdom,” which implies a geographic place) encompasses many realities: the reversal of unjust suffering, the pouring out of rewards on the faithful, and the joyous participation of believers in the heavenly banquet.
⁹
But exactly where, what, how, and especially when, were obscure to Jesus's listeners, and remain obscure to us. The reign of God is a reality that cannot be grasped fully, nor can it be contained in the language of a strictly worded definition. This is why Jesus used poetic means to describe it—called parables, as we shall soon see.

But in Nazareth, as Luke describes the event, Jesus is saying clearly: “The reign of God is here, because I am here.”

I
T TAKES A MOMENT
for his words to sink in. The experiences of those in Nazareth that day may be similar to times in your life when an astonishing statement takes a while to register. After a few seconds of shock, you say, “Did she say what I
thought
she said?” When I first told a few college friends, over dinner at a New York restaurant, that I was leaving my job at General Electric to enter the Jesuit novitiate, they paused for several moments before speaking. “What?” said a friend. “What?” When the waiter came to take our order, he asked, “Do you need more time?” My friend said, “Yes, a lot more time.”

Initially, those in the synagogue appreciate what Jesus says. “All spoke well of him and were amazed at the gracious words that came from his mouth,” says Luke. The Greek is beautiful:
ethaumazon epi tois logois tēs charitos.
Literally, they marveled at the words of grace.
¹⁰
Some are amazed that the local
tektōn
knew so much. “Is not this Joseph's son?” they ask.

In Mark's version, written closer to the original events, the amazement among the people in Nazareth is even more pronounced. Mark's vivid account, which occurs later in Jesus's ministry, after some of his miracles, recounts questions that indicate a rising astonishment: “Where did this man get all of this?” What is this wisdom that has been given to him? What deeds of power are being done by his hands!” Then comes almost an explosion of shock: “Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary and brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon, and are not his sisters here with us?” In Matthew, the questions are similar, though Jesus's identity is changed to “the carpenter's son.”

In both cases, the people are thunderstruck. How can someone like this—
like us
—say these things?

Mark's and Matthew's versions, then, explain something that Luke omits, for in Luke the mood suddenly shifts without explanation. Matthew and Mark, however, say, “And they took offense at him.” The Greek is
eskandalizonto:
literally, they stumbled on this. The root word is
skandalon
, a stone that one trips over, from which we get the word “scandal.” They cannot get over the fact that someone from their hometown is saying and doing these things. They move quickly from amazement to anger. Jealousy may have played a role as well.

Jesus anticipates their desire for miracles and predicts their inevitable reaction. You will tell me, he says, “Do here also in your hometown the things we have heard you did at Capernaum.” (This is somewhat confusing in Luke, since Jesus does not move to Capernaum until later, so perhaps Luke has moved this story farther ahead in his narrative of Jesus's life.) “Truly I tell you, no prophet is accepted in the prophet's hometown.” Jesus seems to be quoting from a popular saying as well as drawing on what his townsfolk would have known of the fate of the Jewish prophets.

Mark's earlier version is more poignant—you can almost feel Jesus's sorrow in having to say what he is about to say. In Greek his words could be translated as “A prophet is not without honor except in his native land (
patridi
), and among his relatives, and in his own house (
oikia
).” Imagine the combination of sadness and pity he must have felt uttering those words before his closest friends and his family.

For Mark and Matthew, the story ends there. Matthew says that Jesus is unable to perform “many deeds of power” because of their lack of faith. Mark says that he cured “a few sick people” and was amazed by their lack of faith in him. Then Jesus leaves.

Luke's version, however, continues. If Jesus's words weren't enough to anger those in the synagogue, he reminds them of the story of Elijah, the prophet who during a time of severe famine and drought helps not a single Israelite, but a woman in Zarephath, a non-Jewish town. What's more, another prophet, Elisha, cured Naaman, another non-Jew, of leprosy rather than healing a Jewish person with leprosy. In so many words, Jesus is comparing himself to the great prophets from Israel's past and reminding people that these two prophets took their messages to outsiders.
¹¹
“Without faith you cannot expect any miracles,” he seems to be saying, “so don't expect me to stick around.”

As if to underline his prophecy, Jesus uses the forceful term “Amen,” a version of “I assure you,” before he makes that comparison.
¹²
Rather than relying on a verse from Scripture or another expert on the Torah to give credence to his words, Jesus presents
himself
as the authority. To sum up: I'm telling you from my own authority that you're treating me just like your ancestors treated the prophets, so don't be surprised that I can't do any miracles here—your lack of faith is the reason. It is a challenge to the crowd.

This is the last straw. “When they heard this, all in the synagogue were filled with rage.” So much so that they drive him from their midst and lead him to the brow of the hill to throw him off. But Jesus “passed through the midst of them.” You can see why he would have, probably with immense sadness, felt forced to leave his hometown.

Not far from the first-century ruins of Nazareth is Mount Precipice, where the furious townsfolk are said to have brought Jesus. The steep cliff today drops off onto a busy highway. Many scholars question the location of the actual site, but given Nazareth's hilly terrain, almost any candidate is sufficiently dangerous. But if the site is legendary, the story is almost certainly not. As Harrington suggests about a passage in which Jesus is rudely rejected by those who knew him best, “This is not the kind of story that early Christians might invent.”
¹³

J
ESUS FACED REJECTION NOT
because the townspeople in Nazareth were small-minded (much less because Jews of the time were any more insular than anyone else in antiquity), but because they could not accept his words. But how was he able to pass “through the midst of them”? Perhaps when Jesus looked upon the crowd, when he recognized them, and when they saw
him
recognize them, they were made aware of what they were doing.

Conceivably, the people of Nazareth pulled back from doing violence to Jesus because they suddenly saw themselves as God saw them—people unwilling to listen to the voice of a prophet. Jesus made them look at a place in their own heart, and they did not like what they saw.

Jesus also saw them as beloved children of God. He saw them in their complexity, not simply as sinful people, but also as people incapable of seeing the truth, because of the human limitations that we all share. That recognition might have been too much for them. So he could pass through their midst.

O
NE POPULAR WAY FOR
preachers and teachers to present this passage is from the crowd's perspective. Even when the Messiah was standing before them, they failed to see him. The people of the tight-knit village knew him so well that they couldn't imagine someone so ordinary and so familiar as the carrier of divine grace. The usual moral is: be careful not to overlook anyone as an instrument of grace.

But here is something we often overlook: Jesus knew
them.
When he stood up in the synagogue building or in the outdoor gathering space, he saw the faces of people he knew well. There were his fellow carpenters; there were his cousins; there were his mother's friends; there were his peers. Therefore, he must have known how they would respond to what he was going to say.

Imagine planning to speak to a group of friends or family—people you've known your whole life. Now imagine that you're going to tell them something alarming. Let's say you're dropping out of college, you're moving across the country, or you're breaking off an engagement. If you know them well, you probably
know
how they're going to respond. You can anticipate how each person will react.

Walking into that synagogue, the perceptive
tektōn
probably could predict how people would respond when he declared himself the Messiah. He knew that he would be rejected and even attacked, but he did it anyway.

Jesus must have expected that his controversial statement would engender strong, angry, and even violent reactions. But he seemed unbothered by the prospect of controversy. Why? Because he was fearless, independent, and free.

Jesus also does so generously. Though he challenges the crowd, he evinces no resentment toward them. After all, he is preaching “good news,” figuratively and literally. The expression usually refers to the entire Gospel message. But in a homier sense, what he is saying is plain old good news—the blind will see, captives will be released, and there will be a “year of the Lord's favor.”
¹⁴
It's a contrast from the fire-and-brimstone message of John the Baptist. Surely, this is good news. But the people were still angry.

Luke Timothy Johnson suggests that the townspeople were furious not simply because Jesus proclaimed himself as Messiah, but also because he declared that his ministry would not be done in Nazareth and, what's more, that he would bring his mission to the Gentiles, the non-Jews. “He is not acceptable in his own country because his mission extends beyond his own country,” says Johnson.
¹⁵
It is likely that Jesus knew how a message of openness to the Gentiles would be received in his hometown. Nonetheless, he is fearless.

How was he able to do this? First, his courage flowed from the grace that came from his Father in heaven. But second, it may have come from Jesus's freedom from any desire for approval from the people in Nazareth. Jesus did not need their approval; he needed only to be true to himself. This is not to say that he did not love his family and friends in Nazareth or that he somehow held the people in the synagogue in contempt—Jesus was compassion personified. Rather, he didn't need them to agree with him, approve of him, or even understand him. Nazareth was neither the locus of nor the reason for his ministry.

Jesus was also wise enough to know that he could not change them. If they didn't listen to him, perhaps people elsewhere would. This may be why Jesus spent most of his time in Capernaum, not Nazareth.

Jesus did not feel the need for approval from the synagogue, the town, or his family. In short, he didn't need to be liked.

F
OR MANY YEARS
I struggled with the desire to be liked. And a few years ago I came to my annual retreat with two related problems on my mind. The first was that a person in my Jesuit community had taken an active dislike to me. Of course I knew that not everyone would love me or even like me, but that another Jesuit would despise me (believe me, he did) was disconcerting. He treated me with great contempt, at times refusing to speak to me. (Yes, religious communities are not perfect.) The second issue was the feeling that I must speak out about a controversial issue in the church, which would probably earn me enmity. (It doesn't matter what issue; the controversy is long gone.)

Both challenges turned on my need to be liked. So my spiritual director recommended the Rejection at Nazareth for my prayer. It was easy to imagine the crowd shouting Jesus down, at the tops of their voices, and to see the looks of hatred on their faces.

Meditating on that passage helped me realize how frightened I was of rejection. And thinking of Jesus's courage in Nazareth helped free me of something that had long kept me bound. Whenever I thought of saying or doing something that might have seemed controversial or unpopular I often wondered,
What will people think?
It's a dangerous snare—you can easily end up paralyzed with inactivity, bound by the chains of approval.

Jesus was the opposite: entirely free. Perhaps this came from his intimate relationship with the Father, with whom he was united in prayer. Perhaps this came from his relationships with Mary and Joseph and the rest of his extended family, who offered him the parental love that characterizes many self-confident people—to the point where he felt comfortable disagreeing with or even angering them. Or perhaps it came from his understanding that his mission was of supreme importance, that proclaiming the coming reign of God was more important than whether a few people from his hometown disagreed with, disliked, or rejected him.