First Congregational Church of Cheshire
Sunday, February 2, 2025
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
Luke 4:21-30
Then he began to say to them, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” All spoke well of him and were amazed at the gracious words that came from his mouth. They said, “Is not this Joseph’s son?” He said to them, “Doubtless you will quote to me this proverb, ‘Doctor, cure yourself!’ And you will say, ‘Do here also in your hometown the things that we have heard you did at Capernaum.’” And he said, “Truly I tell you, no prophet is accepted in the prophet’s hometown. But the truth is, there were many widows in Israel in the time of Elijah, when the heaven was shut up three years and six months, and there was a severe famine over all the land; yet Elijah was sent to none of them except to a widow at Zarephath in Sidon. There were also many lepers in Israel in the time of the prophet Elisha, and none of them was cleansed except Naaman the Syrian.” When they heard this, all in the synagogue were filled with rage. They got up, drove him out of the 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. But he passed through the midst of them and went on his way.
The word “salvation” is one you hear a lot in church. But what, exactly, does it mean? What are we “saved” from or “saved” for? Well, to answer that question, we need to go back to the word’s Latin root. “Salus” from which we derive our word “salvation” means "health." Salvation is, then, being "saved" or "rescued" from a harmful state and restored to full wholeness and well-being. Salvation is healing.
Now that all sounds wonderful until we remember that healing often involves suffering. To be healed, one must first know that one is ill. And that knowledge is its own kind of suffering. Then, one must undergo the cure, often another kind of suffering.
The brilliant Catholic writer, Flannery O’Connor, wrote a short story entitled “Revelation”. Its main character, Ruby Turpin, is sitting in the doctor’s waiting room, judging everyone around her. You see, Ruby imagines herself to be superior, by more than a grade or two, to everyone there, especially to a poor, unkempt teenager seated across from her, reading a book. Ruby thinks it sad that the girl’s parents did not groom her more attractively. “Perish the thought,” Ruby thinks, “of having a child as scowling as this one.”
As for the child, named Mary Grace, she listens for a while as Ruby chatters out loud about the superiority of poor blacks over "white trash." Then, without warning, Mary Grace fixes her steely eyes on Ruby and hurls her book across the room. The book hits Ruby in the head and she falls to the floor with Mary Grace on top of her hissing into her ear, "Go back to hell where you came from, you old wart hog!"
And this, writes O’Connor, is the violent, shocked beginning of Ruby’s redemption, the catalyst for her repentance and her heavenly vision. O’Connor reminds us that revelation often begins when a large book hits you on the head.[1]
And that, it seems to me, is the Gospel truth. Because the most significant spiritual transformations I have ever experienced began in pain or anger or fear or disillusionment. And while we might recoil at this idea, the great preacher Barbara Brown Taylor reminds us that: “Disillusionment is, literally, the loss of an illusion – about ourselves, about the world, about God – and while it is almost always a painful thing, it is never a bad thing, to lose the lies we have mistaken for the truth.”[2]
To lose the lies we have mistaken for the truth - that is the subtext of today’s Gospel lesson. But first, the set up.
In the story that immediately precedes this one, Jesus had preached his inaugural sermon in his hometown synagogue of Nazareth. And everyone was amazed at his gracious words. And, by extension, they were proud of themselves. After all, if it takes a village to raise a child, then they had helped to raise him. He was one of theirs. Surely, they thought, they deserved some of the credit too for this hometown boy made good.
But then, as Flannery O’Connor might say, Jesus took a large book and threw it at their heads.
In an apparent non-sequitur to their compliments, Jesus suddenly declared: “No prophet is accepted in the prophet’s hometown.” “Well, what is that supposed to mean?” the people began to murmur. “Weren’t we just telling him how proud we were of him and what a great job he had done?” And then Jesus told them two stories that would guarantee that they would not accept him; two stories to demonstrate their desperate need for healing.
The first story went like this: In the time of Prophet Elijah, there was a great famine in the land. And everyone was in need, but especially the widows, who had no husbands or sons to provide for them. But of all the widows in the land, God sent Elijah only to the widow at Zarephath. And here’s the kicker: she was not one of them. She was a foreigner and an outsider.
It took a minute for that story to land, but when it did, the energy shifted and there was an uncomfortable silence that fell over the crowd.
Then Jesus continued. “Likewise, in the time of the Prophet Elisha, the land of Israel was filled with lepers - all of whom longed for healing. But of all the lepers in the land, God sent Elisha to pray for Naman, a Syrian, another outsider, and a pagan.
And when that story landed, the energy shifted again, to something far more ominous. It was all just too much for the comfortable, church-going folk of Nazareth. Their compliments, offered just a few minutes before, turned to rage, such rage that a mob surrounded Jesus and drove him to the brow of the hill upon which Nazareth is built. They had every intention of throwing him off the precipice. And if he survived that fall, to stone him to death.
It’s important to note that this extreme reaction was actually the prescribed punishment for blasphemy. In their minds, Jesus had blasphemed because he had struck at the very heart of their religious and national self-understanding as the first in line for God’s blessing. But Jesus understood that their self-satisfaction and easy judgments had made them sick. They desperately needed healing for their apathy and their hubris. And so, he told these two stories about how the love and mercy of God will not be contained or controlled or manipulated by any of us, by any system.
So, what was up with Jesus that day? Why was he being such a provocateur? Couldn’t he have just gone to Coffee Hour and accepted their compliments about the fine sermon? Well, I suppose he could have. But here’s the thing. When you really love someone and you know that they are sick, you will do anything to get them well. And Jesus loved these folks far too much to leave them with their malignant arrogance.
Luke ends his story with Jesus slipping away from the angry mob. But I suspect that wasn’t really the end of the story. Because we human react first, and then we think. And I bet you that’s what happened in Nazareth that day, at least for some of those dear folks. They got home and cooled off and thought about what they had heard and how they had reacted. And they regretted it. And maybe they were haunted by what Jesus said. And perhaps their own hearts ached for a God whose love is so much broader than the measure of our minds.
Jesus threw the book at them that day. And it hurt. But it also knocked some sense into them. And they started down a road that would make them well. Salvation came to their houses.
The Gospel of Jesus does indeed save us and heal us. But the work of salvation is not for the feint of heart. God simply loves us too much to not do everything to bring us to full and vigorous health.
Thanks be to God. Amen.
[1] Willimon, William. The Christian Century, 2004
[2] God in Pain, Barbara Brown Taylor
Sunday, February 2, 2025
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
Luke 4:21-30
Then he began to say to them, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” All spoke well of him and were amazed at the gracious words that came from his mouth. They said, “Is not this Joseph’s son?” He said to them, “Doubtless you will quote to me this proverb, ‘Doctor, cure yourself!’ And you will say, ‘Do here also in your hometown the things that we have heard you did at Capernaum.’” And he said, “Truly I tell you, no prophet is accepted in the prophet’s hometown. But the truth is, there were many widows in Israel in the time of Elijah, when the heaven was shut up three years and six months, and there was a severe famine over all the land; yet Elijah was sent to none of them except to a widow at Zarephath in Sidon. There were also many lepers in Israel in the time of the prophet Elisha, and none of them was cleansed except Naaman the Syrian.” When they heard this, all in the synagogue were filled with rage. They got up, drove him out of the 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. But he passed through the midst of them and went on his way.
The word “salvation” is one you hear a lot in church. But what, exactly, does it mean? What are we “saved” from or “saved” for? Well, to answer that question, we need to go back to the word’s Latin root. “Salus” from which we derive our word “salvation” means "health." Salvation is, then, being "saved" or "rescued" from a harmful state and restored to full wholeness and well-being. Salvation is healing.
Now that all sounds wonderful until we remember that healing often involves suffering. To be healed, one must first know that one is ill. And that knowledge is its own kind of suffering. Then, one must undergo the cure, often another kind of suffering.
The brilliant Catholic writer, Flannery O’Connor, wrote a short story entitled “Revelation”. Its main character, Ruby Turpin, is sitting in the doctor’s waiting room, judging everyone around her. You see, Ruby imagines herself to be superior, by more than a grade or two, to everyone there, especially to a poor, unkempt teenager seated across from her, reading a book. Ruby thinks it sad that the girl’s parents did not groom her more attractively. “Perish the thought,” Ruby thinks, “of having a child as scowling as this one.”
As for the child, named Mary Grace, she listens for a while as Ruby chatters out loud about the superiority of poor blacks over "white trash." Then, without warning, Mary Grace fixes her steely eyes on Ruby and hurls her book across the room. The book hits Ruby in the head and she falls to the floor with Mary Grace on top of her hissing into her ear, "Go back to hell where you came from, you old wart hog!"
And this, writes O’Connor, is the violent, shocked beginning of Ruby’s redemption, the catalyst for her repentance and her heavenly vision. O’Connor reminds us that revelation often begins when a large book hits you on the head.[1]
And that, it seems to me, is the Gospel truth. Because the most significant spiritual transformations I have ever experienced began in pain or anger or fear or disillusionment. And while we might recoil at this idea, the great preacher Barbara Brown Taylor reminds us that: “Disillusionment is, literally, the loss of an illusion – about ourselves, about the world, about God – and while it is almost always a painful thing, it is never a bad thing, to lose the lies we have mistaken for the truth.”[2]
To lose the lies we have mistaken for the truth - that is the subtext of today’s Gospel lesson. But first, the set up.
In the story that immediately precedes this one, Jesus had preached his inaugural sermon in his hometown synagogue of Nazareth. And everyone was amazed at his gracious words. And, by extension, they were proud of themselves. After all, if it takes a village to raise a child, then they had helped to raise him. He was one of theirs. Surely, they thought, they deserved some of the credit too for this hometown boy made good.
But then, as Flannery O’Connor might say, Jesus took a large book and threw it at their heads.
In an apparent non-sequitur to their compliments, Jesus suddenly declared: “No prophet is accepted in the prophet’s hometown.” “Well, what is that supposed to mean?” the people began to murmur. “Weren’t we just telling him how proud we were of him and what a great job he had done?” And then Jesus told them two stories that would guarantee that they would not accept him; two stories to demonstrate their desperate need for healing.
The first story went like this: In the time of Prophet Elijah, there was a great famine in the land. And everyone was in need, but especially the widows, who had no husbands or sons to provide for them. But of all the widows in the land, God sent Elijah only to the widow at Zarephath. And here’s the kicker: she was not one of them. She was a foreigner and an outsider.
It took a minute for that story to land, but when it did, the energy shifted and there was an uncomfortable silence that fell over the crowd.
Then Jesus continued. “Likewise, in the time of the Prophet Elisha, the land of Israel was filled with lepers - all of whom longed for healing. But of all the lepers in the land, God sent Elisha to pray for Naman, a Syrian, another outsider, and a pagan.
And when that story landed, the energy shifted again, to something far more ominous. It was all just too much for the comfortable, church-going folk of Nazareth. Their compliments, offered just a few minutes before, turned to rage, such rage that a mob surrounded Jesus and drove him to the brow of the hill upon which Nazareth is built. They had every intention of throwing him off the precipice. And if he survived that fall, to stone him to death.
It’s important to note that this extreme reaction was actually the prescribed punishment for blasphemy. In their minds, Jesus had blasphemed because he had struck at the very heart of their religious and national self-understanding as the first in line for God’s blessing. But Jesus understood that their self-satisfaction and easy judgments had made them sick. They desperately needed healing for their apathy and their hubris. And so, he told these two stories about how the love and mercy of God will not be contained or controlled or manipulated by any of us, by any system.
So, what was up with Jesus that day? Why was he being such a provocateur? Couldn’t he have just gone to Coffee Hour and accepted their compliments about the fine sermon? Well, I suppose he could have. But here’s the thing. When you really love someone and you know that they are sick, you will do anything to get them well. And Jesus loved these folks far too much to leave them with their malignant arrogance.
Luke ends his story with Jesus slipping away from the angry mob. But I suspect that wasn’t really the end of the story. Because we human react first, and then we think. And I bet you that’s what happened in Nazareth that day, at least for some of those dear folks. They got home and cooled off and thought about what they had heard and how they had reacted. And they regretted it. And maybe they were haunted by what Jesus said. And perhaps their own hearts ached for a God whose love is so much broader than the measure of our minds.
Jesus threw the book at them that day. And it hurt. But it also knocked some sense into them. And they started down a road that would make them well. Salvation came to their houses.
The Gospel of Jesus does indeed save us and heal us. But the work of salvation is not for the feint of heart. God simply loves us too much to not do everything to bring us to full and vigorous health.
Thanks be to God. Amen.
[1] Willimon, William. The Christian Century, 2004
[2] God in Pain, Barbara Brown Taylor
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