J. Ellsworth Kalas
In the church, most of us think of Epiphany simply as a season on the church calendar, and sometimes as a season we don't understand too well. We may recall that we are celebrating particularly the revealing of Christ to the Gentile world, via the Wise Men, but not much more. The dictionary, however, adds further dimension to the word, listen: "a sudden, intuitive perception ... into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience." That definition applies in a profound and unique way to our Lord Jesus Christ. We have good reason to write his Epiphany with a capital "E" because it is not only a special day on the calendar, but a revealing which sets the pattern for all other revealings.
True to the literary definition of the term, Jesus brought perception "into the reality or essential meaning." He stripped the superficial away from life and the artificial from religion. What we need, he told Nicodemus is a new birth: not just a reformation or higher resolves, but an utterly new start. To the woman of Samaria he prescribed water which would satisfy the deep, eternal thirst. For the rich young ruler, he commanded a whole new set of values, a change which the man, unfortunately, was unwilling to make.
But in every case, Jesus went below the surface -- down to reality. Even the physical changes said as much: the blind could now see, the deaf hear, the leper feel new flesh. To Zacchaeus he revealed, without saying a word, that his grasping publican values were meaningless; so Zacchaeus gave exuberantly to the poor and righted his economic wrongs. But when he pointed out their hypocrisies to the scribes and Pharisees, they began seeking ways to destroy him. An epiphany may be exciting, but it may also be upsetting. Such is the story in our scripture lesson of the day. It is the account which we began last week -- Jesus' visit to his home community of Nazareth, after his ministry had begun to make him a topic of conversation elsewhere. After reading the magnificent prophecy of Isaiah about One who would proclaim liberty to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, and who would set at liberty those who were oppressed, Jesus announced that the scripture was being fulfilled that day.
I. Amazement Turns to Anger
The first reaction of the synagogue gathering, as Luke reports the story, was one of approval and amazement. They "spoke very well of him," because the words were gracious. They sensed, in spite of themselves, the wondrous hope which he embodied. At that moment they had an epiphany. They saw the possibilities of God in their lives, the prospect of being set free, and of sharing in the freeing of others. True to the dictionary definition of epiphany, the experience had come through a "simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence." What could have been more commonplace to the people of Nazareth than a visit by their native son, the boy who had grown up in the carpenter shop? Commonplace, indeed! The Sabbath service in the synagogue was an every-week affair; and while it is true that Jesus had gotten some notoriety by his teaching and miracles in other places, he was no stranger to the people of Nazareth. Now grace was coming to them through his lips. But the initial response of wonder was quickly put aside. The "commonplace" channel by which God's graciousness was being revealed was simply too commonplace. A murmur began to slip through the synagogue gathering: "Is not this Joseph's son?"
You and I understand that. Most of us appreciate the wisdom of our parents better after they are dead. We quote them avidly then, because they've gained the authority which comes from distance. But it's hard to appreciate their wisdom when we dwell in their house; and sometimes also when we are a bit older and they come to visit in ours. Very few prophets get a good hearing in their own country. We may feel great affection for the person next door, but it's hard to see him or her as an authority; however, people in another, farther place might.
Jesus sensed their attitude, and threw down the gauntlet. "Doubtless," he said, "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' " (v. 23). Then Jesus reminded them that a prophet is never welcome in his hometown.
Perhaps if he had stopped there, the people would have admitted, grudgingly, that it was difficult for them to look at Jesus as outsiders might. But he pressed the issue in way that offended them. Jesus reminded them there were many widows in Israel in Elijah's day, but, for some reason, God chose to use a widow in Sidon to care for Elijah. That stung their national pride and their sense of chosenness. Then Jesus underlined the point by recalling that in the days of Elisha there were many who suffered from leprosy, but that the one who was healed was Naaman, a Syrian. I can easily imagine what they said, and so can you. How dare this carpenter's son tell us that God chooses Gentiles? Who gave him the authority to instruct and even to insult us? They knew the examples he used were true, but that didn't make them any less offensive. A preacher must be careful, you know, in his choice of texts!
They became so angry that they dragged him outside the city, to the precipice bordering their town, intending to throw him over the cliff. It was a strange, horrendous development -- after, at first, being impressed with the graciousness of his words. Somehow these words bout the Sidonian widow and the Syrian leper were not gracious! But when the people were about to cast Jesus over the cliff, "he passed through the midst of them and went on his way" (v. 30). Bruce Barton contended, in a popular biography of Jesus, that this was a demonstration of the unique power of the Master's personality. The mob spirit which was set on violence was somehow cowed by Jesus' sublime inner strength.
II. Astounded by Authority
Our lesson of the day does not stop with the incident in Nazareth, but goes on to introduce us to some of the happenings in the Galilean town of Capernaum. There, as in Nazareth, he taught the people on the Sabbath. This time we're not told what Jesus said. But Luke reports that the people "were astounded at his teaching, because he spoke with authority" (Luke 4:32).
To the good fortune of the people of Capernaum, they were not handicapped by hometown images of Jesus. They did not lay the insight and power of his words alongside the discrediting measuring stick, "Is not this Joseph's son?" They accepted Jesus' words and person in their own right, and they saw authority. And as a result, they were privileged to see miracles. An epiphany -- a wondrous revealing -- is only as good as our ability to receive it. A dour soul can look out into a morning of inexpressible beauty and say, "Bah! Humbug!" An indifferent person can sit through a superb rendition of Bach or Beethoven and be bored. The people of Capernaum listened to Jesus with open, unprejudiced minds, and were filled with awe; while the people of Nazareth found it necessary to discredit him, and then, in bitterness, to seek to destroy him.
The Nazareth tragedy is compounded by the fact that the people were at first inclined to hear Jesus appreciatively. But then something in them made them want to cut Jesus down to size. Specifically, their size. They wanted to be able to "manage" him, by remembering that he was the boy they had seen through the years in the carpenter shop.
Our culture still tries to make Jesus manageable. Flannery O'Connor, that perceptive modern novelist, observed one very painful thing about writing as a Christian -- that which is the ultimate reality for the Christian, the Incarnation, is something which nobody in her reading audience believed. Her readers, she said, were largely people who thought God was dead. To speak of a God who has come to earth in Jesus Christ, who is not only alive but profoundly involved in human affairs, is offensive in the extreme.
So, too, with Jesus of Nazareth. The secular world is happy to recognize Jesus as a fine teacher and an admirable moral example. That is the modern equivalent of seeing him as Joseph's son. Jesus is manageable, if we can keep him in the categories of logic and human morality. But when the secularist is asked to see him as the singular revelation of God, Jesus becomes an intellectual embarrassment. We church members have our problem with him, also. We, too, like a manageable Jesus: one to whom we can come in times of trouble, who comforts us and sympathizes with our human need. This is a true picture, as far as it goes. But he is also King of kings and Lord of lords; and, as such, he insists on being Lord of all of life. At that point Jesus becomes difficult. We are tempted, in our own fashion to follow the people of Nazareth in pushing him over some cliff.
III. Getting Ready for Revelation
Our hymnals contain a variety of hymns which plead for an epiphany -- a moment of revelation. "Be thou my vision, O Lord of my heart," we sing. Or, "Open my eyes, that I may see / Glimpses of truth thou hast for me." And again, "Talk with us, Lord, thyself reveal, / While here o'er earth we rove."
But I'm not sure how ready we are for such a revealing. Often the revelation begins with new insight into ourselves; and that "revealing" is usually a painful process. The people of Nazareth managed pretty well with Jesus' revealing of himself; they found his words gracious. It was when he began to reveal their own persons to them that they became upset. His suggestion that they were like their ancestors in Elijah and Elisha's day -- who were bypassed for blessing while "outsiders" were favored -- was utterly unacceptable.
No significant glory is going to burst into our lives, however, unless we deal honesty and earnestly with ourselves. We cannot be healed until we acknowledge that we are ill, we cannot learn until we confess our ignorance, and we cannot find fullness of life until we admit that we are not presently complete. If the people of Nazareth had bowed humbly before Jesus' analysis and had sought deliverance from the blindness and pride which consumed them, they might have been the setting for far greater manifestations of the glory of God. Instead, there were virtually no miracles there, because of their unbelief. And their unbelief stemmed not from some inherent spiritual lack, but from their unwillingness to confess their sins.
A good word must be spoken for those people who come to the house of worship week after week. The church is the only institution in our world which challenges us, again and again, to be better than we are. We come to a service on Sunday morning, or to one of the small group or class sessions, knowing that someone will speak on a theme which will lead ultimately to the conclusion: "We aren't all that we ought to be. God meant us to be more than this, and we must commit ourselves to that higher goal." Whatever the failings of the church and of church people, we are virtually unique in our willingness to put ourselves in a setting where we will be challenged and corrected.
If we accept that challenge, the potential is almost unlimited. The people of Nazareth, unfortunately, rejected it. When the gracious revealing of Jesus became a painful revealing of themselves, they wanted to be done with the upstart carpenter. We're always in danger of following their example. But the past 21 centuries have been highlighted by these beautiful human beings -- some well-known, but most of them virtually unknown -- who have seen the revealing of Jesus and of themselves, and have accepted the challenge. For them, it has been a path from faith to faith from glory to glory. Like the people of Capernaum, they have seen the authority of Jesus Christ, and life has been made anew. Let us, this day, join their company.
In the church, most of us think of Epiphany simply as a season on the church calendar, and sometimes as a season we don't understand too well. We may recall that we are celebrating particularly the revealing of Christ to the Gentile world, via the Wise Men, but not much more. The dictionary, however, adds further dimension to the word, listen: "a sudden, intuitive perception ... into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience." That definition applies in a profound and unique way to our Lord Jesus Christ. We have good reason to write his Epiphany with a capital "E" because it is not only a special day on the calendar, but a revealing which sets the pattern for all other revealings.
True to the literary definition of the term, Jesus brought perception "into the reality or essential meaning." He stripped the superficial away from life and the artificial from religion. What we need, he told Nicodemus is a new birth: not just a reformation or higher resolves, but an utterly new start. To the woman of Samaria he prescribed water which would satisfy the deep, eternal thirst. For the rich young ruler, he commanded a whole new set of values, a change which the man, unfortunately, was unwilling to make.
But in every case, Jesus went below the surface -- down to reality. Even the physical changes said as much: the blind could now see, the deaf hear, the leper feel new flesh. To Zacchaeus he revealed, without saying a word, that his grasping publican values were meaningless; so Zacchaeus gave exuberantly to the poor and righted his economic wrongs. But when he pointed out their hypocrisies to the scribes and Pharisees, they began seeking ways to destroy him. An epiphany may be exciting, but it may also be upsetting. Such is the story in our scripture lesson of the day. It is the account which we began last week -- Jesus' visit to his home community of Nazareth, after his ministry had begun to make him a topic of conversation elsewhere. After reading the magnificent prophecy of Isaiah about One who would proclaim liberty to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, and who would set at liberty those who were oppressed, Jesus announced that the scripture was being fulfilled that day.
I. Amazement Turns to Anger
The first reaction of the synagogue gathering, as Luke reports the story, was one of approval and amazement. They "spoke very well of him," because the words were gracious. They sensed, in spite of themselves, the wondrous hope which he embodied. At that moment they had an epiphany. They saw the possibilities of God in their lives, the prospect of being set free, and of sharing in the freeing of others. True to the dictionary definition of epiphany, the experience had come through a "simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence." What could have been more commonplace to the people of Nazareth than a visit by their native son, the boy who had grown up in the carpenter shop? Commonplace, indeed! The Sabbath service in the synagogue was an every-week affair; and while it is true that Jesus had gotten some notoriety by his teaching and miracles in other places, he was no stranger to the people of Nazareth. Now grace was coming to them through his lips. But the initial response of wonder was quickly put aside. The "commonplace" channel by which God's graciousness was being revealed was simply too commonplace. A murmur began to slip through the synagogue gathering: "Is not this Joseph's son?"
You and I understand that. Most of us appreciate the wisdom of our parents better after they are dead. We quote them avidly then, because they've gained the authority which comes from distance. But it's hard to appreciate their wisdom when we dwell in their house; and sometimes also when we are a bit older and they come to visit in ours. Very few prophets get a good hearing in their own country. We may feel great affection for the person next door, but it's hard to see him or her as an authority; however, people in another, farther place might.
Jesus sensed their attitude, and threw down the gauntlet. "Doubtless," he said, "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' " (v. 23). Then Jesus reminded them that a prophet is never welcome in his hometown.
Perhaps if he had stopped there, the people would have admitted, grudgingly, that it was difficult for them to look at Jesus as outsiders might. But he pressed the issue in way that offended them. Jesus reminded them there were many widows in Israel in Elijah's day, but, for some reason, God chose to use a widow in Sidon to care for Elijah. That stung their national pride and their sense of chosenness. Then Jesus underlined the point by recalling that in the days of Elisha there were many who suffered from leprosy, but that the one who was healed was Naaman, a Syrian. I can easily imagine what they said, and so can you. How dare this carpenter's son tell us that God chooses Gentiles? Who gave him the authority to instruct and even to insult us? They knew the examples he used were true, but that didn't make them any less offensive. A preacher must be careful, you know, in his choice of texts!
They became so angry that they dragged him outside the city, to the precipice bordering their town, intending to throw him over the cliff. It was a strange, horrendous development -- after, at first, being impressed with the graciousness of his words. Somehow these words bout the Sidonian widow and the Syrian leper were not gracious! But when the people were about to cast Jesus over the cliff, "he passed through the midst of them and went on his way" (v. 30). Bruce Barton contended, in a popular biography of Jesus, that this was a demonstration of the unique power of the Master's personality. The mob spirit which was set on violence was somehow cowed by Jesus' sublime inner strength.
II. Astounded by Authority
Our lesson of the day does not stop with the incident in Nazareth, but goes on to introduce us to some of the happenings in the Galilean town of Capernaum. There, as in Nazareth, he taught the people on the Sabbath. This time we're not told what Jesus said. But Luke reports that the people "were astounded at his teaching, because he spoke with authority" (Luke 4:32).
To the good fortune of the people of Capernaum, they were not handicapped by hometown images of Jesus. They did not lay the insight and power of his words alongside the discrediting measuring stick, "Is not this Joseph's son?" They accepted Jesus' words and person in their own right, and they saw authority. And as a result, they were privileged to see miracles. An epiphany -- a wondrous revealing -- is only as good as our ability to receive it. A dour soul can look out into a morning of inexpressible beauty and say, "Bah! Humbug!" An indifferent person can sit through a superb rendition of Bach or Beethoven and be bored. The people of Capernaum listened to Jesus with open, unprejudiced minds, and were filled with awe; while the people of Nazareth found it necessary to discredit him, and then, in bitterness, to seek to destroy him.
The Nazareth tragedy is compounded by the fact that the people were at first inclined to hear Jesus appreciatively. But then something in them made them want to cut Jesus down to size. Specifically, their size. They wanted to be able to "manage" him, by remembering that he was the boy they had seen through the years in the carpenter shop.
Our culture still tries to make Jesus manageable. Flannery O'Connor, that perceptive modern novelist, observed one very painful thing about writing as a Christian -- that which is the ultimate reality for the Christian, the Incarnation, is something which nobody in her reading audience believed. Her readers, she said, were largely people who thought God was dead. To speak of a God who has come to earth in Jesus Christ, who is not only alive but profoundly involved in human affairs, is offensive in the extreme.
So, too, with Jesus of Nazareth. The secular world is happy to recognize Jesus as a fine teacher and an admirable moral example. That is the modern equivalent of seeing him as Joseph's son. Jesus is manageable, if we can keep him in the categories of logic and human morality. But when the secularist is asked to see him as the singular revelation of God, Jesus becomes an intellectual embarrassment. We church members have our problem with him, also. We, too, like a manageable Jesus: one to whom we can come in times of trouble, who comforts us and sympathizes with our human need. This is a true picture, as far as it goes. But he is also King of kings and Lord of lords; and, as such, he insists on being Lord of all of life. At that point Jesus becomes difficult. We are tempted, in our own fashion to follow the people of Nazareth in pushing him over some cliff.
III. Getting Ready for Revelation
Our hymnals contain a variety of hymns which plead for an epiphany -- a moment of revelation. "Be thou my vision, O Lord of my heart," we sing. Or, "Open my eyes, that I may see / Glimpses of truth thou hast for me." And again, "Talk with us, Lord, thyself reveal, / While here o'er earth we rove."
But I'm not sure how ready we are for such a revealing. Often the revelation begins with new insight into ourselves; and that "revealing" is usually a painful process. The people of Nazareth managed pretty well with Jesus' revealing of himself; they found his words gracious. It was when he began to reveal their own persons to them that they became upset. His suggestion that they were like their ancestors in Elijah and Elisha's day -- who were bypassed for blessing while "outsiders" were favored -- was utterly unacceptable.
No significant glory is going to burst into our lives, however, unless we deal honesty and earnestly with ourselves. We cannot be healed until we acknowledge that we are ill, we cannot learn until we confess our ignorance, and we cannot find fullness of life until we admit that we are not presently complete. If the people of Nazareth had bowed humbly before Jesus' analysis and had sought deliverance from the blindness and pride which consumed them, they might have been the setting for far greater manifestations of the glory of God. Instead, there were virtually no miracles there, because of their unbelief. And their unbelief stemmed not from some inherent spiritual lack, but from their unwillingness to confess their sins.
A good word must be spoken for those people who come to the house of worship week after week. The church is the only institution in our world which challenges us, again and again, to be better than we are. We come to a service on Sunday morning, or to one of the small group or class sessions, knowing that someone will speak on a theme which will lead ultimately to the conclusion: "We aren't all that we ought to be. God meant us to be more than this, and we must commit ourselves to that higher goal." Whatever the failings of the church and of church people, we are virtually unique in our willingness to put ourselves in a setting where we will be challenged and corrected.
If we accept that challenge, the potential is almost unlimited. The people of Nazareth, unfortunately, rejected it. When the gracious revealing of Jesus became a painful revealing of themselves, they wanted to be done with the upstart carpenter. We're always in danger of following their example. But the past 21 centuries have been highlighted by these beautiful human beings -- some well-known, but most of them virtually unknown -- who have seen the revealing of Jesus and of themselves, and have accepted the challenge. For them, it has been a path from faith to faith from glory to glory. Like the people of Capernaum, they have seen the authority of Jesus Christ, and life has been made anew. Let us, this day, join their company.
