I remember the parched lips. Cracking over jagged teeth. Faces of the veritable vision of parasitic thirst. I remember moving slowly through the mob, trying to catch snippets of side conversations. I wanted to know what they thought of him. I moved sideways, eyes up front, ears everywhere else. I heard the frequent gasps of awe and affirmation. These were the early days, you know, and the people were starstruck. I remember the fame, of course, and at the time it’s what I thought mattered most. Since then, I’ve realized that the masses are easily impressed. Only a few truly sought him. And many more than that were soaked in jealous rage.
So, when I think back to that moment now, I think of the leaders bent on execution. They’d wormed their voices into the crowd long before it assembled, and there were already whispers of blasphemy before he even began talking. A particularly bold man (likely bribed) shouted, “Zealot!” as the buzz of conversation faded with the raised hand of the rabbi.
Jesus didn’t bat an eye.
He never did, by the way. Not then and not when they arrested him and not when they killed him. Although, he did wink all those times he walked through – through waves, weapons, walls – if that counts.
A few women shushed the heckler and stared him down until he stood and left. Everyone else settled into position, waiting for another word. The synagogue trembled in anticipation. And then it began to rumble.
He reads the prophet Isaiah…he reads of the Messiah…the year of the Lord’s favor…broken hearts mended! slaves released!
The whispers came in symphony. Truly, it seemed the sound of hope. But Jesus. Ah, but Jesus: not content to settle for popularity, never satisfied with empty sacrifices, he kept going. I think he was sitting to begin with, but I remember him rising as he spoke of widows, famines, lepers, and foreigners. Yes, even of foreigners – those not of the family of Israel. He might have been able to get away with it in some other city, some urban melting pot, but he knew the hearts of his people, his home town. He knew what they couldn’t admit. He knew they needed to be exposed. As always, we discovered later he was right. The fire hurts, but it cleans.
Oh, but it hurts. And we usually flail against the pain, don’t we? I know I do. I usually try to drown the lifeguard.
I didn’t notice until it was too late, and then I pushed with urgency, but I was swept up in the mob. They were filled with savage passion, and they drove him out of town, like an enemy. Like someone who didn’t belong. The irony: they were convicted of abandoning the family, and they condemned him to be cast out.
I ran. I ran ahead, I knew where they were forcing him to go, and I thought I could create a diversion, maybe an obstacle. Nothing. Rocks, sand, and then the cliff. I stumbled just short of it and turned. The mob ascended like locusts in a frenzy. Somehow I could see him, at the front. They shoved him and he tripped, caught himself, kept going. They shrieked. They threw stones. Yet, he determined the pace. And he walked right up to me, to stand together on the edge.
Distant clouds coasted against the horizon behind us. A fatal fall loomed at our backs. The crowd chanted demonically.
Jesus took my hand. He smiled and gestured, follow me.
And we walked back down the hill, passing through their midst like an exodus of two through the desperate chaos of hell.
Luke 4:16-30 • Exodus 14:21-22 • John 20:19