Seventh Sunday after Pentecost at Epiphany on July 19, 2009

Mark 6:1 Jesus left there and went to his hometown, accompanied by his disciples. ² When the Sabbath came, he began to teach in the synagogue, and many who heard him were amazed. "Where did this man get these things?" they asked. "What's this wisdom that has been given him, that he even does miracles! ³ Isn't this the carpenter? Isn't this Mary's son and the brother of James, Joseph, Judas and Simon? Aren't his sisters here with us?" And they took offense at him. ⁴ Jesus said to them, "Only in his hometown, among his relatives and in his own house is a prophet without honor." ⁵ He could not do any miracles there, except lay his hands on a few sick people and heal them. ⁶ And he was amazed at their lack of faith. Then Jesus went around teaching from village to village.

Offensive familiarity

Everyone loves a parade. People love to honor heroes and celebrities. Astronauts. Presidents. Olympic athletes. Especially if they are hometown heroes. Ben Johnson, a Shoreland graduate who is now playing football at Northwestern University. NBA All-Star Caron Butler returning home to Racine. Brett Favre coming back to Lambeau Field in a Minnesota Vikings uniform. Okay, maybe not so much Brett Farve. But we like to roll out the red carpet and strike up the brass bands for these people.

Why then did Jesus, the Son of God and Savior of the world, receive such a cool reception in His hometown of Nazareth? He came fresh from several triumphs – stilling a storm and raising Jairus’ daughter from the dead. He taught powerfully in the synagogue. It should have been a great homecoming, like when celebrities come home or soldiers come back from war. A parade down Main Street, confetti, bands, the key to the city. Jesus’ home synagogue should have been buzzing with excitement. The local boy made good. The Messiah grew up in our town. What an honor!

But that isn’t how it happened. The hometown folks were impressed with what Jesus said in the synagogue that Sabbath, but they were not impressed with what it meant for them. They asked, “Where did this man get these things?” expressing their contempt. They would not consider Jesus as Messiah, let alone an inspired prophet.

They heard Jesus preach with divine authority and they said, “Who does this guy think He is? We’ve known him since he was knee high to a grasshopper. He played ball with our kids. He’s the carpenter. He made our table and chairs. He’s Mary’s kid. These are his brothers - James, Joses, Jude, Simon. His sisters are here.” They were scandalized.

When Mark reports that they “took offense” at him, it comes from the Greek word “scandalia” where we get our word “scandal.” For them to believe that this Jesus from Nazareth was really the Son of God and the long-awaited Messiah was literally a scandal for them – they stumbled over this power hidden under weakness, they were tripped up by glory covered by the ordinary.

What scandalized them, and the world, and even you and me at times, is the ordinariness, the weakness, the everydayness of Jesus. When God appears to save the world, we expect Superman, or some larger than life extra-terrestrial, something not of this world – not a carpenter from Nazareth. That’s too ordinary, too much like us, too much a part of everyday life. We expect holiness to have glowing halos, not dirt under his fingernails and wood splinters in his hands.

“Only in his hometown, among his relatives and in his own house is a prophet without honor,” Jesus said. Familiarity breeds contempt, especially when it comes to holy things. We who are lifelong Christians, and especially we “Lutheran lifers,” might understand what I’m talking about. We are all too often like that Nazareth congregation. We’ve grown up around holy things. We’ve known Baptism and the Scriptures from our infancy. Our ears are accustomed to the sound of sins being forgiven. Our tongues are liturgically disciplined to pray, praise and give thanks. We have said the words of the Lord’s Prayer so often that the words roll off our tongues without ever passing through our hearts. We easily take our place at the Supper of Christ’s body and blood without truly examining our unworthiness at this great banquet feast. And we just as easily skip it when it isn’t convenient or “we have better things to do on a Sunday morning.”

We take it for granted to be able to drive a few minutes to worship in a church with pews, stained glass windows and a pipe organ. We don’t appreciate what its like to drive 30 to 60 minutes to worship in a rented storefront with folding chairs and a computer that plays the music. We no longer value the truth of God’s Word applied to difficult moral decisions, so we twist Scripture to fit what our itching ears want to hear.

It often takes the outsider, one of the exiles one who knows what 70 years without the Sacrament is like, to take hold of us and shake us and say, “Do you have any idea what treasures you have here?”

Do you? It’s all so ordinary. That splash of baptismal water, the sacrament of your rebirth in Jesus. The spoken Word that says, “I forgive you,” God’s absolution of your sins. The bread that is the body of Christ, the wine that is His blood, the sacrament of your union with Christ. That homely Bible of humble origins. This ordinary, often dull and sleepy congregation, with its distracted and inattentive pastor. The carpenter’s son from Nazareth who really is the glorious, all-powerful Son of God.

Don’t be fooled. Don’t stumble. There is power here, buried under weakness. There is glory hidden under the ordinary. This weakness turns out to be a hidden, awesome strength, the strength of the God who wins by losing, who conquers death by dying, who overcomes sin by becoming sin and its Sacrifice. The story of the Scriptures, from Genesis to the Revelation, is the story of the God whose ways are not our ways and whose thoughts are not our thoughts and whose idea of strength appears to be weakness, whose wisdom is hidden in foolishness, and whose victory is disguised as defeat. It’s the story of the child born in lowliness in Bethlehem, moved to Nazareth, crucified in Jerusalem, and resurrected and reigns in heaven.

They took offense at Jesus. So what did Jesus say that caused such offense? Mark doesn’t record Jesus’ words, but from what we read in Matthew and Luke’s Gospels, and from what we know of Jesus’ other preaching and teaching, we pretty well know what He said. He claimed to be their Savior, their Creator, their Lord. Jesus called the people sinners. He called them to repentance. He said that they belonged to Him because He was their Creator and He would be their Savior. Not only was Jesus making claims about Himself, He was making claims on them. And because of that message the people took offense at Him.

It was bad enough that Jesus was talking about Himself, but once He started talking about them, and accusing them – that was crossing the line!

You’ve heard people talk about this. You’ve heard the phrases: “Don’t force your morality on me.” “Don’t force your truth on me.” I’ve heard people say, “Pastor, don’t go there.” In other words, you can make claims on other people all you want. But don’t talk about my sin. Don’t tell me to repent. Don’t make claims on me – that’s crossing the line!

From Nazareth in Judea to Racine, Wisconsin, Jesus is okay as long as He thanks everyone for coming out and says all the right things. But start making claims on us – especially about our sin and our need for repentance, about our helplessness and rebellion, about our depravity and love for our pet sins, those things we know are wrong but we like so much ... nuh-uh. No way. That’s crossing the line. We’re offended.

Did you hear that? I mean, did you hear it? We’re the ones who are offended? Us, the ones who offend God by sinning against Him? We’re offended – the ones who love the things of this world more than we love God? We’re offended – the ones who misuse God’s name and don’t speak up for God because we’re afraid of what others are going to say about us? We’re offended – the ones who have God’s Word but neglect it and don’t even know what half of it says? We’re offended – the ones who have perverted God’s gift of sexuality and act more like animals? We’re offended – the ones who abort our children, who want to put down older folks because they’re in the way, who look to the government for everything instead of looking to God, and then wonder why our country is spiraling downward so quickly.

We’re offended – the ones who sing “Onward Christian Soldiers” on Sunday, then go AWOL on Monday. We’re offended – the ones who expect everything from God but then get upset with God when He expects things from us like worship, service, studying, witnessing and stewardship. We’re offended – the ones who like being members of a church, but don’t like the responsibilities that come with membership.

We’re offended?! Do we even hear how ridiculous we sound? We’re offended!? Who are really the offensive ones here? What kind of gall does it take to tell God, “God, don’t go there! You’re crossing the line. You’re not staying where you belong in my life!”

But, in a strange and twisted way, there is a truth there: that God did cross the line. The fact that He was there that day in Nazareth, and the fact that He is here this day, is evidence of the fact that God crossed the line. He crossed the line between God and man and became man. He crossed the line between perfection and sin and became sin. He crossed the line between life and death and the Author of Life died our death. God crossed the line of sin and death to reclaim us as His own. And so He came. He came and claimed our humanity. He came and claimed our sin. He came and claimed our punishment. He came and claimed our death and damnation. He came and claimed it all. That’s the cross! In the person of Jesus Christ, God came and crossed that line with us.

If we say to God, “God, don’t go there” – because we don’t want our sin exposed, because we don’t want to admit our guilt and rebellion, because we just want to feel good about ourselves – then we are really saying that we want to go there by ourselves! But if we go there by ourselves, we will never come back. Our sin, our guilt, our punishment, our offense, our death and damnation will consume us.

But God came and crossed the line with us, to bring us back. He crossed the line into death so that in His resurrection from death to life, we too could rise again, and be born again to a new life. A new life with our sin and guilt forgiven. A new life with all the punishment against our sin already handed out. A new life with all of our offenses against God gone. A new life with our death and damnation defeated. A new life in Christ Jesus where we are different than what we once were. We stop taking offense at Jesus and instead live in Him and His Word. We become familiar with the One who made us family.

We learn well today from God’s words to Ezekiel, from Paul’s words to Timothy, and Jesus’ words to those nasty Nazarenes, that preaching the message of God is not a popularity contest. The size of the crowd and the level of cheering is not what it is all about. Rather it is about being faithful in speaking God’s Word to particular people and specific situations. Sometimes that ruffles feathers. Sometimes familiarity breeds contempt. Sometimes people take offense. But we aren’t in the ministry for the glory. We are in the ministry to give glory to God. We aren’t about parades, except for the parade of saints in heaven. We shouldn’t be taking offense at God, for He is the One who did not take offense at weak-willed, consistent sinners like us. We shouldn’t allow familiarity to breed contempt, but rather thank God that Jesus is familiar enough with us to call us His brothers and sisters, His family. Jesus claimed us and now He makes claims of us. And though He did not pour out His blessings on the people of Nazareth, He continues to pour out His blessings on us every day unto eternity. Amen.