Today’s Gospel scene sets before us the mystery of the Lord’s attractive power, and also, immediately conjoined to that, the mystery of his rejection. We have here an illustration of the truth stated by St. John in his Prologue: He was the light that came into the darkness of our world, and the darkness could not comprehend it. He came to his own, but his own received him not (Jn 1:5,11).
All the Gospel writers bear witness to the Lord’s enormous attractive power. People from all over, and from every class of society, would travel long distances to see him. Wherever he went, great crowds followed. When he spoke, people hung on his words. They entrusted to him their sick, they boldly asked him for help when all other hope seemed gone; in his presence, they easily forgot about their need of food and drink. Some left everything they had in order to follow wherever he went: if necessary, as they asserted, even to death.
There have been others in history who had a similar power, some of them clearly of diabolical origin. But the power of Jesus was not diabolical. As St. Luke says, his words were gracious. They appeal not to what is worst in us, but to what is best. They are filled not with boastful pride, but with humility. Yet also they carry total authority and conviction; and on being tested, all of them are found to be true.
The Gospel writers don’t ever dwell on the physical appearance of Jesus, but many mystics in the history of the Church do. Jesus was beautiful morally, spiritually, intellectually, physically. He was wise, just, merciful, strong. So he must have been immediately attractive also in appearance. His immaculate purity, his sinless goodness, his divine holiness, his human perfection must have been manifested externally: at least to a degree. There was about him a sort of magnetic if hidden power, a majesty, a mystery: far beyond what is normal. On the other hand, in manner Jesus was perfectly natural. He made no effort whatever to stand on his dignity. He was approachable, open, gentle, welcoming, kind. So for the mystics, even to catch a brief glimpse of some part of him was to be ravished out of their senses in joy. Of course also to the sinner or to the demon he could be consuming fire. When the veil was lifted momentarily aside at the Transfiguration, the three disciples present could not bear the light shining from his face. On the road to Damascus, St. Paul was blinded by that light. He heard the voice of Jesus also: and his life could never be the same again.
But then we have a deeper mystery, which is the rejection of Jesus by people to whom all this beauty has been made manifest. In that synagogue at Nazareth, as St. Luke tells it, after the initial enthusiasm, something snapped. All of a sudden the attitude of the people turned completely. The issue seems to have been their status: or we might say, their problem with jealousy, envy, wounded pride. Since Jesus belonged to them, they thought that special privileges must be their due. Not just plenty of miracles, at need, or at call. No: they deserved to have their obscure and wretched little village raised up to suitable heights of prestige, fame and glory. Their home-grown Prophet should certainly not waste his energies elsewhere; far less for the benefit of mere gentiles, or other unclean outsiders. But Jesus would not conform to their expectations. So he must be a charlatan; worse, a blasphemer, bringing not honour but shame on them all. Very quickly, then, the adoring crowd turned into a lynch mob.
The scene that followed is reminiscent of the stoning of St. Stephen in Acts, or later the stoning of St. Paul in Lystra. Please note the sordid aspect of it all. Here was no cool-headed judicial decision, nor any reasoned argument, but only but screaming violence, urgency, chaos, confusion, murderous intent.
We have here already, then, at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, a foretaste of his crucifixion. But this was not yet his hour, and he walked away. How on earth did he manage that? I’m reminded of St. John’s account of the arrest in Gethsemani, when at a word of Jesus the armed mob fell back in dismay. At Nazareth, Jesus avoided death, because he chose to. At Calvary, he chose not to avoid it.
Allow me, in this light, to point out once again how horrible the execution of Jesus was. How could they do such things to this beautiful, good, gentle, loving, holy, innocent man? They scream abuse at him, they spit in his face, they mock him with heavy sarcasm, they beat him, humiliate him, flog him, cram sharp thorns on his head, drive nails through his flesh, then hang him up to endure unimaginably cruel torture until finally his sufferings ended in death. Yet, we believe, we know: precisely here, most of all, there is manifested the beauty, the graciousness, the power of Jesus. Here above all the scriptures are fulfilled, and the saving mission of Jesus is accomplished.
How do we apply the scene at Nazareth to our own lives?
Well: we must know that whenever we choose to sin, practically speaking we reject Jesus, and condone his destruction. Whenever we forget him, or fail to be impressed by him, that is because we have closed our ears, and turned away our eyes, and allowed our gaze to be clouded over, so that we no longer see or hear what is before us.
But we don’t want to sin! We don’t want to condemn or crucify Jesus! So, to take the opposite path: we deliberately choose to gaze steadfastly and regularly at his face; to be entranced by his beauty; to delight simply to be in his presence. We do this above all in the prayer of silent contemplation, and attention, and adoration, and love. We listen attentively to his words, especially as they come to us through holy scripture. And we deliberately choose to stand with Jesus, to receive his teaching, to identify ourselves with him, even to die with him, or for him: rather than ever to join that mob, baying for his blood.