NOTES for Luk 4:16

In the Synagogue, already in the era of the Second Temple, a custom had developed: every believing Jew could read and comment on the Torah during worship. This custom later passed from synagogue practice into church practice, so that both in the earliest Christian and in early Christian times there were church preachers who were neither deacons nor presbyters nor bishops, but belonged to that active core of the church community without which the Church in those days was unthinkable.

There was such an active core in the Synagogue as well. In Judea, and in Palestine generally, in Gospel times it usually consisted of members of the Pharisaic brotherhood, to which many synagogues belonged. In such synagogues, the brotherhood included the overwhelming majority of the parishioners, and naturally the council of elders and the synagogue rabbinate as well. The Pharisees were active preachers and missionaries, and preaching was constantly heard in their synagogues; if not everyone preached, then very many did. But in general, any believing Jew could give a sermon if he had something to say.

It appears that Jesus made use of this opportunity. He, of course, immediately spoke about the Messiah and the messianic Kingdom, since in the synagogues at that time the corresponding passage from the Book of Isaiah was being read. His speech consisted not in words, but in eloquent silence. After reading the text, He said nothing more and simply sat down. In doing so, He was letting those present understand that He had nothing to say: He is here, He has come, and that is all He wanted to communicate to the people gathered there.

In fact, very often an encounter with Christ happens just like this: He simply stands before a person and is silent. He lets Himself be seen, determining nothing in advance, demanding nothing, insisting on nothing, and trying to convince no one of anything. A person is free to choose, and he must choose for himself. Face to face with the Messiah who has appeared to the world. As then in Nazareth.

Throughout two thousand years of Christian history, theologians and philosophers have debated what Christianity is and where its novelty lies. They have spoken of a new type of religion, new theological approaches, and a new morality. Yet the Gospel evidently offers us nothing new, and Jesus' preaching in the synagogue at Nazareth is the best proof. He simply reads a Messianic prophecy from the Book of Isaiah and then says: now all this has been fulfilled—evidently referring to Himself. This is the whole meaning of Christianity and the entire content of the new covenant: the Messiah promised by God through the prophets has come and brought the Kingdom that God likewise promised through those same prophets. Christianity has no other meaning and no other spiritual content.

Why, then, have so many theologians, philosophers, preachers, and simply those usually called “ordinary Christians” today sought this meaning for so long and continued to seek it? Perhaps everything is too complicated and the new revelation needs numerous explanations and commentaries? Hardly. Rather, it is too simple, sometimes frighteningly so: simply the Messiah, simply the Kingdom, simply new life in that Kingdom together with Him. And this simplicity devalues much of what existed before, both spiritually and intellectually.

This is not surprising, for in all the philosophy, theology, and religion that existed before and still exists today there is much that is human: not only sincere searching, since one who sincerely seeks answers rejoices when they are found, but also what is now called “self-expression,” and sometimes more or less open self-assertion. In the light of Christ and the Kingdom, all this—including, to a considerable extent, religiosity itself—turns out to be unnecessary ballast. No wonder it causes confusion! Then begin the “explanations” of Christianity, whose only task, though those doing the explaining do not always realize it, is to squeeze the Messiah and the Kingdom into familiar earthly frameworks—explanations that contrast sharply with the Savior's preaching in the synagogue at Nazareth.

The Lord proclaimed the fulfillment of the prophecy. The acceptable year of the Lord had come. But where is it? Why do we see the opposite, that the world still lies in evil, that the unjust are exalted and the just are trampled down? Then it is not so. The prophecy did not come true. How can we accept the thought that the Lord's prophecy did not come true?!

Two things can be said in response to these doubts. The first, and apparently very important, is that the concept of "prophecy" must not be understood narrowly or in a utilitarian way. Fortune-tellers claim to tell you your fate, "what will happen." It would be more accurate to call prophecy a revelation of God's will. But there is also human will. God is not a conductor, and the world is not a stage, because everything happens in the complex interaction of two wills: the human and the divine. The Lord took His step and fulfilled what He had promised; after that, it was up to our will to accept it or not accept it. We did not accept it. And if we had accepted it, without question everything described in Isa. 61 would already have reigned on earth for two thousand years. But we did not accept it; we ourselves did not want to, or more precisely, we were not yet ready.

And second: there were people who did accept it. Yes, and precisely for that reason the prophecy did come true after all. That is why Theophan the Recluse writes: "The Lord came not only to announce the acceptable year, but also brought it. Where is it? In the souls of believers."

The year of the Lord's favor, or the year of the Lord's mercy in another translation, is what Jesus came to announce to us. Under the pressure of difficult circumstances in life, we often forget that the true purpose of His coming is precisely this. And that this year has already been brought into the world by Him, although for now it remains hidden. What is it? Where can it be seen?

Perhaps today's Gospel passage itself serves as the answer to this question. Christ passed through the hardest trials in the wilderness, endured them, and came to possess some special power, some special peace, radiating uncreated light. We understand this from the reaction of the people in the synagogue, who had come to an ordinary Sabbath gathering. The reaction was unexpectedly fitting, which was rare with Him in the synagogue, at least at first. Yes, later they were filled with rage, but at first they "bore witness to Him." Perhaps in that brief opening moment He in some especially obvious way manifested the year of the Lord's favor in Himself.

Yes, but that is Him; what about us? Let us remember a time when we honestly prepared ourselves, fasted, prayed with some special strength, then came to the liturgy, brought our repentance to the Lord, received the Holy Mysteries of Christ, and... do we not feel the year of the Lord's mercy in our soul at that time? Perhaps it is exactly like that.

In the ancient world, “to proclaim good news” meant bringing news of victory over an enemy. By choosing this word to describe His mission, Jesus tells His astonished fellow townspeople that God has sent Him as a herald of His victory, of the coming of His eternal Kingdom. But He goes beyond referring to the biblical prophecy—and this is especially shocking to His listeners: when quoting Isaiah, Jesus omits the words about “the vengeance of our God” (Isa 61:2) and denies the Israelites' superiority over the Gentiles in the coming Kingdom. In addition to victory over the forces of evil, manifested in the healing of the possessed man, Christ brings news of victory over vengeance and hatred. This victory was won by the Lord Jesus Himself and must be won by everyone who wishes to be His disciple.

Today's reading prompts us to reflect on the truth expressed in a well-known saying whose Gospel origin, however, is far from universally known today: no prophet is accepted in his own country (v. 24). By quoting a messianic passage from the Book of Isaiah, Jesus quite plainly identifies Himself as the One of whom the prophet spoke (vv. 17-21). At first glance, His listeners' reaction seems paradoxical: on the one hand they agree with Jesus, but on the other they immediately begin to doubt. How could their fellow townsman, whom they had known since childhood, make any claim to be the Messiah (v. 22)? They demand miracles from Him not as signs of the Kingdom but as proof of His messiahship (v. 23). It is then that Jesus speaks the bitter words about a prophet in his own country (v. 24).

Yet the paradoxical reaction of Jesus' listeners was actually quite understandable, and not merely because “great things are best seen from a distance.” The issue here was ordinary familiarity, which often proves to be one of the most serious obstacles on the spiritual path. Their doubts are justified, not by chance, with the thought that they have known Him since childhood: “Is not this Joseph's son?” So how could there be any question of messiahship? Of course, if Jesus had been recognized by respected people or official authorities and they had directly identified Him as the Messiah, He would undoubtedly have been welcomed with joy and celebrated as a famous fellow townsman. But there was no official recognition, and the townspeople had to decide for themselves. The force of habit weighed upon them.

Fallen human beings tend to see reality not as it is but as they are accustomed to seeing it. Clichés are common and widespread, and they arise for a reason: reducing reality to patterns and using ready-made models to describe it form a kind of psychological mechanism by which human beings adapt to the world—a mechanism without which, after the Fall, they can no longer manage. Yet this same adaptive mechanism often prevents a person from seeing what is new and unusual. It offers ready-made patterns and models where they do not apply, where the realities involved fit no pattern and can be described by no model.

The Kingdom to which Jesus bears witness is just such a reality. It fits no familiar framework. Yet Jesus' fellow townspeople do not want to lose that framework; they are prepared to defend it at any cost, and Jesus simply will not fit within it: an unrecognized Messiah, a disturber of the peace, someone passing Himself off as no one knows whom and claiming what no one in their small town had ever claimed or would ever have dared to claim. This is how He appeared to the people of Nazareth. They were left with only one remedy: to rid themselves of their excessively troublesome fellow townsman. And they would have done so if they could (vv. 28-30).

As we can see, it is not only the hatred of religious rigorists and the maneuvering of politicians that lead Jesus to the cross. He is driven there also by the narrowness of fallen human nature.

In Christ the prophecy was fulfilled. But whom is it speaking about? It is still possible to understand why healing is given to the broken, release to captives, and sight to the blind. But why is joy promised only to the poor, and freedom only to the oppressed? And what does that have to do with me? Of course, I am sometimes oppressed, but not all the time!

It is no wonder that not everyone in the synagogue reacted properly... Or should we still try to reread this passage once more and try to enter into the meaning of these words, to discover in ourselves the need, the thirst for freedom and healing? Otherwise Jesus will have to go to another town again...

The problem of insiders and outsiders has always existed, in every society and every culture. Everywhere and always it has turned out that it is better to be an insider than an outsider. But then the Messiah came into the world, and it turned out that everything was not so simple. It turned out that an insider is not necessarily someone we know. Most often it is someone we think we know. And this is understandable: we perceive our own people as part of the familiar and known world. There is no need to look closely at them, and no need to listen carefully to their words. In general, we already know more or less what our own people can tell us.

Outsiders are another matter. An outsider is always someone you do not know. Someone who is not part of the known and familiar world, and here it does not matter where he is from: another continent or the neighboring village. Outsiders are often rejected, but they are always looked at closely. People listen to what they say. Not necessarily in a friendly way, but always attentively. After all, an outsider has to be understood. Or at least explained to oneself. Explanation is often an illusion of understanding. Understanding presupposes the perception of another person as he is. Explanation begins when we perceive this other person as we want to see him, so that he will fit within the bounds of our perception of the world familiar and known to us.

Christ can and must be accepted as He is. And He can and must be understood too - also as He is. But He does not need to be explained. Not to ourselves and not to others. Provided, of course, that we want to communicate with Christ and not with our images of Christ. And here it turns out that it is easier for those to whom He is an outsider. They know nothing about Him. His own people also know nothing about Him, but they think they know everything. Unlike outsiders, who at least are not mistaken about their ignorance. And it is this way not only with Him.

It is this way with God too. With His heavenly Father. It is no accident that Jesus gives examples from ancient Jewish history of God's not being recognized by His own people. A failure to recognize Him that separates people from God. And from the Messiah too. For God or the Messiah to begin to act, a person must want it. And must turn directly to God. Directly to Christ. But not to those images of God or Christ that he has invented for himself. Otherwise even the Kingdom may turn out to be unreal. Imagined. And so may life in it.