proclaiming good news in the midst of national crises

When Jesus came to Nazareth, where he had been brought up, he went to the synagogue on the Sabbath day, as was his custom. He stood up to read, and the scroll of the prophet Isaiah was given to him. He unrolled the scroll and found the place where it was written:

"The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor… to set free those who are oppressed.”

…Jesus said to them, “There were many widows in Israel in the time of Elijah, when the heaven was shut up three years and six months and there was a severe famine over all the land, yet Elijah was sent to none of them except to a widow at Zarephath in Sidon. There were also many with a skin disease in Israel in the time of the prophet Elisha, and none of them was cleansed except Naaman the Syrian.” 

When they heard this, all in the synagogue were filled with rage.  They got up, drove Jesus out of the town, and led him to the brow of the hill on which their town was built, so that they might hurl him off the cliff. But Jesus passed through the midst of them and went on his way. (Excerpts from Luke 4)

As I read this Scripture today, the image that comes to mind is a moment of preaching that has been spread across the news recently. Many of you may have seen it: the massive carved pulpit that takes center stage of the Washington National Cathedral, where Bishop Mariann Budde stood and preached at Tuesday’s inaugural prayer service for the new president.

In images of the service, the pulpit was decked with flowers; Bishop Budde was layered in a white and red robe and a black stole. It was an impressive and intimidating sight. Perhaps more intimidating was the president himself sitting seven feet below her, watching the service. Bishop Budde preached the sermon she had been planning for months, a sermon about unity. 

Then she read the words she had written just hours before as a last minute addition. Although her voice was gentle and measured, I imagine her whole body was trembling. She read: 

“Let me make one final plea, Mr. President. Millions have put their trust in you, and as you told the nation yesterday, you have felt the providential hand of a loving God. In the name of our God, I ask you to have mercy on the people in our country who are scared now.”

She went on to speak of the immigrants, refugees, and queer and transgender children who now fear for their lives and families, and pleaded with the president to have compassion and mercy.

As someone who preaches every week, I can imagine how she must have felt as the looks on the faces of those listening began to change–as people shook their heads, frowned, muttered to those next to them. I imagine she must have felt afraid and questioned whether she was saying the right thing. Surely she too has had this conversation over and over, as seminary mentors advised her not to rock the boat too much, as colleagues wrestled with her over how to speak truth in a way that people would actually be willing to hear. Preaching is always a balancing act of holding true to your values and honoring the context you are in, and that particular context was a near-impossible one. 

In a way, it feels like a modern-day parallel to the story of Jesus preaching that we read today. Jesus goes back to his home congregation, the one that raised him, and he reads a powerful Scripture from Isaiah:

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives… to set free those who are oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor.”

It is, in my mind, a brief summary of what the Gospel is all about: about good news for those who are suffering, those who have been forgotten, those who have been shoved to the margins of society. It is a message of joy and liberation and welcome and inclusion. It is, truly, the best news.

At first Jesus’ community responds as if it is the best news. They are excited, thrilled to hear such good news from the Jesus they raised. They ask each other–can this really be the Jesus we knew when he was in diapers? 

And then Jesus turns this Scripture into a sermon. He says: “Doubtless you will quote to me this proverb, ‘Doctor, cure yourself!’” This proverb makes no sense to us today because it’s not a saying we use anymore. But in Jesus’ context, this saying was about doctors who are capable of healing, yet allow themselves or their communities to continue to be sick. It implies that doctors should not just heal outsiders or strangers, but also take care of themselves, their families, and their friends.

And then Jesus says–surely you are going to ask me as a healer to heal my own community too. You are going to ask me to do the same healing miracles that I have done in other towns. But… he says, and he pauses. Then Jesus tells two stories in his very brief sermon. 

The first story is about how, during the time of the prophet Elijah, there was a great famine and many widows were hungry. But, Jesus says, God did not send Elijah to help any of the Israelite widows; God sent Elijah to help a foreign woman in Lebanon. In the second story, Jesus tells of how during the time of the prophet Elisha, many Israelites suffered from skin diseases–yet God sent Elisha to heal a Syrian man instead. In both of these stories, God sends healing to foreigners–to outsiders–rather than to the people of Israel.

It’s a bit of a strange sermon, right? Jesus is essentially saying: I know you’re going to ask me for the healing miracles that I’ve done in other places. I know that you think this good news is about you, the people of Israel, specifically–that I’ve come to bring freedom for you, and revenge to all the other nations who have hurt you. But you’re wrong. The good news I’m sharing is much bigger than that, much bigger than your national identities and borders. 

Upon hearing this sermon, Jesus’ community–his family and friends–are so upset that they try to drive him off a cliff. Which, honestly, is the worst response to a sermon that I can imagine. And it’s not entirely different from the response that Bishop Budde got to her sermon, as the president called her “nasty” and “not smart”, and as members of his team suggested that she be put on the deportation list. Bishop Budde knows something about being driven off a cliff.

We might think: Maybe Jesus should have been a little more careful! Surely he should have known how attached his community was to their national identity, to being Israelite, to being God’s chosen people. Maybe it would have been better if he hadn’t challenged them.

But Jesus believes that his people’s intense attachment to their national identity is actually preventing them from fully understanding and embracing the Gospel. It is preventing them from understanding that God’s kingdom is not about the people of Israel. God’s kingdom is not about any human nation. In fact, the Gospel calls us to set aside our national loyalties because our commitments are first and foremost to the kingdom of God. 

This is an important conversation in this moment. In our nation, we are divided over who is one of us and who is not, who belongs and who must be expunged. In congregations across the country, we are navigating the conversation of how our national identity shows up in church life, in whether and how we talk about politics.

In my own life, I am wrestling with what it means to be a pastor and a preacher in a nation where millions of my fellow citizens believe that transgender people like me should not be pastors, should not have healthcare, should not be protected from discrimination, and perhaps should not even exist. 

Yet, even though the news is frightening, this Scripture from Luke chapter 4 gives me hope. Because if God’s kingdom is bigger, more powerful, more enduring than any human nation, it means that God’s reign will prevail no matter what happens in the news. If Jesus was promising good news for the poor and oppressed two thousand years ago, surely he is still promising it now. Surely that promised year of the Lord’s favor, the arrival of God’s reign of justice and peace, is still coming. And when it comes, it will have nothing to do with any of our human nations or governments. 

No matter how the nations rise or fall, no matter what we see in the news, the good and just reign of God will endure. May we hold onto this good news no matter what national news we see in the coming weeks.