And he came to Nazareth, where he had been brought up. As was his custom, he went to the synagogue on the Sabbath day and 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 . . . Luke 4:16-17ff
He takes the scroll—
As was his custom: The hometown boy is back after some months away. Of course they recognize him; they know he’s responsible and reliable and understands how things are done around here. Without hesitation, the ruler of the synagogue offers him a chance to read.
He takes the scroll:
Standing, his head respectfully covered, his hands extended. They give him Isaiah; it’s no surprise. He knows exactly where to turn, almost to the end. The synagogue is very quiet, none of the usual rustling and whispering while a reader finds his place.
He takes the scroll, and reads
“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me . . .”
For centuries those words have laid dormant, wrapped in dusty parchment, dry with longing. He sets them free. They rise on his voice, spin silky threads, wrap around his shoulders like a priestly shawl with lightly fluttering fringes. They breathe. The words meet the Word, in the year of the Lord’s favor . . .
. . . because he has anointed me
to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives
and recovering of sight to the blind,
to set at liberty those who are oppressed,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.
He rolls up the scroll,
gives it back to its keeper, sits down, uncovers his head. The words remain, resting on his shoulders: “Fulfilled,” he says, and his voice admits no doubt. Still—“Isn’t this Joseph’s son?” As he speaks, their admiration turns to puzzlement and puzzlement to doubt and doubt to muttering. “Truly I say to you, no prophet is acceptable in his hometown.” Truly, prophesy is coming to fulfillment, but not in the ways you expect. Truly, the Lord is bigger than you thought. Truly, He is reaching out to the lost, the rejected, the lame, the blind–and some of these may find their way before you do. Muttering increases in volume, slowly becoming rage. Shouting, they rose up and drove him out of the town and brought him to the brow of the hill on which their town was built, so that they could throw him down the cliff. But passing through their midst, he went away.
The scroll remains.
Isaiah’s words, chiseled on the parchment as it always was and thus shall ever be. They’re not going anywhere, are they? Yet, the local rabbi, returning to straighten up after the excitement is over, can feel a change. Even as he wraps the scroll and stores it safely in the sacred box until the next Sabbath, he can’t shake this ridiculous thought that the words have, well . . . escaped. Scripture is on the loose, and it’s chasing after
Him.
For the original post in this series, go here.