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St. Paul’s 2-3-2019 – EPIPHANY 4

You Can’t Go Home Again.  It’s the title of a 20th century American novel by Thomas Wolfe.  It’s also an apt title for this week’s Gospel story, a story in which Jesus returns to Nazareth, preaches in his childhood synagogue, infuriates his old friends and relations, and almost dies when they try to shove him over a cliff.  Apparently, it’s true: you can’t go home again.  Sometimes, the hometown boy won’t make good.

The story Luke tells is a strange one, full of emotional twists and turns. Within the space of ten verses, everything goes south.  Curiosity turns into contempt.  Delight gives way to hatred.  Worship morphs into violence.  Why?

I’ve spent the past week replaying the details in my head, trying to figure out exactly what went wrong. After all, when we left Jesus last week, things were looking pretty good.  He was center-stage amidst an admiring congregation, reading a beautiful passage from the prophet Isaiah about good news for the poor, freedom for the prisoner, sight for the blind, and justice for the oppressed.  Every eye in the synagogue was fixed on him, impressed by his gracious words and authoritive bearing.  Wasn’t this Joseph’s boy?  The carpenter’s kid with the iffy birth story?  Who would have thought he’d grow up to become a healer!  A preacher!  A miracle worker!  Their very own rising star.

It’s not difficult to imagine our way into the townspeople’s point of view.  Who knows how long they’d been waiting to welcome Jesus home?  To see for themselves the wonders they’d heard about via the grapevine?  That the heavens opened up in Jesus’s presence.  That water turned into wine.  That diseases disappeared and demons scattered to oblivion.  Surely, they must have thought, if their boy was willing to peddle miracles to perfect strangers out there,he’d do a hundredfold back here at home.  Among his kin.  His insiders.  His favorites.

But they were dead wrong. As far as I can tell, the story turns precisely when Jesus refuses to go home in the ways that matter most to his kin.  He refuses to be at home.  To stay at home.  To allow his home to define him.  Everything goes wrong when Jesus essentially says, I am not yours.  I don’t belong to you.  I am not yours to claim or contain.

He does this by citing God’s long history of prioritizing the outsider, the foreigner, the stranger. Elijah was sent to care for the widow at Zarephath, he reminds them.  He wasn’t sent to the widows of Israel.  Elisha was instructed to heal Naaman the Syrian, not the numerous lepers in Israel.  In other words, God has always been in the business of working on the margins.  Of crossing borders.  Of doing new and exciting things in remote and unlikely places.  Far from home.  Far from the familiar and the comfortable.  Far from the centers of power and piety.

As I meditated on the Gospel reading this week, I had to remind myself to linger (uncomfortably) at this point of provocation.  If Luke’s account is accurate, then Jesus is the one who pushes his own away in this story. He is the one who rejects their version of welcome, who refuses to abide by the tribalist claims of their hospitality. He is the one who overturns their notions of home and of God’s place in it.  You can’t go home,he basically tells them. You can’t hunker down and stay where you are, expecting God to hang out with you.  God is on the move.  God is doing a new thing.  God is speaking in places you don’t recognize as sacred, privileging voices you’re not interested in hearing, and saying things that will make your ears burn.  Can you handle it?  God is not yours. You are his.

What does this mean for us?  Maybe it means that if the Jesus we worship never offends us, then it’s not really Jesus we worship.  Yes, ouch. Remember, the Jesus Luke describes pushed so hard against his listeners’ cherished assumptions about faith, they nearly killed him. When was the last time Jesus made you that angry?  When was the last time he touched whatever it is you call holy — your conservatism, your progressivism, your theology, your denomination, your Biblical literacy, your prayer life, your politics, your wokeness — and asked you to look beyond it to find him?

I ask because the disconcerting truth about this week’s lection is that we — we the Church — are the modern day equivalent of Jesus’s ancient townspeople. We’re the ones who think we know Jesus best.  We’re the ones most in danger of domesticating him.  We’re the ones most likely to miss him when he shows up in faces we don’t recognize or revere.  What will it take to follow him into new and uncomfortable territory here in Far West Texas? To see him where we least desire to look?  To leave home?

Barbara Brown Taylor writes that disillusionment, even though it stings, is essential to the Christian life:  Disillusionment is, literally, the loss of an illusion — about ourselves, about the world, about God — and while it is almost always a painful thing, it is never a bad thing, to lose the lies we have mistaken for the truth.

Luke’s story this week calls us to disillusionment.  It calls us to leave home and find Jesus.  To choose movement over stasis, change over security.  So I wonder: how do I refuse to let others in my life grow and change?  When do I box them into identities that are narrow and constricting?  Where in my life do I try to “kill” the new and the unfamiliar, instead of leaning into newness with curiosity and delight?  Do I allow the people I am close to to become?  Do I allow myself to become?  Or do I cut myself and others off with expectations none of us can bear: “You will always be… small, weak, broken, insufficient, disappointing.  You will never outgrow… your background, race, family, upbringing, wounds, addictions.  You must always be… recognizable, accommodating, domesticated, mine.

And here at St. Paul’s in Marfa, Texas….How can we let go of those things that keep us tied to our past or what we are most comfortable doing as a church rather than helping us become more responsive to change? Do we believe God is calling this church into a new life or way of being in Marfa? What is the wilderness place in our church that is thirsty? What is one thing we might do as a congregation to allow God to fill that thirst.

As God called Jeremiah this morning, so God is calling St. Paul’s…..putting words in our mouths and visions in our hearts. God is on the move here in Marfa, Fort Davis and Alpine.  God is busy at the margins.  God is doing new things.  And God invites us to join him on the journey.  Are you ready?  Are you afraid?  Are you willing to try, anyway?  Okay.  That’s good enough.  Let’s go.

Let us pray

Gentle Us Open

Lord of Life and Light,

Help us not to fall in love

With the darkness that separates us

From you and from each other.

But to watch large-eyed, wide-hearted,

Open-handed, eager-minded for you,

To dream and hunger, and squint and pray

For the light of you and life of each other.

Lord, amidst our white-knuckled,

Furrow-faced busy-ness,

We realize deep within us that your gifts

Of mercy and light, peace and joy, grace upon grace,

Can be received only if we are unclenched open.

So this is our prayer, Lord: Open Us!

Gentle us open, pry, shock, tickle, beguile, knock,

Amaze, squeeze, any wily way you can us open.

Open us to see your glory

In the coming again of the light of each day,

The light in babies’ eyes and lovers smiles,

The light in the glaze of weariness that causes us to pause,

The light of truth wherever spoken and done.

Open us to songs of angels in the thumping of traffic,

In the rustle of shoppers, the canopy of pre-dawn silence,

In the hum of hope, the wail of longing within us,

In the cries of our brothers and sisters for justice and peace,

And in our own soul’s throb toward goodness.

Open us, then, to share the gifts you have given us

And to the deep yearning to share them gladly and boldly,

To sweat for justice, to pay the cost of attention,

To initiate the exchange of forgiveness,

To risk a new beginning free of past grievances,

To engage with each other in the potluck of joy

And to find the gifts of a larger love and deeper peace.

Open us, Lord to  miracles of the ordinary,

To the breath-giving, heart-pounding wonder of birth,

A mother’s fierce love, a father’s tender fidelities,

A baby’s barricade-dissolving burble and squeak,

That we may be born anew ourselves

Into the “don’t be afraid” fullness of your image,

The fullness of a just and joyful human community,

The fullness of your kingdom,

In the fullness of your time;

Through the eternal grace of

Your son, our brother Jesus.


 Opening Prayer
God who made all things

and is beyond our imagining

thank you for the gift of life

the gift of today

the gift of this space

Jesus Christ

who came into our world to be with us

thank you for your healing presence

your life

your friendship

Spirit of God

who animates us with the resurrection life of God

breathe on us

be in our midst

animate our worship

We’re here

You’re here

May that be enough

though we see dimly

though we know in part

though you are a mystery

we long for you

we look for you

we wait for you



God called great prophets,

and God calls us.

God is generous,

pouring out the gifts of grace and love

and the life-giving power of the Word for all people.

We respond with our renewed commitment to God’s vision,

and by giving our offerings to God.

Let us gather our gifts together

and offer them to God in gratitude and praise.


May your love not be jealous…

but be patient and kind.

May your love always be ready to trust, to hope

and to endure whatever comes.

May your faith, hope and love never come to an end.

And may the  blessing of God Almighty…..