Sunday Musings
What about those who don't go along with the mob?
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Today is the Third Sunday after the Epiphany.
The New Testament story in the lectionary this week is a familiar one to most Christians. It is from Luke 4. In the passage, Jesus speaks in his hometown synagogue. At first, his neighbors are amazed by his sermon. But then, in the verses that follow, they turn against him. An outraged mob attempts to throw him off a cliff.
The old adage, “a prophet is not welcome in his own hometown,” comes from this story.
And it is hard to think of a story more relevant to this week’s news.
Luke 4:14-21
Jesus, filled with the power of the Spirit, returned to Galilee, and a report about him spread through all the surrounding country. He began to teach in their synagogues and was praised by everyone.
When he 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.
He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives
and recovery of sight to the blind,
to let the oppressed go free,
to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor."
And he rolled up the scroll, gave it back to the attendant, and sat down. The eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed on him. Then he began to say to them, "Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing."
[Today’s lectionary selection ends here. But the story continues until Luke 4:30]
All spoke well of him and were amazed at the gracious words that came from his mouth. They said, ‘Is not this Joseph’s son?’ He said to them, ‘Doubtless you will quote to me this proverb, “Doctor, cure yourself!” And you will say, “Do here also in your home town the things that we have heard you did at Capernaum.” ’
And he said, ‘Truly I tell you, no prophet is accepted in the prophet’s home town”
[Jesus then refers to two Hebrew Bible stores — one of a widow, the other of a leper]. When they heard this, all in the synagogue were filled with rage. They got up, drove him 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 he passed through the midst of them and went on his way.
We begin today’s musing with a question:
A preacher gets up, quotes scripture, and reminds the gathered congregation that God loves the outcast — those in fear for their lives — the poor, prisoners, the disabled, and the oppressed.
In response, an outraged mob tries to kill the preacher.
Is this from the New Testament or The Washington Post?
Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.
It is a rare thing when a bible story is quite so vivid. As you most likely know, on Tuesday, Bishop Mariann Budde gave a sermon at the Washington National Cathedral prayer service in which she addressed the new president directly. She reminded him that mercy is a quality of leadership — and asked him to be merciful on the fearful, the poor, and the marginalized. (I wrote about that HERE, and provided links to the entire sermon.)
What happened next was sad — and dreadfully predictable in these days. She was attacked in the media (both cable and social media), including by the new president himself. There have even been calls for the government to seize the Cathedral in retribution.
Yesterday, twenty-one members of Congress filed a bill to condemn the bishop publicly and denounce her “distorted message.”
For the moment (at least), this is the contemporary equivalent of throwing the preacher off a cliff.
There will be many thousands of sermons preached on Luke 4 today. And, I suspect, that myriads of those preachers will connect the text to this week’s events. On social media, I suggested that this should be “Solidarity with Bishop Budde” Sunday! I imagine that many will focus on Jesus’ message about justice for the outcast and unwanted. And that, of course, weaves beautifully with Bishop Budde’s plea for mercy.
I hope millions will hear that message today. This Sunday we need to be reminded that Jesus’ first sermon was a sermon about prophetic justice — about dignity and mercy toward those whom society overlooks and abuses.
But I confess: my attention in this story wanders elsewhere.
I have another question. What about the onlookers?
The little word, “all,” appears three times in reference to the congregation.
The eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed on him.
All spoke well of him and were amazed at the gracious words that came from his mouth.
When they heard this, all in the synagogue were filled with rage.
At first, the congregation was transfixed. Then, they approved. But, after Jesus pushed the implications of his words further and challenged them, they turned on him.
The Greek word here is πᾶς (“pas”) which means “totality” or “universality.” It is translated as "all," "every," "whole," or "entire" in English. In this particular passage, scholars suggest that “pas” is hyperbolic. It does not refer to every single person in the congregation but the great majority of the group. When you look at the big picture, it appears to be “all.” But, in reality, “all” doesn’t always mean “all.”
Collectively the big group went from paying attention to praise to mob violence.
More questions: But what about the others? Those who didn’t go along with the mob? Who were they? Did they do anything in the moment?
We don’t really know. But we can imagine the untold part of the story.
I think of that quiet group in the synagogue with their friends and neighbors, shocked with Jesus’ authority and unable to turn their eyes from the young man they’d always known. Like the others present, they brimmed with pride of the local Nazarene becoming a spiritual celebrity.
But then, Jesus spoke directly to the congregation saying that God loved widows and those stricken with leprosy — implying that his neighbors had not treated widows and lepers justly. They praised God’s words about justice but were not acting on God’s command to enact mercy toward outcasts.
That’s when they “all” got angry and turned into a mob. At least, the majority of them didn’t want to hear this. They flew into a rage.
When they heard this, all in the synagogue were filled with rage. They got up, drove him 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 he passed through the midst of them and went on his way.
Jesus’ escape almost seems like a supernatural event — as if he simply walked away from the mob, parting the angry crowd like Moses at the Red Sea. A miracle!
But…I wonder…what if a few in the crowd helped protect him? What if the quiet minority made a path for him to “pass through the midst of them”?
What do you do when the mob turns ugly? When widows and lepers, when LGBTQ people and immigrants, are afraid and treated cruelly — and when a brave prophet calls out the self-righteous? What do you do when there’s a lynch mob or a cross-burning?
I suspect the unnamed heroes of this story stepped outside of the “all,” not willing to be part of the totality, and made a way for the intended victim to pass safely. Did they spot one another in the angry throng? A furtive glance, seeing another hesitant face across the room? Maybe they moved toward one another, hoping to keep each other safe. Did a few others notice the two and the small band then began to multiply? The “all” was furious; the few didn’t understand how it had come to this.
It was frightening for them; it must have been hard to go against their family, friends, and neighbors. As they followed the mob to bluff, they must have worried that if they spoke up they could be throw off, too. But instead of submitting to the tyranny of the “all,” maybe they formed a little alternative community in solidarity with each other. When Jesus was herded to the cliff, perhaps it was they who saw an opening — made an opening — and helped him escape. He passed through the midst of them and went on his way.
That is, indeed, a miracle. The bystanders find the courage to do something.
If Jesus needed that, so do we. Bishop Budde needs it, and so will many others. People we know. People we don’t. People on television and people in the shadows. In the next four years, we will need to summon the courage not to be part of the “all,” even when the temptation is strong. We must form squads of love and make a path through together…no matter how fearsome the mob.
And that’s the overlooked miracle of Luke 4: Only a community — even one that goes unnoticed in the crowd — the band that refuses to join the rabble — can keep us from going completely over the edge.
NEW BOOK ANNOUNCEMENT!
A BEAUTIFUL YEAR
COMING FALL 2025
Some good news in this hard week. My next book, A Beautiful Year: 52 Meditations on Faith, Wisdom, and Perseverance will be released later this year.
It explores the stories of the Christian year as a spiritual practice of resistance and resilience in difficult and uncertain times. Many — but not all — of the essays appeared here at The Cottage. You’ll find favorite reflections, revised musings, and brand new, never published mediations.
As I worked on the project, even I was surprised at how meaningful and interconnected the meditations are — a different frame makes them even richer than before! I experienced my own writing in a new way. Instead of individual pieces, they create a story and make a beautiful book that can be read and re-read to find strength for the journey.
We’re going to need beauty to make it though.
PREORDER AVAILABLE NOW. CLICK HERE for the book announcement and ordering options. (Preordering helps authors and publishers in advance of the release.)
INSPIRATION
I am writing not to send you light,
but to let you know you are not alone
in the darkness. I am here, too,
scribbling with no sight, no certainty
that the words on the page are legible,
no confidence you will receive this.
Still this impulse to reach out,
this longing to honor this deepening darkness,
though it is confusing, disorienting.
I find myself reminding myself
such darkness is natural, essential even,
and there is some comfort
in knowing this, in trusting I am part
of some great process, even though
it terrifies me. This is how the world
has been made and remade.
Of course we are no different
than stars. Perhaps you are not frightened.
But I am. Maybe this is why I reach out.
Because it takes so much courage
to trust the dark place, to attend to its demands,
to believe this is not the end, but a pause,
a stage between one world and another.
Please, don’t send me light either.
I don’t think I am ready yet, the pain still sharp,
not yet softened, not yet become wings,
though part of me longs to have already
arrived on the other side of transformation.
Perhaps you are reaching for me, too.
Perhaps you have already written
on this page, and because it is dark,
I can’t read what you’ve said.
Perhaps believing this makes me less alone.
And this is why I write.
— Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, “Letter to the Others in the Dark,” January 7, 2025
Thou shalt not be a victim, thou shalt not be a perpetrator,
but, above all, thou shalt not be a bystander.
―Yehuda Bauer
Some want to know what to do - I found a tiny place to start with Timothy Snyder's little book called Tyranny: 20 Lessons From the 20th Century. I've been giving away copies. Also there is an article in Sojourner Magazine Jan/Feb issue: 10 Ways to Ground Ourselves for What Comes Next by Daniel Hunter, which also references this book.
In the midst of the absurd maligning of a woman who dared to speak truth to power, what I find most amazing is that those who went on the attack against her were functioning from an actual inability to see the significance of defending the truth. They are the ones most in need of mercy for their actions have already spoken clearly about their inner condition. They know not what they do thinking what they are doing is justified when in fact it is criminal. The distinction is clear.