The Surprise Of Not Knowing Each Other
Marco Pozza - The excitement of that day quickly turned to shock. He, Christ of Nazareth, returns to the village, like the most grateful sons who have become someone on the paths of life. He returns having become a man: "How handsome this son of Mary has become!" some woman may have said at the crossroads of Nazareth, the town that saw the God come as a child and go his way in his thirties.
Furthermore, he has already begun to hang out in the synagogues-which, however, will not be his favorite place as much as the rutted streets, the crossroads poor in beauty, the sleepy stories about certain people have already noticed that his Word stings, caresses, scratches: "He taught in their synagogues, and all gave him praise." So that no one would say that he had gone everywhere except to his native land, "he came to Nazareth, where he had grown up, and, according to his custom, on the Sabbath day he entered the synagogue and stood up to read."
The evangelist does not photograph him just anywhere, at the mercy of any ear: he pinches him in his own country, in his own home, among his own people. On hearing them, each of Him tells you about an episode featuring him: "I saw him jumping the ditch that time. I, on the other hand, walked with his Mother. It was he who, at that time, handed me the stool repaired in the workshop. We have known him since he had no beard hair yet.
On the other hand, we can say that we went to Jerusalem with our people on Easter.
My little girl - a poor little girl - had fallen in love with the gaze of that beautiful Son who was already promising." And so on: each one reckoned with the memories that a beautiful person rekindled. Seeing him as an adult, many remembered his youth. How good it is to return to one's country. How abstruse it is to return to one's country when, for thirty years, you've been shedding mucus and smiles, tears and blood, sweat, and calluses. When Christ returns, however, he wears the trappings of the mature man: he is no longer the handsome Son who promised well; he is the promise that has become history. Suddenly, it is before everyone's eyes: "Today, this Scripture you have heard has been fulfilled."
The Scripture he had just finished proclaiming, before rolling up the volume, "The Spirit of the Lord is upon me; he has anointed me, he has sent me to bring the good news to the poor." And then reasons for hope for the captives, the blind, the oppressed. "What a stroke of good fortune those people had to hear these words proclaimed by the voice of the One whose words the words themselves spoke," more than a few will think about who was in the synagogue. It didn't quite work out that way. Sure, there was the wonder of those who were bewildered by that announcement, but there was also awkwardness on the part of those who were faced with that announcement and would have no more excuses.
It is one thing to sidle up to those who hope for something to come; it is another to come to terms with that something when it comes along suddenly. And, placing itself in front of you, it says, "Here I am. Now, how do we put it? For years you've been saying, 'Starting tomorrow, I'm changing my life!' and you've never changed it.
Today is the day." In the Gospels, this is what hope looks like: when it comes true, it does so in an unpredictable way. It catches you by surprise: you are not the one who catches it, but it catches you.
Here it is: "The eyes of all were fixed on him." That will not be enough. It will end badly on that day that he was born having all the preconditions to end in the best possible way: in Nazareth, his villagers will laugh in his face hearing him say things like "today that Scripture you have heard has been fulfilled" (cf. Lk. 4:14-21). Returning to the places that saw you as a child is always a colossal risk: the risk that everyone will say that "they already know everything about you" and not let you have a chance to show the prodigy that you are. Christ, therefore, has to deal with the prejudices of the villagers: "We already know everything about him, what else can he tell us that we don't already know." He might tell us, for example, that "pain is nothing but the surprise of not knowing ourselves" (A. Merini) of not knowing ourselves fully.
The author has not revised the text and its translations.
