Homilies

When we hear this familiar Gospel story—especially the words, “no prophet is accepted in his own native place”—we often think of the old saying: familiarity breeds contempt. And certainly, that is part of what’s happening here. The people who have known Jesus since childhood cannot believe he is someone extraordinary. But there is something deeper at play.

In this passage, Jesus brings Israel’s history to the forefront. Throughout their history, God’s people have often misunderstood their relationship with him. They believed that because God chose them, he owed them something—that blessings and protection were guaranteed simply because they were his chosen people. They even voiced it aloud at times: “The temple is here, so surely God will protect us.” Yet repeatedly, God reminded them that being chosen does not create obligations for God; rather, it places responsibilities upon his people. Israel was chosen for holiness, chosen to cultivate a genuine relationship with God, chosen to faithfully follow him. Their privilege was matched by a profound responsibility, and they frequently struggled with this reality. Instead of responding with holiness, they relied on entitlement, believing God had to protect and bless them simply because they were chosen.

Whenever tragedy strikes, our first impulse is to search for meaning. We want explanations: Why did this happen? Who is to blame? We instinctively wonder if suffering is punishment for wrongdoing. Yet, Jesus sharply challenges this notion, asking, “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were greater sinners than all other Galileans?” His response is clear: tragedy is not a measure of guilt.

In our lives, we frequently see evil or tragedy as signs of divine judgment or abandonment. But God does not operate in this way. The fallen tower of Siloam was not a judgment upon the victims, nor was Pilate’s cruelty proof of their sinfulness. Rather, these events reveal something profoundly different—our world, wounded and broken, yet waiting to be healed.

I have always found the structure of this parable striking. At first glance, the details seem to emphasize the contrast between wealth and poverty and our obligation to care for the poor. Perhaps they even hint at the reality of hell. Yet, by the time we reach the conclusion, it becomes clear that the true focus is on listening to the word of God. That is the heart of the parable: the call to hear and respond to God’s word, for it is in listening that true transformation occurs.