Luke
13:10-17
10 Now he was teaching in one
of the synagogues on the sabbath. 11 And just then there appeared a woman with
a spirit that had crippled her for eighteen years. She was bent over and was
quite unable to stand up straight. 12 When Jesus saw her, he called her over
and said, "Woman, you are set free from your ailment." 13 When he
laid his hands on her, immediately she stood up straight and began praising
God. 14 But the leader of the synagogue, indignant because Jesus had cured on the
sabbath, kept saying to the crowd, "There are six days on which work ought
to be done; come on those days and be cured, and not on the sabbath day."
15 But the Lord answered him and said, "You hypocrites! Does not each of
you on the sabbath untie his ox or his donkey from the manger, and lead it away
to give it water? 16 And ought not this woman, a daughter of Abraham whom Satan
bound for eighteen long years, be set free from this bondage on the sabbath
day?" 17 When he said this, all his opponents were put to shame; and the
entire crowd was rejoicing at all the wonderful things that he was doing.
Eighteen years is a long time to do anything. It’s a long
time to own a car (at least one you drive every day), a long time to keep a
pair of pants, a long time to use the same lawnmower. It’s a long time to do
the same job; granted, lots of people work for the same company for a lot
longer, but to do the exact same job for eighteen years…that’s a long time.
Eighteen years is a long time to do anything, but it can especially feel like a
long time to wait.
I can remember when I was a kid being told that once I
turned eighteen I would be an “adult,” that I’d be free to move out of the
house, get a job, join the military, vote, get a loan, and all sorts of other
“grown-up” things. Even when I was twelve, though, eighteen seemed like it was
centuries away. I can imagine eighteen years is a long time to wait, because
I’m sure the sixteen years between Return
of the Jedi and The Phantom
Menace felt like ages to thousands of Star
Wars fans. You better believe eighteen years sounds like a life sentence
when the judge’s gavel falls and the sentence is handed down: when it’s
measured in hash marks scratched on a cinderblock wall, I bet eighteen years feels
like forever. Eighteen
years is a long time to have to do anything, a long time to have to wait, and
it’s a long time to spend stopped over, unable to even stand up straight.
That’s how long Luke tells us this nameless woman in our
text this morning had suffered with this crippling spirit. For eighteen years
she learned people by the site of their feet. For eighteen years she recognized
where she was going by the cracks in the ground and the way the path was worn
smooth. For eighteen years she’d been wracked with pain, unable to stand and
greet her loved ones with a hug, unable to look another human being in the eye.
For eighteen years she was stooped over: children would have grown up to have
their own children in that time, friends would have died, and people would have
moved in and out of her life. For eighteen years she suffered through the pain,
and to you and I that sounds like a long time, but in a day with a much lower
life-expectancy, eighteen years could have been half her life, and she spent it
stooped over in pain, unable to stand.
Eighteen years is a long time to wait for a healing rabbi
to show up at the synagogue, but that’s about how long it took before Jesus
showed up one day to teach in her local synagogue that Sabbath day. I wonder if
it was on the sign out front: “This Sabbath, special guest rabbi, Jesus of
Nazareth. Bring a friend.” I wonder if it had made the gossip circles: “You
know, Jesus is going to be at the synagogue this Sabbath.” “Good, ‘cause I’m
not sure I can sit through another one of Rabbi Chris’s sermons without passing
out!” I wonder if Jesus just showed up that Sabbath and was asked to teach. I
know that’s how some small, old churches do it: a preacher shows up just to
visit the church one Sunday, but when the pastor sees the guest preacher in the
pews, he begs him to come up and preach that morning (maybe because the
pastor’s unprepared, or maybe because he’d like to show folks how bad it can
be—I’m never really sure). Maybe the rabbi of that synagogue saw Jesus in the
back with his disciples, and during the announcements asked if Jesus might give
the lesson that morning.
I’m not really
sure how it came to be, but my guess is this woman wasn’t a first time guest, a
curious passerby sticking her crippled head in the door to see what’s
happening. No, it’s very likely this woman had been a regular at the synagogue,
and she was surely a regular in the community (I wouldn’t doubt f folks there
knew her simply as “the woman with the bent back”). That means, for at least
eighteen years this woman had darkened the door of the synagogue. For eighteen
years, folks in that place had done business with her, had crossed paths with
her in the streets, and they had seen her in the marketplaces and other spots
in the community. For eighteen years, this woman had lived in this community
and been a part of it, though I don’t doubt that folks kept their distance.
After all, she had “a spirit,” and folks with a spirit weren’t the kind of
folks good, religious people were supposed to be around.
I imagine that
Sabbath, this woman took a seat in the back, among the other women, a place
where women could be seen (sometimes) but never heard, never acknowledged. I
imagine she stared at the ground, as trying to strain towards the sound of the
rabbi’s voice would inevitably cause cramps, cricks, and all sorts of pain. I’m
quite sure it startled her when she heard Jesus call her name (a name,
unfortunately forgotten by the time Luke hears the story). I do wonder, though,
what went through her mind when he said to her, "Woman, you are set free
from your ailment." In that brief moment, did she think to
herself, “who is this guy who thinks he can erase eighteen years of pain in a
matter of mere moments?” She doesn’t have long to question Jesus before he lays
his hands on her and “immediately she stood up straight and began
praising God.”
Now, I can hear
all the thoughts bouncing around in that synagogue that morning. Can’t you?
“Praise God! That woman done got healed! It’s a miracle!” “I bet it was staged!
You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before anyway.” “It’s fake! I saw
her yesterday over at the Wal-Marts buying shampoo—off the top shelf!” Yes, I’m
sure there were believers and doubters there in that synagogue, just as there
are anytime the Spirit of God moves, but one thing I do know—the religious
folks didn’t like it one bit!
“[T]he leader
of the synagogue, indignant because Jesus had cured on the sabbath, kept saying
to the crowd, ‘There are six days on which work ought to be done; come on those
days and be cured, and not on the sabbath day.’" What an odd thing to say.
Seriously, listen to what he says to the crowd again: “There are six days on which work
ought to be done; come on those days and be cured, and not on the sabbath day.”
Who is he indignant towards? Who is he mad at? Sounds to me like he’s mad at
the crowd, at the woman, at Jesus—at everybody! Why? Because healing took place
on the Sabbath, when there are obviously six other days for such things to be
taken care of. He, in effect, says, “Come back when we’re not having church if
you want to be cured; don’t bother us with your needing to be freed from a
spirit of oppression on this holy day when we are too busy reflecting on God’s
freeing of our people from the oppression of Pharaoh…come back when we’re aloud
to heal you, when our religion doesn’t prevent us from making you whole again.”
I can help but think that there was even a thought or two that sounded
something like, “She’s been bent over like that for eighteen years and she
can’t wait until Monday to get cured!”
Why is the
leader of the synagogue so ill? What’s really
caused him to be indignant? Perhaps he was genuinely upset that the Sabbath
laws had been broken. I could understand that. Rules are rules for a reason,
especially religious rules. We have to keep the Sabbath holy after all. I mean,
God rested from work on the Sabbath, shouldn’t we also rest? As a minister, I’m
often shocked by the contradictory nature of such sentiment from some church
folks who want to have all sorts of services, meetings, practices, and events
on Sundays: on the one hand, they claim Sunday as the Christian Sabbath, a day
of rest and worship, but on the other they jam it so full of activities that
their feet don’t touch the floor from flying all around on Sunday. It was, in a
way, the same thing folks had done to the Sabbath in Jesus’ day, but instead of
multiple services, committees, and choirs, there was the work of non-work, the
tediousness of being sure not to do anything that might be considered work on
the Sabbath, lest one incur the wrath of a resting God. A person had to keep
track of their steps on the Sabbath, being sure not to exceed the minimum
number required for walking to be considered “work.” One had to be mindful of
what chores were done, how much weight one carried, how many words one said,
and on and on the Shabbat laws went. It became work just to make sure one
wasn’t working! So I could understand if the leader of the synagogue was
indignant because he really felt the Sabbath was being broken, just as I can
understand when church folks get bent out of shape when Sunday school is called
off or service is cancelled. Doesn’t mean either of them are right, but I can
understand it.
Or maybe the
leader of the synagogue was just offended, offended that this woman had been
bent by this spirit for eighteen years and is only now being healed—by the
visiting rabbi. I can understand that, being offended when the work you feel
called to do is done by someone else, on your “turf.” She had been crippled for
eighteen years, why didn’t she come to him? Why didn’t she believe he could
heal her? If she was a woman of faith, she would have known not to be healed on
the Sabbath, but to come by any other day when such work was allowed. Maybe the
leader of the synagogue was just offended—hurt that he didn’t get to be the one
to bring healing to a member of his congregation, but instead, had to be a
spectator to her healing by the visiting rabbi, and on the Sabbath, no less!
Maybe, but I think there’s something else behind his indignation.
I think he was
jealous. Really. After all, that’s what happens when our comfortable faith
gives way to unpredictable working of God’s Spirit. When we’re so convinced
that we’ve got the right way figured out, when we’ve got the key, the answer,
the only right way to do things, Jesus jumps in and breaks it all up. Christ
busts up our comfortable religion that keeps us in control, that allows us to
be the definers of Sabbath and the writers of rules. “No healing on the
Sabbath?” Why? "You hypocrites! Does not each of you on the sabbath untie his ox
or his donkey from the manger, and lead it away to give it water?” “Are
you saying livestock are more valuable than this woman, your sister? Do you
really believe God cares more about your ox and donkey getting a drink of water
on Saturday than this woman being made whole?” Honestly, I’d be afraid to hear
some of our answers.
We may think
it’s an obvious decision: of course we should heal a woman on the Sabbath if
we’re going to water our livestock!” But what if the question were posed to us
in the Church today a bit differently? If you’d send money to feed a dog in a
shelter, would you send money to feed a starving child—a Muslim child? What
about her parents? If you’d take time out of your day to play with your
children, would you take time to play with those who have no parents? What if
they’re disabled and can be more screams of frustration than joy? If you’d
gladly give to CBF for disaster relief, would you give to a secular non-profit
that’s actively helping to bring clean water to villages around the world that
don’t have it?
You see,
friends, I’ve found that we’re not too unlike the leader of the synagogue in
Luke’s telling of this story. We’ve grown protective of our religion to the
point of missing the forest for the trees. We’ve grown too concerned about
manmade religious rules, regulations, practices, policies, procedures, limits,
laws, and outlines. We’ve gotten too caught up in setting up the boundaries of
who’s in and who’s out to realize we’re called to love all people, not just the
ones we’ve drawn our circles around. We’ve aloud too much religion to get in
the way of what Jesus has actually called us to do, so we argue about what
church services are supposed to look like, how many we’re supposed to have and
when we’re supposed to have them. We’ve mixed politics in with our religion so
much that many people can’t tell them apart, and worst of all, can’t tell that
their missing the point altogether! We’ve decided that love can be defined as
threats of damnation and self-righteousness, that compassion is a weakness,
that hospitality is only reserved for those who have been extremely vetted. And
I am becoming more and more convinced that so many Christians behave this way
because we are jealous, jealous that others we view as less worthy, less
honorable, less deserving, more reckless, more careless, more wicked, more
sinful, dirtier, poorer, lower than us are loved with the same unconditional
love from Christ with which we are loved. And it drives us crazy to think about
it!
That’s what’s
really so controversial about the cross, about the gospel—not that it keeps out
the folks who ought to be kept out, but that the love of God welcomes all! That’s
what makes the synagogue leader indignant: the crippled woman with the
spirit—she’s made whole. That’s what made the other religious leaders of Jesus’
day so angry: the prostitutes? They’re in! The tax collectors? They’re in! The
Gentiles?! They’re in! The cursed, the downtrodden, the Sabbath-breakers, the
meek, the poor, the lazy, the blind, the sorry, the old, the young, the women,
the children…? Yes! All of them! They’re in! Then where does it stop? Where do
we draw the line? When does all of this grace, love, and joy end? You know what
I hear Christ saying to me when I ask him that, when I ask him when does it
end, when do I get to say I’ve loved enough—do you know his answer? “Any day
but today”…and he tells me that every, single day. Amen.
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