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. These days, eighteen
years is 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 real 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
lifetime 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 stooped 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 if 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.
Maybe she bubbled in the letters in her hymnal, scratched out a grocery list on
the back of the bulletin—I don’t know. 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! You know,
I’ve seen that episode of Dateline where they expose those faith
healers.” 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 allowed
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.” Why, I remember preaching
an evening service at a church up in Colbert County when I was in college; at
the end of the service, during the invitation, a young man came down the aisle,
asking to be baptized, to join the church. All during supper, the pastor of
that church complained that this guy hadn’t come down during the morning
service—when he was preaching.
This woman in the synagogue had been crippled for eighteen years, why didn’t
she come to the rabbit? 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 community, 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 the 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—and then 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 that a donkey is more valuable than this woman, your sister? Do you
really believe God cares more about your ox getting a drink of water on
Saturday than this woman being made whole?” Honestly, I’d be afraid to hear
some of the 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 religious non-profit 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 sometimes, I’m not too unlike the leader of the
synagogue in Luke’s telling of this story. I tend to grow protective of my
religion to the point of missing the forest for the trees. The temptation it to
be too concerned about manmade religious rules, regulations, practices,
policies, procedures, limits, laws, and outlines, of getting 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. Sometimes it
seems that folks can allow too much religion to get in the way of what Jesus
actually calls us to do, so some folks argue about what church services are
supposed to look like. Too often politics gets mixed 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! Some decide 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 already met the minimum
requirements. And I am becoming more and more convinced that so many Christians
behave this way because we are afraid, afraid that others we view as less
worthy, less honorable, less deserving, more reckless, more careless, more
wicked, more sinful, dirtier, poorer, lower than us could possibly be loved
with the same unconditional love from Christ with which we are loved. And it just
drives some folks 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 saved!
The Gentiles?! They’re reconciled! 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 Jesus, “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,
because in the end, not a single one of us, not a single one of our neighbors,
not a single human being made in the image of God—not a single one, isn’t
better than a donkey. Not a single soul is above another, and not a single one
is outside the love of God. Amen.
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