August 21-22, 2010
13th Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 13:10-17
Salem Lutheran Church
I saw this Gospel image come to life before my eyes last week. And I'd go so far as to say that Jesus was there in the heart and hands and voice of the hospice nurse in the room. For she sat on the edge of the bed, you see, and she leaned over the beyond thin woman who lay dying there. She leaned over so as to be able to look into her face which was then twisted to the left. She leaned over and spoke gently to her, calling her by name. "Hey there…" she whispered. And again she called her by name. Seeing her. Speaking to her. Connecting with her ever so gently in the only way left to do so. With her voice, her tender touch, her gentle presence.
I sat in the chair a few feet away and watched. And thought to myself how all too often it is far too easy to not see each other. Especially when one is so physically disfigured, it is simpler then to glance away and not look such suffering in the face. Perhaps this is because such suffering reminds us that it could be us, if it is not already. Only when we fail to really see the one who is before us, we are looking away from one who was created and beloved by God just as much as the most perfectly formed among us who have not yet been ravaged by age or disease.
Which, of course is the gift that Jesus offers in today's Gospel lesson. He sees the bent over woman, probably bending down to do so. In the amount of time it takes most of us to take a deep breath, he comprehends her and what her life has held these last 18 years. And he touches her. And after that nothing is ever the same again. Not for her, to be sure. Not for those gathered either. And surely not for Jesus.
For you see, for Jesus, this was yet another step on his journey to the cross. It was yet one more time when he got crossed up with the authorities for extending kindness and renewing life at a time and place where apparently he wasn't supposed to.
And it did, it does mess with an otherwise well-ordered day, doesn't it? There is time and energy expended, to be sure, but it's more than that of course. For what we know is that in the time and place when this bent over woman entered the synagogue, people like her were prohibited from being in that holy place altogether. For it was believed that her condition was a punishment for her sins. And so she along with so many with similar conditions were not welcome in that place where it was believed God resided.
Now of course we don't believe that any more, that our physical ailments are by definition a punishment for our sins. And yet. I suspect often we still come to this place on this our Sabbath and part of us would rather not be confronted with such pain. We come wanting to be filled, not to be reminded of such great need in the world --- and our call to be instruments of meeting that need. And so we may be tempted to turn away and to try not to let our hearts and imaginations linger there for too long, perhaps not wanting to be reminded of our own need for such healing, too. Maybe that's why that hospice nurse's gentle touch and voice brought tears to my eyes last week. For too much of the time, my instinct is to turn away as well. For I can see myself there, too. On the needing end of that kind of care, that kind of seeing, that kind of healing. And maybe I don't want to be there.
And yet, I am of course. We are all that bent over woman. Bowed down by physical pain, by loneliness, by broken memories, by abandoned hopes. Made weary by too much work, too many worries, too much weighing us down. We are bent over. Unable to lift our heads and look into the eyes of others. Unable to lift our heads to see beyond the step right in front of us. Unable even to straighten up and see the gifts of God which surround us right now.
I am, you are too, of course, so needing someone to bend over and look us in the eye… To see you. And to speak your name ever so gently. To twist their gaze to meet your bent and broken one. To touch you to touch us with a kind of tenderness which brings healing and hope and life, enabling us to stand up straight to see and receive all of God's amazing gifts. I need that seeing, that touch, and so does everyone who enters this place today. Every one of us someway somehow. Can you feel the promise, the gift that is meant for you? For as Jesus saw that bent over woman so long ago, he surely sees you. And Jesus bends down to look you in the eye as well. He calls you by name. He brings you wholeness and life.
The argument that happened that day so long ago between Jesus and the ruler of the synagogue was about what the Sabbath was for, what God's Day was for. But shouldn't it be for this, Jesus said, this day when we are called to receive and celebrate God's amazing gifts? And shouldn't part of this day be then for this: for you and me to bend down to look into the eyes of others also so created and so beloved by God? And to see them? To really see them? And in the seeing to be instruments of that healing that only God can bring? Indeed, how shall we share this gift of healing and hope which we have received --- how shall we share it with neighbors and friends, strangers and family who are so yearning for it, too? Amen.
