SERMONS
Christine Battjes –August 22, 2010
Luke 13:10-17
Now Jesus was teaching in one of the synagogues on the sabbath.
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.
As the woman, what do you see?
When Jesus saw her, he called her over and said,
‘Woman, you are set free.’
Then Jesus laid hands on her,
and immediately she stood up straight and began praising God.
As the woman, what are you thinking?
But the leader of the synagogue,
offended 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.’
But Jesus answered and said, ‘You hypocrites!
Does not each of you on the sabbath
do the work of untying his donkey from the stable,
and leading it away to give it water?
Then ought not this woman,
a daughter of Sarah and Abraham,
be set free from her bondage on the sabbath day?’
As the woman, what do you hear being said?
Jesus said, ‘Ought not the children of God be set free?’
When Jesus said this, all his opponents were put to shame;
and the entire crowd was rejoicing
at all the wonderful things that he was doing.
For the word of God in scripture,
for the word of God among us,
for the word of God within us;
Thanks be to God!
For the umpteenth time she entered the sanctuary for worship.
Nothing was spectacular about this day;
nothing unusual or out of the ordinary
to arouse any sense of hope or expectation.
In fact, after all these years she was numb to new possibilities.
Numbed by the seeming indifference of the Holy One
to whom she had cried out so many times
only to be met with silence, leading to more grief, more despair.
The weight of her circumstance could be clearly seen:
in her eyes that had seen too much of life,
in a face permanently wrinkled with suffering,
in shoulders bent over with secret burdens.
And on this ordinary, non-spectacular day,
a day without hope or expectation,
she dutifully entered for worship
because that is what she knew how to do; that is what she always did.
Yet, as she shuffled unnoticed along the margins,
those who did notice
could sense a certain holiness within her.
She was tender, softened by suffering.
Her dis-ability made her able
to see that which others often missed:
the awe of ant hills,
the joy of children playing on the ground,
the beauty of flowers, newts, and swirling sand.
Such things often moved her to tears
and reminded her that Love did gather her in
even if it did not miraculously transform her deepest wounds.
Perhaps it was her ability to pay attention –
her openness to the graces in this world –
that made it possible for her to experience a healing touch that day.
For on this ordinary day, Love made an extraordinary appearance.
Into the shadow of her bent over body came the feet of a stranger
who placed loving hands on her shoulders
and lifted her to look into the face of compassion.
Love’s eyes welcomed her to step from the sidelines
into the centre of community
where she could take her rightful place
as a beloved daughter of Sarah and Abraham.
Despite the numbness that protected her from disappointment,
despite her familiarity with the way things were,
Love reached out and enlarged her
and the whole community was healed by her rising into it.
But the story doesn’t end here.
As with most acts that lead to greater freedom, inclusion, and wholeness,
the woman’s healing was met with resistance
and the woman was almost pressed to the margins once again
by an argument about institutional policies and moralities.
But as I said, the story doesn’t end here
because the story doesn’t really start here –
at least, not for the writer of Luke.
The writer of Luke tells this story for a reason
and reading what comes before and after
can give insight into its possible meanings.
Right before this story of the bent-over woman,
comes Jesus’ parable of the barren fig tree.
Jesus tells of a man who planted a fig tree
that did not produce figs for three years.
Frustrated with the barren tree, the man asked his gardener to cut it down
because, in his words, it was wasting good soil.
But the gardener convinced the owner
to give the tree one more year so he could nurture it
and see if it might bear fruit with some attention and care.
Thus we leave the parable of the fig tree
and enter the synagogue in today’s story with the question:
What about this community, will these people bear fruit?
The praise of the healed woman
and the celebration of the crowd standing with her
suggests that, yes, the community did bear fruit; it did grow love.
This same question is asked of the Christian Church today,
and dare I say this community, and each of us:
Will we make good use of the soil in this time and place?
Will we be bearers of healing love?
As revealed in today’s story,
and over and over again in the history of our faith,
bearing fruit often results in tensions within and conflict without.
We can be tempted to cling to expressions of religion
that are concerned with order, self-righteous morality,
empty traditions, and the appearance of holiness.
But religions that are focused on form and function are deadly;
they bind the work of Spirit
and diminish the precious life we share.
In contrast, spirituality that is fruitful is always life giving.
It lifts and ennobles
and recognizes all as daughters and sons of God.
It continues to move graciously against the voices that would say,
“No, not her; no, not him; no, not now,”
in order to reconcile and include.
It responds to suffering with small, ordinary acts
of compassion and kindness
that grow the extraordinary realm of Love in this world.
This, then, is how the story ends.
Jesus said, “What is the realm of Love like?
And to what should I compare it?
It is like a mustard seed that someone took and sowed in the garden;
it grew and became a tree,
and the birds of the air made nests in its branches.”
And again Jesus said, “To what should I compare the kingdom of God?
It is like yeast that a woman took
and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened.”
May we live as children of this kingdom,
touched by and bearers of the ennobling Love of Christ
that lifts and names us all by our rightful name: children of God.
