Sermon for August 25, 2013: Just then, there appeared a woman...and Jesus saw her.

August 25, 2012

Luke 13:10-17

PREACHER: Pastor Carrie Smith

Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

Last month, when my family and I started our annual long, long drive to Texas to see my family, we first made our traditional stopover in St. Louis. This year, in a break with tradition, we stayed two nights—partly to better appreciate the city, and partly to break up that long, long drive. Did I mention it’s a long, long drive to Texas?

I was especially proud of our vacation plans this year because I planned to make liberal use of Groupons—web-based coupons—for everything from appetizers and drinks to a pedicure. On the first morning we were there, I was excited to use my St. Louis coffee Groupon, so I was up and out the door of the hotel before the men in my life had even rolled over and registered that we were no longer at home.

St. Louis is, shall we say, “balmy” even at 7 am in July, but I nevertheless walked briskly through downtown toward the coffee shop. There weren’t many folks on the street at that time of day, but as I turned the final corner, there she was. She sat nestled back in the doorway of a defunct business, in the shade, and I could see that she was in a wheelchair. Even out of the corner of my eyes, I could discern what she wanted. She was rattling a Styrofoam cup of coins, and quietly mumbling—like her own, personal, morning prayer liturgy—“Can you help me? Just a few coins, please. Anything will help. Can you help me?”

I didn’t want to see her, but I looked over anyway, and immediately saw that her face was completely normal on one side, but the other side seemed devoid of cheekbones and structure of any kind. It was as if Salvador Dali had been given the chance to design a human face, and she was the canvas. Her face was a face only on technicalities. I didn’t want to see her, but I looked over anyway.

And then I looked away.

I didn’t want to see her.  I was on a quest! I wanted my morning coffee! I wanted to use my Groupon! Above all else, I wanted to stay on schedule. This was a carefully planned vacation, with an itinerary and scenic overlooks and what my dad calls “hysterical markers” along the way. No time for detours or unplanned stops. Furthermore, what business did she have to interrupt my vacation in such a way? There are so many other days out of the year when I have no problem living into my Christian vocation, listening to people’s stories, and giving to the poor—but today was different. This was vacation. This was my Sabbath! And I didn’t want to see her.

If I were to place myself in today’s Gospel lesson, I think it’s pretty clear I would not be Jesus. In fact, I would say it’s a good practice for all of us to read the Gospels and realize that we are not Jesus. Amen? In fact, the truth is, I am probably the synagogue leader in this lesson today. At least on that day on vacation in St. Louis, I most closely resembled the synagogue leader, who watched Jesus call up a disabled woman and heal her on the spot and who then turned to the congregation and said: “There are six days on which work ought to be done; come on those days and be cured, and not on the sabbath day.” 

The message was: “I don’t want to see you all doing this next week. This guy is a guest preacher, a revival preacher, and I know he’s doing some cool stuff. But rules are rules, and I don’t want to see you all coming in here for healing on the Sabbath when he’s gone.”

To the bent-over woman and all who, like her, came to the synagogue in need of healing, the message was pretty clear: It’s not just that I don’t want to see you coming here on the Sabbath. I don’t want to see you.

I suspect you can see yourself in the role of the synagogue leader in this story, too. How often have you passed by the homeless person in the doorway without a glance? How often have you averted your eyes away from wheelchairs, feeding tubes, scars, or the faces of those in deep grief or pain? Our fear of the pain and suffering around us leads us to find safety and security behind rules and regulations: If I don’t look, I don’t have to respond. Everyone says, if you give them any money, they’ll just spend it on drugs. You should never open your wallet in the presence of a homeless person. I give to the needy through my church. I wouldn’t know what to say to someone who just lost a child, so it’s better if I don’t say anything. The truth is: I just really don’t want to see him.

Yes, more often than we like to admit, we are the synagogue leader, more concerned with broken rules than the broken people around us, and if you get nothing else from the Gospel lesson for today, I hope in the coming week you will take a moment to see—really see—the people around you. Awhile back there was a campaign called “Start Seeing Motorcycles”, encouraging motorists to pay attention to the 2-wheeled folks on the roads with them. Do you remember that? In this case, I think the Gospel convicts us and reminds us that we would all do well to start seeing each other. Start seeing what your neighbor is going through. Start seeing the brokenness in our own community. Start seeing those whom the world has called hopeless, insignificant, or not worth looking at.

This week, on the 50^th anniversary of the March on Washington, we remember how people of color stood up and said to their fellow Americans “Look at me! See me! I exist.” Some of the most powerful images of that time period for me are the photos of the Memphis Sanitation Workers’ Strike, when workers marched with signs that said simply “I AM a man.” I am a man! See me! We give thanks to God this week for all those who boldly made themselves known, as well as for the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. and the other prophetic voices who said to the rest of us “Start seeing your darker brothers and sisters” and helped us to have a vision of what it would mean to be the “beloved community.” Amen!

Are you still with me? Good, because I want to challenge you now, sisters and brothers, to place yourselves not in the role of Jesus or in the role of the synagogue leader, but rather in the role of the bent-over woman. You may not be afflicted as she is, but what I know is this: each and every one of you appears in this place today carrying some kind of burden. Each and every one of you comes weighed down by something—depression, grief, anger, cancer, divorce, unemployment, credit card debt, addiction, doubt, mistakes made, or opportunities missed. It’s so heavy it sometimes causes you to be bent over, and you can hardly stand up straight. You’re just barely getting by.

But I also know this: almost all of you have appeared here today wearing your Sunday best, putting on a smile, and pretending to have it all together. Nod if you know what I’m talking about! Why do we do this? Because you know very well that other people don’t want to see that stuff. You know very well that people (and, sadly, especially church people) would rather keep to the schedule, keep church under an hour (ha!), and keep all that difficult stuff under wraps, unspoken, and unseen.

And yet…here you are. The Gospel according to Luke says: “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. When Jesus saw her, he called her over and said, ‘Woman, you are set free from your ailment.’ When he laid his hands on her, immediately she stood up straight and began praising God.”

We only know a few things about the woman in the synagogue, but none of them are as important as these key points: Just then, there appeared a woman….and Jesus saw her.

A woman in need appeared, and Jesus saw her. She was bent over in the same way at the market, and on the street, and at the river washing her clothes, and no one paid any attention, but just then she appeared…and Jesus saw her.

She came to pray at the synagogue every week, bent over almost to the ground, quite unable to pray or praise freely, and no one gave her a second glance, but just then she appeared…and Jesus saw her.

For eighteen years she was bound by this spirit, while others told her to sit in the back of the bus or to come back another day. But on that day in the synagogue, Jesus saw her and proclaimed that it may be the Sabbath, but now is the time for restoration. Now is the time for wholeness. Now is the time for liberation! Amen!

My dear people, the Good News of the Gospel is that you are here, and Jesus sees you. Jesus sees you, bent over, weighed down, and just getting by. Jesus sees you, when no one else wants to stop and look.

On this day, this Sabbath day, burdened and heavy-laden though we are, we come, wanting to give our praise to God, wanting to stand up straight, wanting to get it right, and what we find is that God, in God’s goodness, gives us something even greater than we could hope for—healing, wholeness, and restoration, through Jesus Christ. Not when it’s convenient for other people. Not when it’s on the schedule. Not when we get around to asking for it. Right now. Today. Here—in, with and under the bread and the wine, through the water and the Word, and yes, sometimes through this beloved community. Come to the table, all of you, and know that you are set free. Thanks be to God.