Bent and Healed: Luke 13:10-17

A bent woman,
bent over with a spirit that had crippled her for eighteen years,
found a place somewhere in a house of worship called a synagogue. 
Jesus saw her. 
He called her. 
She came to him and he touched and healed her. 
She began to praise God. 
Those in positions of power in the place of worship were angry and critical. 

That’s the story. 
We’ve heard it over and over in our readings from Scripture. 

We’ve heard it shaken out in sermons and perhaps seen it in our own lives. 
It’s played out over and over in places made for worship, all over the world.

Someone who longs for healing appears in our midst. 
They may not be “one of us”. 
Jesus sees the person.  He calls.  The person comes. 
Jesus touches and heals. 
The healed one praises God. 
Those in positions of power in the church grumble and criticize. 

It’s too bad. 
In fact, it’s incredibly sad that so many of us miss the touch of Jesus,
the lowering of those hands onto a suffering soul,
because we’re focused only on the disruption it causes
in our lives, our institutions, our metrics. 

We’re focused on the disruption,
the upset
even if that disruption brings new life,
the finest kind of life,
ife that is longed for, dreamt of,
life full of grace and greening and hope. 

Perhaps we prefer to pretend . . .
Perhaps we prefer to pretend . . .
that the dust we’re looking at really is the sky ~

Perhaps we are even afraid ourselves to stand up when we hear the call of the Loving One through our pain or boredom or cynicism. 

Perhaps we prefer to pretend we are not bent
that the dust we’re looking at really is the sky.

Somewhere though,
deep inside us
I believe we know the difference. 
I believe we are created to know the difference.
I believe that even as we cling to our patch of dust we feel the lack of sky. 

If we were describing this woman’s condition today we would probably call it ankylosing spondylitis, a fusion of the spinal bones, a condition with very tangible symptoms and outcomes.  A condition that causes the one bearing it to bend over to relieve the pain and gradually, after bending forward repeatedly, to be unable to straighten at all. 

Today though in our story this very physical condition represents the bending of our lives to avoid pain. 

If we think of our church as a bent woman we may have bent to avoid the pain of uncertainty,
the pain of seeing things change,
the pain of holding tight to control of something that no longer matters,
the pain of coming to church week after week without really knowing why we’re here
or what direction we should be going in. 
We may be bent with the loneliness of feeling that we’re dying as a church and trying to heal ourselves all on our own. 

Who knows what began it? 
We only know that the bones of our life together have now fused
and we can’t seem to stand straight. 

We find our vision limited, we can only see the ground. 
Jesus sees us though
and if we’re listening,
if we admit our condition and yearn to be healed,
if we’re willing to move toward the call and allow the touch of those hands on the spine of us we will be healed. 
We will be freed and praise will escape from us. 
We won’t have to think about it or plan it – it will just overflow. 

Parts of our body may rebel. 
Our eyes may have to adjust to the light. 

Our hearts may have to soften as they face the newness of looking straight into the eyes of others. 
Our egos may have to get used to what we really look like in the mirror we have for years been unable to examine in the light. 

But we will be healed. 
That’s the story. 
There is nothing different to say. 
But this story is enough.  
It’s my story and it’s yours.  It’s ours.

I know what it is to be bent . . .
to long to be healed

I need nothing more to say.
know what it is to be bent.
I know what it is to long to be healed,
to so yearn that you’re willing to risk everything, to begin again.
I know what it is to hear the call to feel the touch and to see the sky. 

I came to be with you, to pray with you,
to listen, to challenge, to comfort, and sometimes to despair.

I came to sing with you, to laugh with you, to see your faces in my prayers. 

I have come to love you and I have never stopped yearning to tell you the story in a way that could be heard.

Today we share communion, and the story is told again, in action more powerful than words can express.  We come together, we eat, we can be touched, we can be healed, we can praise. 

For our life together and for all God will bring to birth through that time we have shared, thanks be to God.  AMEN. 

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This sermon was preached on my last Sunday with a little congregation years ago. I’ve removed the introduction.