“When Jesus laid his hands on her, immediately she stood up straight and began praising God.” Luke 13:13
The prophet Hosea (11:4) describes God as one who “bends down … to feed, to lift up and to hold.” Strength and flexibility are both necessary in the act of bending. We have a God who is willing to bend on our behalf and who invites us to bend on behalf of one another. In Luke, chapter 13, we see the strength and flexibility of our reliable God in the life and ministry of Jesus Christ. The One who was willing to bend down and join us in our humanity takes the time on this Sabbath to heal a woman who has been bent over for 18 years.
Eighteen years is a long time to be bent over – it is the time it takes a newborn to unfold into adulthood and is the coming of age in many societies. Luke, the physician, attributes her chronic condition to “a spirit of weakness.” The word for “weakness” can simply mean “illness;” however, her condition can also be indicative of her diminished status within the culture at that time, a culture that continues today in many parts of the world. She is bound by the limitations and the burdens placed upon her through customs and the laws.
As the story unfolds, we learn that what is almost as important as the healing itself is the fact that Jesus heals on the Sabbath, bending the rabbinic law. In this valiant act Jesus announces that the suffering of a fellow human being takes precedence over obligations related to keeping the Sabbath. The same law that limited healing on the Sabbath allowed for the loosening of tethered animals so that they could drink water.
The synagogue ruler is “bent out of shape” over this healing! A religious observation intended to honor the liberation of God’s people has become a means of social control and oppression. By healing a person held captive on the Sabbath, Jesus offers wholeness in the unfolding of this woman’s life and gives the religious leaders an opportunity to see the absurdity and cruelty of unbending laws. The woman is stretched and raised to new life; however, the religious leaders remain bent on rigidity.
What these first century religious leaders lacked is compassion. Compassion is a feeling of deep sympathy and sorrow for another’s misfortune or suffering, accompanied by a strong desire to alleviate that suffering. Religion, without compassion, leads to division, conflict, cruelty, and even violence. Sadly, compassionless religion is alive and well today, from the treatment of the starving Palestinians in Gaza to the oppression of women in the Taliban to the scapegoating of refugees in our own country, many of whom are fleeing religious persecution. Compassion is found in many religious teachings and is the life blood of Christ’s ministry.
These last months as I reflect on 44 years of being identified as a religious leader, whether as a chaplain at Memorial Children’s Hospital in Chicago my first year out of seminary or 43 years serving congregations, poignant moments calling forth the need for compassion have come to my memory.
This happened recently when I heard Willie Nelson’s song “You Were Always on My Mind.” It brought me right back into the hospital room at Children’s Memorial in 1982 when I was 25. I was called to minister to the parents who stood by their 4-year-old daughter on life support. She had wandered into the backyard unbeknownst to either of them, fallen into their swimming pool and drowned. I stood quietly nearby holding them in my prayers. When Willie’s voice came on the speakers singing “You Were Always on My Mind,” the father commented that this was their daughter’s favorite song. I cannot hear Willie Nelson’s song without giving thanks for the gift of that little girl, lifting a prayer for the parents who loved and lost her, and wondering how their lives unfolded over the years.
During my ministry some of the most intimate moments I have had the privilege to share with members and friends are those times of losing and leaving and letting go. What I have learned is all people really ask during these times is to be allowed to have their feelings, their sorrow, and their pain. We need simply to be a compassionate and gentle presence, honoring their grief without judgement, platitudes, or attempts to deny it, take it away, or make it better.
This is what the compassion of Christ looks like: to share the message of mercy and love, to seek to comfort the heart with meaning and understanding, and when that holds no comforting answers, to be present with tenderness and the unspoken reminder of our common journey and shared humanity.
By the grace of God, may we live lives of compassion, willing to be present, to bend and to stretch in the unfolding of our lives. Amen.
The Rev. Dr. Blythe Denham Kieffer is pastor and head of staff at Westminster Presbyterian Church in Springfield.
