A fire rages in a two-story house. A young boy's head is visible leaning out a second floor window. His voice is piercing and plaintive, "Daddy, help me! Daddy, where are you?"
Smoke (from first-floor-flames) billows from shattered ground floor windows, now obscuring visibility. From the window, the boy cannot see the ground below, and he is literally shaking with fright.
The boy hears a familiar voice, as if coming from inside the great cloud of smoke. His father, shouts, implores, "Son, I am right here. I can hear you. I am right here on the ground beneath your window. I need to you to listen to me. Listen to my voice. I need you to jump. Now. Jump and I will catch you."
"But Daddy, I can't jump because I can't see you."
"That's okay son. I will catch you because I can still see you."
It may not be a fire. But each of us knows what it is like to be afraid. To "look outside a window" in our life, and know that something is out of kilter. Or, because we can't see, we make stuff up (and it's never very good is it?). It's as if we allow the uncertainty--and fear--to be the judge and jury for reality. I get it. We don't believe we have any control. So like the little boy, we feel powerless. And invisible. To those around us. Even to God. And we don't see a way out.
In conversations just this week, I learned of a friend's grandson, who has lived with the fear from being abused by people sworn to love and protect him.
I learned of a friend's relational breakup, and the sorrow and second-guessing that comes with any significant loss.
I learned that some friends lost jobs, and others were given bad news about their health.
And I talked with another friend who is at one of life's crossroads, not knowing which way to go.
There have been times when I have looked out of the window of my life and seen only smoke. And I want to trust that there is someone or something to catch me. Truth is, I really am afraid to jump. (I once read where Fr. Andrew Greeley said that how we live depends upon whether we see the universe as capricious or benign. If we jump, will someone catch us?)
In Luke's Gospel, there is a story about a
"bent woman." We don't know her name. Just the label that has been given to her. A label she has carried for 18 years. A woman imprisoned by her name.
Have you ever felt "bent," bound or restricted in some way?
Have you ever felt weighted by a label (or shame, or doubt, or even despair?)
Have you ever felt invisible? To those around you? Or to God?
This is an amazing story. Luke writes simply,
"When Jesus saw her, he called her forward and said to her, 'Woman, you are set free from your infirmity.'"
In other words...
I can see you.
You can jump.
I will catch you.
This story could have gone another way. Jesus could have finished his lesson, and moved on to the next town, and no one--literally, no one--would have known, or even given any thought to this woman. She was invisible.
But Jesus didn't move on. He stopped.
Not because this woman asked him to.
Not because she offered a reward.
Not because she believed.
Not because he felt coerced or pressured or needed brownie points.
He stopped. Because he saw her. Which meant that he saw more than a superficial, cruel, limiting label. He saw not just a "bent woman," but a "daughter of Abraham, and an heir to the blessings of God."
Which meant that he saw a woman now free to pass those blessings on to anyone she touches.
It is no surprise that he said this on a Sabbath. He invited this woman, even bent, to rest. He said, in effect, "Now that I see you, you are safe."
Let's just say that not everyone in the crowd that day was thrilled. I've learned the hard way, that as long as there are overly-religious people (you know, people whose blind unquestioning devotion to rigid and dogmatic rules trump kindness and compassion every time; you know, people who clear their throats a lot, just to let you know you're on the wrong side of the issue); there will be disgruntlement, even in the presence of mercy and grace. These are people who prefer to use labels. It's easier to know where others fit. And easier to keep those who are different, in their place.
I don't think Jesus was itching for a fight, but he gave them his two-cents. Saying, "Guys... you are definitely missing the boat here. I don't really care how religious you are. This isn't a contest. And the sad thing is, you suffer a form of blindness, because you are hypocrites." Hypocrite--from the Greek hupokrites--relates to the practice when ancient theatrical performers hid behind the masks of a particular character. Sometimes the mask keeps us from seeing. And sometimes it keeps us from trusting.
What did the bent woman do? She recognized that she was more than the label. And
she began to do a boogie, right there in the street. (Okay, a minor free translation.)
What I do know is that she ceased striving.
Here's the deal: the power of Sabbath allows us to give in to the moment. Whatever it holds. To choose to receive, or walk, or jump, or apologize, or forgive, or love, or set right, or grant mercy, or receive mercy. And to know that my choice is empowered by the gentle sovereignty in that voice, "Trust me Terry. You may not be able to see me, but I can still see you. Jump."
We've had quite the week of weather here. Tonight the sun sets, drifting down toward the Olympic Mountain range. On the table of me in front is a vase of lilac--branches and blooms--the buds still tight, a precursor to its late spring extravagance. With lilacs, there is only one show. Profligate and wholehearted. On the Puget Sound a sailboat glides by, its spinnaker billowed, the sun now resting on the horizon line--as if a final pause--a benediction of the day, behind the backdrop of midnight-blue mountains. Whatever is frantic inside of me, I let go, into the evening air.
