What makes some people so
cheerful in the midst of adversity? Seemingly blind to the detritus of life
that swirls around street corners? How can people, who can barely stand up
straight call themselves blessed? Perhaps it’s the fact that as they look down,
they don’t see only the things that other people discard and trample underfoot.
They are able to glimpse glory in the mud. To see reflected in the mud the
image of stars. To see shimmering on the puddles the outline of the rainbow.
Their perspective is
different from ours, but it is enhanced by their experience— of trial or
exclusion, of being invisible or discarded, of pain or loss— their experience affords
them depth and insight. The scripture from Luke 13 this week, though it speaks
of physical appearance, takes us to a much deeper place. A place where rules
are broken, where conformity is cast aside. A place where what you see is not
what you get.
Because the love of God
confounds expectation. And allows miracles to happen. Allows despair to become
hope. Allows dire straits to become places of possibility. Allows the trials of
life to become places of growth. And allows those on whom we would look down or
pity to teach us the most valuable lessons about life and about the
transforming love of God.
We give thanks that there
will always be sons and daughters of Abraham such as the one in the gospel reading
this week who will challenge and confront, who will go on seeing the best in
all things and who will always mirror for us the love of God that is not
stifled by our smallness of heart.
Martha Spong tells the story
of three ladies. They made up 3 percent of the worshiping population, three
dear and elderly ladies, each one bent over. She goes on to say that when this
text came up in the lectionary, I could not preach it. I could not tell the
story of a woman bent over for eighteen years suddenly straightened up and
cured by Jesus. I could not tell it because no one had offered my ladies an
instant cure.
I could not tell it because
it felt like cheating to call their disability a metaphor. I could not tell it
because it felt like cruelty to suggest they had been bound by evil. I could
not tell it because when a person in the pews suffers from a condition in the
Scripture, it’s hard to preach about Sabbath laws instead of real human
difficulties. All these things bound me, just like evil.
Like Martha Spong, I ask the
question of myself, as I face a congregation, of how I work with a text that
bends us in half? The best-intentioned preachers say the worst-received things
at times (and I don’t doubt I have done this), simply because they think they
know how other people feel. Sometimes my over-sensitivity is misplaced, and
just as often I’m reacting to the wrong thing.
Unless you’ve lived it— and I
don’t mean your mother lived it, or your grandmother— we are just guessing. If
I really thought about things I would be asking those in the pews, their
thoughts and feelings about the story. And then, with their permission, I might
preach it.
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