I Can See You
February 02, 2009
"You are the God who sees me."
Hagar's response to God, after her cry of
desperation (Book of Genesis)
Jesus means to name you. He will not let
you acquiesce to the names the world wants to
lay upon you. You are daughters, sons of
Abraham. Your life is meant to count for
something, to take its place on stage in
God's great drama of redemption. Dr.
Will Willimon
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. Worse, we don't believe we have any control. Like the little boy, we feel powerless. And invisible. To those around us. And to God. And we don't see a way out.
In emails 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 breakup with her boyfriend, 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 a crossroads, not knowing which way to go.
There have been times when I have looked out of my window and seen only smoke. And I want to trust that there is someone or something to catch me. Trouble 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. You know, people who could use a little bit more roughage in their diets); 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, "You guys are missing the boat here. And 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. That is the power of Sabbath: to give-in to the moment. This moment. Whatever it holds. To choose to receive, or walk, or jump, or apologize, or forgive, or love, or set right. 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.
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. Worse, we don't believe we have any control. Like the little boy, we feel powerless. And invisible. To those around us. And to God. And we don't see a way out.
In emails 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 breakup with her boyfriend, 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 a crossroads, not knowing which way to go.
There have been times when I have looked out of my window and seen only smoke. And I want to trust that there is someone or something to catch me. Trouble 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. You know, people who could use a little bit more roughage in their diets); 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, "You guys are missing the boat here. And 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. That is the power of Sabbath: to give-in to the moment. This moment. Whatever it holds. To choose to receive, or walk, or jump, or apologize, or forgive, or love, or set right. 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.
Poems / Prayers
Music
Hands by Jewel
Enjoy two different renditions:
http://www.youtube.com
http://www.youtube.com
Surely
You meant
when You lifted
her up
Long ago
To your praise,
Compassionate One,
not one woman
only
but all women
bent
by unbending ways.
Miriam Therese Winter
In a world that continues to "bend" women's lives, we must follow Jesus in claiming that the lives of women are sacred, and that women are invited to be healed and flourish in the presence of the Holy One. Would that Jesus' generous gift of freedom for a bent-over woman were visible in our time, and especially in our sanctuaries. Teresa Berger
Merciful Messiah,
We are a frail people; we easily fall in fear and despair.
At times, in the middle of dark and deep valleys we confess that we wonder if you see us; Are you truly with us?
Lord we come in this Sabbath moment, seeking both freedom and assurance.
Move gently into our spirits and let us know your embrace even in the presence of pain and heartache.
To our Lord who suffered on the cross and cried out to God, "My God, my God why have you forsaken me;" we too cry out for your touch of love, freedom and assurance.
Grant us Sabbath rest, peace and assurance this day.
Amen.
Trinity UCC Japer Indiana
Peace,
Terry Hershey
