Eighteen years ago, the church was packed.
It was the Sunday after Nine Eleven, and people came to worship in droves.
They stopped coming almost as quickly; attendance, which had been declining before the
attacks, returned to normal trends within a few weeks.
The shock wore off, life for many people returned to something close enough to normal,
and the need for God or comfort or religion or assurances or whatever the crowds
were seeking was either unmet or faded away.
Maybe it got redirected to military action or economic patriotism.
The church and its leaders began to wonder and argue about what they did wrong
while the world moved on to other places and priorities.
The decline has continued, and so has the church's navel gazing and worry.
The woman crippled by a satanic spirit and bent over for eighteen years looks an
awful lot like today's American church.
She hears Jesus, but does not see him.
Her field of vision, her view of the world is downcast and limited.
She remembers younger days when it was so much easier.
She steps carefully in a world that doesn't seem to care about her.
She keeps returning to the synagogue, keeps attending to worship and teaching, keeps
listening and engaging and trying, keeps making appearances.
But she seems to be bent over with a burden she cannot shake, quite unable to stand up
straight and face a world that has changed so drastically in only eighteen years.
She is out of date, out of touch, out of style, and running out of energy.
She is getting older, moving slower, adjusting to her new reality that is not so new
She feels like her hands are tied, maybe to the past, maybe to debt or decaying property,
maybe to doctrine or traditions that no longer make sense, maybe to the demands
of wealthy families keeping her afloat, maybe to all of the above or more.
Her memories don't match her observation, and it takes more effort to accomplish less,
and sometimes she sags under the weight of it all, a crippled spirit, a shackled
It's not for lack of trying that she is in this condition; she simply cannot heal herself.
She is quite unable to stand up straight.
And she keeps faithfully showing up.
Jesus sees her and calls her forward.
Church, you are set free from your ailment, he says, sabbath after sabbath.
Whatever is holding you down is no match for the Lord who lifts you up.
Untwist your frame and uncork your voice.
Face the world and sing your praises and tell your story.
Look all around you at all the other faces, many of them downcast too, and see
them and love them the way I see and love you.
Touch them with promise and set them free.
Rise up and show the world what Easter looks like.
And when the backlash comes, I have your back.
As usual, the teaching and the touch of Jesus cause trouble.
The leader of the synagogue desperately tries to restore order.
There are six days on which work ought to be done; come on those days and be cured,
and not on the sabbath day!
He's right, of course, as religion always thinks it is.
After eighteen years, Jesus could have waited another twenty-four hours.
But the synagogue leader's vision is limited too.
He is bent over with authority, weighed down by the rules, God's conscientious
compliance officer, a spiritual mall cop taking his job with noble seriousness.
He sees a foot cross the yellow line and responds exactly as he was trained to do.
He does not recognize the face or realize that he is reprimanding the owner who is
crossing the line to save the store.
Jesus heals this woman on the sabbath because he is doing far more than healing this