There is something heart-breaking about Jesus’ reaction to the Pharisee’s suspicion of his sabbath intentions. He is angry, and he is grieved by their hardness of heart. This is not a case of judgement alone, but of grief that some will not accept the gift of mercy, the blessing of rest, the liberating love of God that Jesus has come to bring, and to demonstrate, and to live out.
The Pharisees are not bad people. They are not being picky for the sake of it, not in their own eyes at least. They are trying to keep the faith in an age of occupation, appeasement of the Romans, questioning of the old ways that, they believe, everyone understood. There are echoes today of their grief, their judgement and anger that led to their hardness of heart. And they are afraid, not necessarily nor only for their own power and influence, but because they genuinely worry that if they let one thread of their tapestry of traditions loose, the whole thing might unravel.
And fear is a distraction to faith. When they attend the synagogue, instead of looking first to their prayers, to the God they know, they watch to see what Jesus will do, this newcomer, this upstart; to see if he is worthy of their condemnation.
It is no way to approach the living, loving, liberating God, and it is a crying shame that they cannot help themselves.
Of course, we’ve each had our own moments, haven’t we, of looking at someone and saying, silently or aloud, “We don’t do that here,” or “That’s not how we do it here,” or even, “How could you even think that?” I don’t think it’s just me. And where does that distraction come from – because it is a distraction? That voice of criticism is a distraction from the great mercy of God that has brought us to this place, despite all of the judgements we have escaped, or been excused, or waded through over the years.
Jesus’ response, as always, is telling. In the first place, walking through the wheatfields, he tries to explain to the Pharisees that the sabbath is not a burden to be shouldered – which would be ironic, given that it is the day to lay down one’s work – but that the sabbath is a gift from God to humanity. It is not designed to rule over us, but to relieve us, to refresh us, to restore us to the joy in which God first created us.
A Jewish friend once described the sabbath as the day on which we do nothing improving, since at the end of Creation God saw all that God had made, and it was very good; the day on which we remember that what God has made is enough for us, and that it is very good, grains and wheatfields and all.
Then, having delivered his lesson, Jesus goes to the synagogue, and when he sees a man in need of healing, he has no hesitation. Because the sabbath is a gift of rest, of release, of refreshment, of joy; because it is a feast of liberation, freeing us to enjoy God’s gifts to God’s creation. And he saw nothing wrong with extending that liberation, that joy, that healing on the sabbath. He saw nothing incongruent between the law that remembers God’s goodness to us, and doing good to another.
The Pharisees did not wish the man with the hand in need of healing any harm. They just wished that he would come back on Monday to have it dealt with. His injury was not life-threatening, they reasoned; why risk infringing upon the law in order to heal it? My goodness, the echoes that we hear of their reasoning today, around the healthcare of pregnant people, the admission of asylum seekers, the making of a ceasefire. How bad to let things get before it becomes worth advocating mercy over holding some philosophical, legal, political, or religious line. See also, gun violence and the obstacles to gun regulation.
We can mean well, but if we do not err on the side of mercy, Jesus is teaching us, showing us, living out for us, then we are in error.
Yesterday, I joined our bishop and several dozen other Episcopalians in the Pride in the CLE parade and festival, amongst other activities. As we processed through the streets of Cleveland, proclaiming with our banners, t-shirts, and presence that God loves you, no exceptions, we encountered only a handful of protesters; literally, fewer than five. But they did make me sad, and perhaps a little angry. I was angry when they hurled insults at friends of mine, just for proclaiming the love of God. I was saddened, grieved at the messages they were sending out to those around us, that they had absorbed into their own hearts: that God’s love is somehow conditional, limited.
Because I think that the message that Jesus is sending here is that we do not need to deny that we are hungry, aching, withered, beloved and loving, marvelously (fabulously) made; but to know that God feeds us, heals us, restores us, loves us; that this is what sabbath is about: resting in the love of God.
On the way out of the festival, I ran into a friend whom I know from our work against gun violence. We watched as a single man remained to tell all who passed by what he thought God’s love meant. And as we watched, we were led to wonder whether, in fact, that stream of love, acceptance, joy that was passing before him and around him might, in time, lead him to conversion, to know the deep and abiding love of God.
Because they would not soften their hearts, the Pharisees went out and found the Herodians, who were no friends of theirs, to plow themselves even further into error. And Jesus was angry, because he knew their hearts, and grieved for them, because he knew what they were missing: the liberating, loving, life-giving gift of God’s creative and tender mercy.
So, let me spend this sabbath not distracted by my own petty judgements, but in awe of God’s gracious mercy, so as not to grieve the heart of Jesus, and so that not to calcify my own arteries with pride, but to shine with the light that God has placed within this earthen body, the spark of creation, the light of the world, the love of Jesus.
over the water 