Homily, August 24, 2025, Rev. Holly Cardone

The Bent Over Woman

Sermon on Luke 13:10–17

11th Sunday after Pentecost

It was the Sabbath. Jesus was teaching in one of the synagogues, doing what rabbis did—reading the scriptures, expounding on them, shaping the imagination of God’s people. The Sabbath was sacred. No work. No healing. That was the tradition. Though, like most laws, there were exceptions. People could lead their animals to water, as long as they weren’t carrying anything on their backs. And if a life was in danger, saving a life took precedence. But healing chronic conditions, things that could wait until Monday, those were not for the Sabbath. And then, she shows up.

A woman bent over, crippled for eighteen years. Her body folded in on itself, her back curved downward, unable to look up, unable to meet another’s eyes. The text says she had “a spirit that had crippled her,” that this was more than a bad spine or a stiff neck. Luke, writing in Greek, is explicit: this malady is spirit-driven. An act of Satan.

She comes in late. Shuffling. Probably unnoticed most of the time, except for the way people might recoil from her presence. She would have been unclean, an outcast, someone who couldn’t work, couldn’t cook, couldn’t clean, couldn’t care for herself. Eighteen years of this. Isolating. Invisible. But Jesus sees her. That line alone is enough to stop us. He sees her. Not as an interruption. Not as a distraction. Not as unclean. But as a daughter of Abraham. As a beloved child of God.

Jesus calls her forward. She doesn’t even ask for healing. She’s not like other people in the gospel who cry out, “Son of David, have mercy on me!” She doesn’t say a word. What could she say? What did she have left to ask for after eighteen years? Jesus calls her to himself, lays hands on her, and declares: “Woman, you are set free from your ailment.” And immediately, she straightens up. For the first time in nearly two decades, she stands tall. She looks people in the eye. She praises God. She praises God, not Jesus! Because what Jesus does is reveal the very power of God breaking in. Mercy, compassion, grace embodied in action. Jesus shows us who God is.

But not everyone is rejoicing. The leader of the synagogue is indignant. Angry. He turns to the crowd and says, “There are six days on which work ought to be done; come on those days and be cured, and not on the Sabbath day.”

It’s easy to imagine this scene. The leader of the synagogue, chastising Jesus. Reminding the congregation of what really matters. Rules. Order. Expectations. Tradition. You can hear the anger and frustration in the words of the leader. He’s kind of being a baby. A terrified baby. Because Jesus is breaking sacred rules. “Healing on the Sabbath. That is not how we do things!” The rules, order, expectations, and tradition the leader so heavily relies on are being threatened by Jesus. 

And Jesus fires back. "You hypocrites! Does not each of you on the sabbath untie his ox or his donkey from the manger, and lead it away to give it water? And ought not this woman, a daughter of Abraham whom Satan bound for eighteen long years, be set free from this bondage on the sabbath day?" That word “ought”—it isn’t about rules. It’s about divine necessity. It is necessary that she be set free. It is necessary that God’s liberation breaks into this moment. Not tomorrow. Not Monday. Now. Where Jesus is, things begin to be made right. This isn’t just about one woman standing up straight. This is about the kingdom of God. This is about a whole world being repaired.

Because what bound her wasn’t just a twisted spine. It was the weight of exclusion. It was the shame of not being able to work, contribute, or even look people in the eye. It was patriarchy, religious elitism, a system designed to keep some bent low so others could stand tall. Her bent body symbolized the very structures of oppression. And when Jesus calls her forward, touches her, straightens her up—he isn’t just fixing her back. He’s declaring the dawn of a new order.

The Sabbath itself was meant to be a sign of freedom, a day to remember how God delivered Israel out of slavery in Egypt. But in the hands of the religious authorities, it had become a tool of social control, a means of keeping people in their place. And Jesus will not have it.Even the Pharisees themselves conceded that animals could be led to water on the Sabbath. So Jesus presses the point: If you can loose your donkey, surely you can loose this daughter of Abraham. She is worth infinitely more.

That word “loose” matters. In Greek, apolelysai—released, set free. Jesus unties her the way one unties an animal from the manger. He unbinds her from Satan’s power, from physical bondage, from social shame.And notice this too: her healing depends neither on her faith nor on the faith of others. Jesus acts out of God’s own freedom. He doesn’t ask her what she believes. He doesn’t wait for her to confess. He simply sees her and sets her free.

That’s who God is. A God who acts first, who heals first, who liberates first, and lets the praise and gratitude come after.

And to touch her was to risk uncleanness. But Jesus doesn’t care. Over and over in the gospels, he touches lepers, corpses, bleeding women—those whom society avoids. His touch says: you belong. His touch says: you are welcome back into community. His touch says: no stigma, no shame, no rule will keep me from you.

And so the woman stands up straight. She praises God. The crowd rejoices. And the opponents are put to shame.

This tiny story, as one commentator says, takes on world-historic proportions. In freeing this one woman, Jesus is announcing the kingdom. He is overturning systems of exclusion. He is revealing a God who values human beings above rules, compassion above control, freedom above bondage.

So what has us bent over? Maybe it’s shame. Addiction. Trauma. Depression. Grief. Maybe it’s the constant grind of poverty, or the weight of racism, sexism, homophobia. Maybe it’s the loneliness of isolation.

Whatever it is, Jesus sees us. He calls us forward. He lays hands on us, not to shame us, but to set us free. To straighten us up. To let us look others in the eye again. To restore us to dignity and belonging.

And maybe the church’s calling is to embody that same seeing. To notice the ones bent low, the ones who shuffle in late, the ones others overlook. To call them forward. To touch without fear. To declare freedom in God’s name.

Because where Jesus is, the kingdom is. Where Jesus is, the bent are straightened, the outcast are welcomed, the shamed are restored, the oppressed are loosed, and the world begins to be made right.

Amen.