Jesus, the Sabbath-Breaker

 

Luke 13:10-17

Jesus was teaching in one of the synagogues on the sabbath. And behold, there was a woman who had had a disabling spirit for eighteen years; she was bent over and could not fully straighten herself. And when Jesus saw her, he called her and said to her, "Woman, you are freed from your infirmity." And he laid his hands upon her, and immediately she was made straight, and she praised God.

But the ruler of the synagogue, indignant because Jesus had healed on the sabbath, said to the people, "There are six days on which work ought to be done; come on those days and be healed, and not on the sabbath day." Then the Lord answered him, "You hypocrites! Does not each one of you on the sabbath untie his ox or his ass from the manger, and lead it away to water it? And ought not this woman, a daughter of Abraham whom Satan bound for eighteen years, be loosed from this bond on the sabbath day?"

As he said this, all his adversaries were put to shame; and all the people rejoiced at all the glorious things that were done by him.

"Is Your Ox More Important Than Her Soul?"

I read today’s Gospel, and my first thought isn't about the miracle. It's about the pain.

Can you imagine it? Eighteen years. Eighteen years of being bent double. Not just a sore back, but a life defined by a permanent downward gaze. This woman couldn't look up at the sky. She couldn't look a friend in the face. She was, in every sense, weighed down, her world shrunk to the dusty ground at her feet.

And St. Luke tells us this wasn't just physical; it was a "disabling spirit." She was bound by Satan. This was a spiritual oppression made visible in her very bones.

And yet, she's in the synagogue. Even in her state, she drags herself to the place of worship. She is still seeking God, even though she can't physically look up to heaven.

Then Jesus comes. He's teaching, and He sees her. This is so important. In a crowd, He sees the one who can't even look up to be seen. He doesn't wait for her to cry out. He calls her over. He speaks a word of authority: "Woman, you are freed." And then, He does something beautifully human and divine: "He laid his hands upon her."

It’s the touch of the Incarnate God. And in an instant, 18 years of bondage are broken. She stands up straight. And what's her very first act? She "praised God." She finally can.

It’s a perfect, beautiful, glorious moment.

And the ruler of the synagogue is furious.

Let that sink in. A man, allegedly dedicated to the service of God, witnesses the absolute routing of Satan, the restoration of a human soul, and a profound act of divine mercy... and his reaction is indignation.

Why? Because Jesus did it on the wrong day.

This, for me, is one of the most terrifying passages in the Bible. It’s a chilling portrait of what happens when religion dies in our hearts and becomes nothing but a weaponized rulebook.

The synagogue leader’s heart was so cold, so encased in legalism, that he valued his schedule more than a woman's soul. He had forgotten what the Sabbath was even for. It was meant to be a day of rest, of holy communion with God—and what is more holy than participating in God's own work of liberation and healing?

Jesus's response is pure fire. "You hypocrites!"

He exposes their diseased hearts with a single, brilliant point: "Does not each one of you on the sabbath untie his ox or his ass... and lead it out for watering?"

You show more compassion to your livestock, your property, than you do to this "daughter of Abraham." You will untie an animal from a post, but you would leave a human being, your sister in the faith, bound by Satan himself—all to protect your precious rule.

This is the dead religion that Christ came to destroy. It’s the religion of checklists. The religion of self-righteousness. The religion that cares more about how you pray than that you pray. The religion that gets more upset about someone kneeling at the wrong time than about the brother or sister who is spiritually broken and starving for a single word of hope.

It forces me to ask myself: Where am I like that synagogue ruler?

Do I get more upset about liturgical "impropriety" than I do about the lack of charity in my own heart? Do I judge the person who comes to Mass dressed "wrong," or the one who doesn't seem to know when to stand or sit, rather than just being grateful that they, like the woman bent over, dragged themselves to God's house?

Do I, in my own "orthodoxy," forget to be merciful?

This Gospel is a wake-up call. It reminds us that our faith is not a set of rules, but a relationship with a living Person. And that Person is always, always on the side of liberation, mercy, and the restoration of human dignity.

The rules are there to guide us to Him, but they must never, ever become a wall that we build to keep Him—or others—out. Christ came to untie us, to lay His hands on us through His Church and His Sacraments, so that we, who are so often bent over by sin, shame, and worldly cares, can finally stand up straight... and join that woman in praising God.