The man in the story was so stuck in his own feelings of powerlessness that he couldn't see the opportunity for healing right in front of him. Jesus could have waited around for the waters to be stirred, ordered his disciples to pick up the man, and the same result could have been effected. Instead, he jumps right to the heart of the man's issue and tells him to stand up and walk. No waiting for the waters to magically turn on. No waiting for someone else to come to the rescue. Just get up and be made whole.
Throughout human history, we've had to face the reality that some people enjoy the privilege of certain bodily and sensory experiences from which others are excluded. Some can see while others are blind. Some can hear while others are deaf. Some can speak while others are mute. Some can touch while others either lack the nerve ability to experience the sense of touch or have conditions that make touch a painful experience. In short, some can while others cannot. Yet again, we're faced with an us/them reality.
Twenty-five times in the entire psalm — that's how frequently you'll find the word "law" in Psalm 119 (at least in the NRSV). For a gay man like me, any talk of God's "law" felt like a knife to the neck, waiting to sever an artery. In my pre-coming-out days when my prayers were filled with supplications for God to change, fix, or straighten me out, the law referred to those passages in Leviticus that pointed out just how broken I was, that reminded me of the doom I would face should I surrender myself to my heathen ways. In short, the law was a tool of shame and oppression. It certainly wasn't something in which I could ever find myself experiencing "delight."
Inevitably in any Lenten lectionary, in any conversation about scripture passages relating to the crucifixion, this one, Psalm 22, is going to make an appearance. Quite frankly, one reason I appreciate this psalm is its brutal emotional honesty, which feels insanely jumbled and dissonant — kind of like my own brain and heart.
...The next day he saw Jesus coming toward him and declared, “Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world! This is he of whom I said, ‘After me comes a man who ranks ahead of me because he was before me.’ I myself did not know him; but I came baptizing with water for this reason, that he might be revealed to Israel.” And John testified, “I saw the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and it remained on him. I myself did not know him, but the one who sent me to baptize with water said to me, ‘He on whom you see the Spirit descend and remain is the one who baptizes with the Holy Spirit.’ And I myself have seen and have testified that this is the Son of God.”
...Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame, and has taken his seat at the right hand of the throne of God...
I can remember the first time I saw Frankie read the cards. He was dealing with some questions about his own career path and life journey, and there in our bedroom, on top of a comforter gifted to us for our wedding, he laid out a spread. I was dealing with my own questions at that time, particularly about pursuing chaplaincy and ordination. So I asked him to read for me, and he proceeded to do so. But I had questions. Was he telling the future, or something else? How did he know what the cards meant? Where and how did he learn to tell the story? Was this divine (or demonic) inspiration?
...we might experience illness and the symptoms that come with it, but we are not our illnesses. We are not depression, anxiety, cancer, tumors, amputated limbs, developmental delays, or any other clinical diagnosis. Yet for many who cope with the reality of illness, mental illness in particular (I'm biased here and I will fully own that), the line between diagnosis and identity is blurred verging on nonexistent. I think there's something wrong with that picture.
Contrary to popular belief, shame isn't as invisible to the people around us as we might like it to be. When it comes to shame, I don't think anyone has the perfect poker face. Try as we might to keep our wounds covered, sometimes the blood seeps through the shirts we wear, illuminating our emotional mortality to the outside world. We think it's invisible, yet we also like to think that we can tell what's going on with someone else. If I can see you, then isn't it safe to assume you can see me?