Sometimes you read a passage of scripture and think, “What is the point of this?” So distant it is from your circumstances that it seems mundane, unimportant. I mean, my heart is broken for a friend who experienced a huge trauma and I choose to read a debate on Sabbath keeping from the Gospel of Mark instead of a gut-wrenching Psalm? How on earth does an argument on Sabbath speak to me?
Then I’m pierced with a verse.
“He [Jesus] looked around at them [Pharisees] in anger and, deeply distressed at their stubborn hearts, said to the man, “Stretch out your hand.”
Jesus is furious at the brokenness of this world. Good. Finally. I need an angry Jesus this morning.
Because I’m angry.
Too many why’s. Too much stubbornness. Too many shriveled hands in this world and not enough ambassadors of grace saying, “Stretch out your hand.”
This is not how the world is supposed to be.
Jesus does good–saves a life–on the Sabbath and pharisees ignore the miracle, and instead plot to kill him. Kill the Grace that gave life? This world is so upside down. Tipped on its side and bleeding out. Who can stop the emptying to certain death?
“Stretch out your hand,” Jesus said to the hurting man.
And I cry back to Jesus, “Stretch out your hand and heal us, this world.”
Stretch out your hand and stop this bleeding.
And He did. Not only his hand, but his hands. Both his hands.
I need that this morning. Not just an angry Jesus, but a hand-stretched out, bleeding Jesus.
He knows pain. He knows. And that’s the comfort I need this morning. That he’s been there, broken.