Napkin Sense

I love the story of the man who was healed of the withered hand (Matt 12). But this story is one of more than just restoring physical health to a man’s crippled hand! I always picture this unnamed man like Napoleon. One hand was free, the other slipped under his cloak and hidden from everyone’s sight. That droopy, gnarled, withered up, lifeless hand held close to his lower chest under his garments like a crippled wing of a bird. It’s more than a medical problem; it’s mental and emotional as well. Was the wound the result of an unwelcome birth defect or some mindless accident? I imagine the latter. Working at the local mill, he glances away as he trudges through another nine to five monotonous drudgery of ripping an almost completed piece of timber only to hear a loud snap and to find pain racing from his wrist to his brain. He lets out a horrid scream to his co-workers as he futilely tries to free his wrist from the timber that has clamped his right hand and wrist in a vice-like grip. Minutes later, he is free, but not until the circulation had stopped and his hand grows blue. The first thought through his mind was how stupid of me! Self-flagellation continues day after day as he beats himself to a pulp.

That particular Sabbath was driven more by curiosity than faith. He had heard of Jesus. It was rumored that he was in the area and, as His custom was, He would show up at the Temple. But dare he let hope slip from his heart? He shrugged yesterday’s daydreaming thoughts turned to a half-hearted prayer off as he struggled with his garb. The usual, yes, the usual wool cloak he slipped on last that gave him a sense of comfort—more than covering his maimed hand under its looseness—but more so, the out-of-sight-out-of-mind false mental comfort. He hated this merging of emotions as he stepped out into the rising sun unto the street headed for the Temple. There was this false sense of solace that he had by covering the wound that dangled lifelessly under his clothes mixed with the stupidity that had caused it.

As he entered the gate to the Temple, he noticed a heightened buzzing atmosphere where the usual Pharisee and Sadducee spirit collided. Strangely, this time the two sides were side by side in an apparent coalition against a common foe. As he entered the Temple, never had he seen such a sight nor felt such a hair-raising climate, except for the day on Lake Galilee when he was fishing and the hair stood straight up on both forearms during the lighting and thunderstorm.

He slipped unnoticed into his corner leaning against the wall. Instantly, he figured it out. “Oh,” he thought as he muttered smiling, “This is Jesus.” Bantering went back and forth about “the law of Moses regarding the Sabbath” with livid looks on the local temple leaders he knew so well. Questions started to pop up in his mind like bubbles in an overheated pot. “Why are our teachers so red-faced? All I’ve heard about Jesus are that His miracles of kindness and that His down to earth teachings seem to make our traditions come alive!” he mumbled. What he did know for sure—amidst all the questions— was that there was a strange flow of life from Jesus in contrast to the usually deadness he felt here on these Sabbath days. The subject today was about observing the holy days. He slipped down the wall to avoid attracting any more attention from the smirk on his face as Jesus continued to stifle the leaders with his pragmatic teachings that the Temple leaders couldn’t refute. He put his head down between his legs to hide the chuckle he just couldn’t hold in. Suddenly, as he stood and straightened his back, Jesus called him over.” What now?” he thought as he timidly ambled towards Jesus. It was Jesus’ eyes of tenderness that impacted him first. The eyes spoke before he heard the words. What they said coursed into his crippled mind and emotions. It was if they were speaking to a deeper wound that contrasted to the deadened, lame hand. “It wasn’t your fault! It wasn’t your fault!” Then again, one last time, “It wasn’t your fault!” This was the cry of David he now understood from the Psalms, “Deep cries to deep.” A deep sigh released an unnecessary load of guilt. Finally, forgiveness; someone understood. Then Jesus spoke, “Show me your withered hand!” He wanted to extend his left hand, the whole one. But Jesus’ eyes dropped to the one under his cloak. A hush had settled around them. An occasional low gasp could be heard as he withdrew the lame hand. Could it be? As he drew his hand out of his robe, he felt the scratch of the wool cloth against the back of his hand. A tender smile creased his face as he lifted his eyes and head upward towards Jesus. Both smiled. First, it was awe - total, awestruck wonder. He looked at his fingers as he straightened them, then back at Jesus in awe and wonder. Which felt more exhilarating? Was it the hand with life coursing through it? Or was it the lightness on his shoulders from the release of guilt from his years of self-condemnation?

Eldridge says it so eloquently, “Our grief validates us, it tells us our wound mattered.”

The debate had ended with an object lesson—no more words—but this demonstration of love and power. So much for the decades of empty debate about the resurrection of the dead, the existence of angels, the observance of the Sabbath and miracles! Here stood the Lord of the Sabbath. Here stood the Creator of life and angels! And here he stood—the miracle! The wounds—both of them—healed!