The man with a withered arm tells his story

               Have you ever felt used and abused?  I have – just about all my life – all thanks to this; my ugly, useless arm.

               Do you know, nobody looks me in the eye when we meet?  Well, at least not for long.  I watch their eyes creeping down my arm and then widen in barely concealed revulsion when they reach my hand.  I suppose I’ve become immune to it, just like I got used to my brother’s jibing: ‘Hey Bro, lend us a hand, will you?  Good job we only need one!’   Yes, I’ve had to learn to cope with lots of things my disability brings.  In fact, some people even comment on how ingenious I am with only the one good hand to work with.  That’s nice – but reminder of my ‘problem’ just the same.

               What I really don’t like is when I find myself being used; like when they hold me up as an example for teaching or as a test to see how others will respond.  Don’t they think I might have thoughts and feelings of my own?  It is my arm that is withered, after all; not my brain!  So, I expect you can guess how I fumed inside the other day when they called me out in the synagogue and made me come up to the front.

               Usually, I sit at the back for the gathering.  I slip in quietly and keep as low a profile as possible.  They like it that way.  They don’t want reminding of my imperfection.  It seems like it is an insult to them and to God.  But today they had bigger fish to fry and I was the perfect tool for the job.  They paraded me obviously, like a lamb to bait the trap.  And all the time they were watching for Jesus.

               As soon as he came in, he saw me.  A look from my face to theirs and he had taken it all in.  For a moment he paused, dropping his shoulders in a deep sigh.  Then he looked up, straight in my eye, as if to say he understood – to forgive and reassure me. 

‘Come here, my friend; let us see you!’  he said.

               Oddly, I didn’t feel at all used by Jesus, even though he had chosen to play their game.  It was like we were both victims thrown in to the arena, and there was no enmity between us.  Instinctively I knew he was on my side.  I sensed his indignation burning.  He did not like it at all that they thought to use me to trap him in this way.  He was determined to fight for me, and rescue me.  So, without hesitation, he went straight to where the battle had been called.  ‘Okay, if that’s how you want it,’ his posture implied, ’let’s play!’  

               Now, I had heard that Jesus didn’t have much regard for our Sabbath law, but I didn’t expect him to push so far.  This was a dangerous game he was playing, going in for an all-out attack, because they simply were not for backing down.   The Sabbath, to them, is not just a side issue; it is core to being God’s chosen people.  Laid down in the Ten Commandments of Moses, it has always been a mark of our identity.  It is not to be messed with at all.

               I am sure Jesus knew this, but he wasn’t going to be put off.  Their humiliating me in this way seemed to add fuel to his fire.  He called out the challenge: ‘So, which is legal on the Sabbath: to do good or evil, to save life or to kill?’ 

Normally a rabbi’s asking of this kind of question would have triggered a whole chorus of lively debate, with everyone having an opinion to share.  No doubt, after a good-natured argument, they would go home from the synagogue happy!   But not today.  Today the stakes were too high.  No-one dared speak.  Not a word.

               Jesus’ anger flamed.  Standing so close, I could see the distress their stubbornness caused to him.  Not distress for his own sake (even if he was in such a precarious position) but for mine.  And, I think, for theirs too. 

               ‘Stretch out you hand!’ he told me in a tone I could not refuse. 

Instinctively, I started to move my good hand before I checked myself, realising he meant the other.  That caused a small smile to pass between us before he gave a slight nod of encouragement.  For one more second, I didn’t quite know what to do, but with another nod he indicated my withered hand and I thought: for his sake and to show them, I’m jolly well going to do it!

 I stretched the arm out as far as it had ever gone before.  And then further.  And then further still!  With a gasp from my mouth as loud as the gasp from the crowd, I saw my useless arm fully outstretched for the very first time.  Bent fingers straightened.  Colour returned.  Strength flowed in. 

I wiggled my fingers and shook my arm down, turned the palm up and down in rapid succession, then looked up into the face of Jesus.  There I saw a smile as big and as warm as imagined my own to be!  He grasped me by the hand and shook it.  Then we hugged and delightedly slapped each other on the back as cries of wonder swept through the crowd.

               I then turned to the Pharisees, and for a moment was tempted to use my new movement to give them a very rude gesture.  In the end I just smiled sheepishly to their stony faces and waved.  That brought laughter and applause from most of the audience, but the Pharisees remained stiff and silent.  They stood for a moment, glaring.  Then they turned and walked out with murder in their eyes.

Jesus had played his hand. Now, I am certain, they will play theirs.