Sermon based on Luke 13:10-17
She had gotten used to looking at people out of the corner of her eye. After eighteen years, she could hardly remember any other way of seeing the world. Her spine bent, her back locked, she lived in a posture that forced her down toward the ground. Imagine what that does to someone’s spirit. Always looking at people’s feet. Only catching glimpses of faces when they leaned into her field of vision.
Maybe she had learned to measure kindness by the shoes she saw in front of her. Sturdy sandals worn thin by labor. The embroidered slippers of the well-off. Dusty feet of children darting by. She never saw the expressions people made when they looked at her. She just had to guess.
Luke tells us she had been this way for eighteen years. Long enough for her condition to become part of her identity. Long enough for people in town to say, “Oh, you know her, the “bent-over” woman.” That’s how life works sometimes. A wound, an illness, a season of grief, a reputation, and it becomes the whole way people recognize you.
On this Sabbath day, she enters the synagogue like she always does. She shows up faithfully. She’s not hiding. She still comes to worship, still takes her place in the assembly. Luke makes a point to note that she was there. And Jesus notices her.
That’s the first miracle. Before any healing, before a word is spoken, Jesus sees her. Out of the crowd, out of all the faces, he notices the one who has been overlooked for almost two decades.
And here’s something remarkable: Jesus doesn’t wait for her to approach him. She doesn’t plead, doesn’t even ask. Jesus calls her forward. He interrupts his own teaching to draw her out of the shadows.
There’s something profoundly liberating just in that moment. When someone finally sees you, not for your condition or your label, but as a daughter of Abraham. A person with dignity. A beloved child of God.
Then comes the word. Not a dramatic ritual. Not some theatrical display. Just a word:
“Woman, you are set free from your sickness.”
And that’s it. Jesus lays his hands on her, and immediately she stands up straight.
Luke doesn’t linger on the mechanics of the healing. This miracle isn’t about spectacle. It’s about freedom. Luke even phrases it in the divine passive: “She was straightened up.” God is the agent here. The power isn’t in Jesus putting on a show; it’s in God’s mercy breaking through in this ordinary synagogue on an ordinary Sabbath.
And when she stands tall for the first time in eighteen years, her first instinct is praise. She doesn’t make it about herself. She doesn’t launch into a testimony about her faith. She praises God. That’s what liberation looks like: the weight lifted, the spine uncurved, the vision cleared, and suddenly, praise bursts out.
But not everyone is clapping.
The synagogue leader sees what’s happened and goes straight into rule-keeping mode. He doesn’t even address Jesus directly; he lectures the crowd. “There are six days during which work is permitted. Come and be healed on those days, not on the Sabbath day.”
This man isn’t cruel. He’s not a cartoon villain. He’s a synagogue leader trying to preserve the sanctity of the Sabbath. His reasoning has roots in the Torah. Work is forbidden on the seventh day. Healing, to him, counts as work. And so his complaint isn’t out of malice but out of devotion to the law.
And let’s be honest, we understand this instinct. Rules help us know who we are. Traditions help us hold life together. When someone challenges those traditions, it can feel threatening, even if what’s happening is good.
But Jesus answers the synagogue leader with a piercing logic: “Hypocrites! Don’t each of you on the Sabbath untie your ox or donkey from its stall and lead it out to get a drink? Then isn’t it necessary that this woman, a daughter of Abraham, bound by Satan for eighteen long years, be set free from her bondage on the Sabbath day?”
Notice what he’s doing. He’s not abolishing the Sabbath. He’s not saying the synagogue leader is wrong to honor it. He’s re-centering its purpose. Sabbath, after all, is about freedom. In the Old Testament Deuteronomy 5 roots Sabbath in the liberation from Egypt: “Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the Lord your God brought you out … therefore the Lord your God commanded you to keep the sabbath day.”
The Sabbath command isn’t just “don’t work.” It’s “remember that God set you free.”
So when Jesus heals this woman on the Sabbath, he’s not breaking it. He’s fulfilling it. What better day to release someone from bondage than the very day that celebrates God’s deliverance?
And then comes that beautiful phrase, one we don’t hear anywhere else in Scripture: “Daughter of Abraham.”
In a world where lineage mattered, where being a son of Abraham was a mark of covenant identity, Jesus lifts this woman into that same lineage. He names her as fully part of God’s family, not defined by her affliction, not sidelined by her condition.
Think about what that did for her. For eighteen years, she had been identified by her ailment. Now Jesus identifies her by her belonging. She is a daughter of Abraham. That’s who she really is.
Luke places this story right before two tiny parables: the mustard seed and the yeast. Something small, overlooked, insignificant, that’s what the kingdom of God is like.
Isn’t that exactly what happens here? A woman bent over, invisible, considered insignificant. And in her healing, the kingdom of God breaks in. Something small turns into rejoicing for the whole community.
The crowd, Luke says, was delighted at all the wonderful things Jesus was doing. The community sees her now, not as “the bent-over woman” but as a fellow worshiper praising God. Her restoration is their restoration too.
But let’s not sanitize the conflict. This story is not only about a personal healing. It’s about what happens when God’s liberating work collides with our settled traditions.
The synagogue leader wasn’t trying to be cruel. He was trying to be faithful. Yet in his zeal to protect the law, he missed the heart of the law. How often do we do the same?
How often do churches cling to traditions that keep people out rather than bring people in? How often do we use our rules as shields to protect us from God’s disruptive grace?
One of the most striking parts of the story is the word Jesus uses: edei, which can mean “ought to, or isn’t it necessary”
“isn’t it necessary that this woman, a daughter of Abraham, bound by Satan for eighteen long years, be set free from her bondage on the Sabbath day?”
Not tomorrow. Not after the appropriate waiting period. Not when the timing feels less controversial. Now.
When God’s liberating power is at hand, there is no waiting for a more convenient day. Grace doesn’t run on our schedule. Healing can’t be postponed to protect propriety.
We live in a world that tells us to wait. Wait until the budget is stable. Wait until the right leader is in place. Wait until the community is ready. But Jesus won’t wait. When the kingdom breaks in, it demands urgency. It demands now.
This raises the question Luke wants us to wrestle with: What kind of community do we want to be?
Do we want to be the kind of community that protects rules at the expense of people? Or the kind of community that risks disruption for the sake of liberation?
Because every community has its “bent-over daughters of Abraham.” People carrying burdens for years. People who’ve grown accustomed to being overlooked. People waiting for someone to notice them.
And the question is whether we will create a space where Jesus’ liberating word can be spoken to them.
Think about how this plays out in our time.
- A young adult who grew up in church but carries deep religious trauma, wondering if they’ll ever belong again.
- A veteran with PTSD who walks into worship carrying invisible chains.
- A single parent stretched thin, bent under the weight of responsibilities.
- A teenager wrestling with their identity, hearing mixed messages about whether they are fully loved.
What happens when they come through our doors? Do they find a community bound by rules? Or do they hear Jesus’ voice saying, “Come here. You are set free.”
One of the quiet miracles in this story is vision. For eighteen years, the woman’s gaze was fixed on the ground. She couldn’t look people in the eye. And the community couldn’t see her fully either.
But when Jesus straightens her, vision is restored, hers and theirs. She sees them face-to-face. They see her as more than her condition.
That’s what liberation does: it restores our vision. We start seeing people we’d ignored. We start noticing mustard seeds that can grow into shelter. We start recognizing the yeast that can transform the whole loaf.
Of course, not everyone rejoices. Luke tells us the crowd was delighted, but the opponents were put to shame. Whenever liberation happens, there’s always resistance. Systems don’t like to be disrupted. Leaders don’t like to be shamed. Traditions don’t like to be unsettled.
This story isn’t neat and tidy. The woman is healed, yes. But Jesus has also created tension, drawn lines, exposed fault lines in the community. That’s what happens when the kingdom breaks in. It doesn’t just make individuals whole. It shakes up the whole system.
And let’s not forget the woman herself. After eighteen years of silence, of invisibility, she gets the last word. She praises God.
Luke doesn’t record her exact words. Maybe she shouted. Maybe she sang. Maybe she whispered through tears. Whatever it sounded like, her voice joins the chorus of Mary, Zechariah, Simeon, and all the others in Luke who erupt in praise when God’s mercy breaks in.
Her praise reverberates with the crowd’s rejoicing. That’s the sound of liberation.
So what does this mean for us?
It means we’re invited to stop waiting for a more convenient time to bring healing. It means we’re called to see the ones who’ve been bent low and name them as daughters and sons of Abraham. It means we’re challenged to let our traditions serve liberation rather than hinder it.
Most of all, it means we’re invited to praise. To stand tall in the mercy of God and rejoice at the life-changing things Jesus is still doing.
The woman came into the synagogue looking at the ground. She left looking at God’s people face-to-face. She came bent low. She walked away standing tall. She came anonymous. She left named as a daughter of Abraham.
That’s what happens when Jesus shows up. That’s what happens when the kingdom of God breaks in.
The question for us is simple: What kind of community will we be?
Will we cling to rules that keep people bent low? Or will we join the bent-over woman in standing tall, praising God, and rejoicing at the wonderful things he is still doing?
By: Rev. Dave Wasson
Dove Sermons 
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