Words have always fascinated me. Words hold such power. They have the power to destroy and the power to bring life. All the more so when it is God’s words . . . and God’s Word. One word in particular intrigued me from the Gospel reading for this Sunday. In the original Greek the word is prosfwnew (prosphoneo). It’s not a particular common word, nor is it particularly interesting in itself. It just means ‘to call out to’, ‘to address’. But, in Luke’s Gospel it is used only twice and both times with the meaning ‘to call to oneself’.

When Jesus chooses the twelve he ‘calls his disciples to himself’ (Luke 6:13). Then, in this story, Jesus ‘calls a crippled woman to himself’ (Luke 13:12). There were other words Luke could have used but he chose this word to describe both situations. Fascinating. Intriguing. For me, at least.

Well, whatever else that might mean, one thing is for sure: on both occasions Jesus’ call turns nobodies into somebodies.

It’s all about render these days. You know, the stuff they plaster over brickwork on houses to make them look smooth and polished and appealing. Perfect house, perfect life, right? Isn’t that how we like to present our lives: shiny, polished and rendered? At least on the outside! Cover up the cracks, the chips, the dents, the faded lustre. And everything’s fine as long anyone doesn’t peer too closely.

Perhaps that’s why Jesus upsets so many people? He peers too closely. But, that’s what he’s here to do. To expose the cracks. Which is the opposite to what we would do. But, that’s Jesus; he can be a bit contrary at times! Division not peace! What’s that about? Could it be, in his contrariness, he invites us to discover who we really are, especially as Christians? Not perfect, flawless creatures, but cracked and broken human beings repaired with love. The kind of love that doesn’t hide the imperfections, but mends them and makes them human. And, I suspect, if we could fully embrace our humanness, then the world would find peace.

One night a house caught fire and a young boy was forced to flee to the roof. The father stood on the ground below with outstretched arms, calling to his son, “Jump! I’ll catch you.” He knew the boy had to jump to save his life. All the boy could see, however, was flame, smoke, and blackness. As can be imagined, he was afraid to leave the roof. His father kept yelling: “Jump! I will catch you.” But the boy protested, “Daddy, I can't see you.” The father replied, “But I can see you. That’s what matters. Listen for my voice. I’ll catch you. I promise.”

Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.