I stood there on the cool Saturday morning,
Exhausted, lonely, wondering, worn.
Week after week I carried out holy rituals,
Woven hallah bread on the alter,
12 loaves, one for each tribe,
A reminder of deliverance and provision.
A reminder to rest and trust.
But such rest eludes me.
Where can it be?
In the distance I saw them.
Strolling through the grain field,
Picking, Plucking,
Nibbling on grains of wheat.
Working on the Sabbath.
Jesus and his disciples, Lawbreakers.
I ask, “Why are you doing what is unlawful on the Sabbath?”
He answers my question with a question.
Of course I know about the time when the high priest fed David and his men consecrated hallah bread as they fled the murderous rage of Saul.
Of course I know.
Of course I know.
But then he followed with,
“The Sabbath was made for people, not people for the Sabbath. So the Son of Man is Lord even of the Sabbath.”
Stunned. I stood and thought,
“Forgive him Lord, he knows not what he is doing.”
A stumbling block.
Sabbath.