Sign, Wonder, and the Art of Deflection

One day, Jesus entered a synagogue where he was offered an opportunity to teach (Luke 6:6-11). But this wasn’t just any day; it was the Sabbath. And there were specific regulations about what one could and could not do on the Sabbath.

So, when Jesus encountered a man in the synagogue whose right hand was withered, the religious leaders took notice and watched what Jesus would do. Their shared sense of outrage was ignited when Jesus reached out and healed the man, claiming that it was lawful to do good on the Sabbath. But the leaders saw it differently. For them, this act was nothing more than a flagrant violation of Sabbath law.

For Jesus, the healing was a sign of God’s kingdom. For the leaders, it was a sign of religious disregard. They saw the sign, but they lacked wonder. There would be no reflection on what was really happening in front of their eyes. And their interpretation of the sign was actually an act of deflection. If they could turn people’s attention to the violation, then the value of the healing might fade into insignificance.

That’s how deflection works. If people’s focus can be moved away from an act or an event to something consequential or tangential to it, then the thing itself is diminished in its value.

A man’s hand is restored, but the value of the healing is disregarded because of Sabbath violation.

There are protests about police brutality and racism, but the value of the reason for the protests is diminished when attention is diverted to the resulting violence and looting.

People cry out, “Black lives matter!” But the outcry is muffled when it is subsumed by the counter-cry, “All lives matter!”

We see signs of injustice, and such signs should also produce the kind of wonder that opens our eyes and hearts to the pain and suffering of others. But deflection diverts our attention in such a way that the sign is reinterpreted, diminished, or subsumed, and wonder becomes irrelevant.

Deflection is an art form. It can be helpful at a Thanksgiving dinner when weird Uncle Harold wants to start a political argument. Deflecting the conversation toward his interest in collecting rare coins or brewing beer might help save the family gathering from disruption and anguish.

But deflection can also be strategically employed in order to turn people’s attention from very real and important issues. The most effective aspect of such deflection is the legitimacy of the claims made by the deflectors. Yes, it was true that Jesus’ work of healing took place on the Sabbath. Yes, it is true that violence and looting are destructive acts. Yes, it is true that all human lives are of value.

But the art of deflection starts a new conversation that produces a fog that hides the real issues from view and makes them irrelevant. The restored hand is irrelevant because it was restored on the Sabbath. Police brutality and racism is irrelevant because violence and looting took place during some protests. The value of black lives is irrelevant because the value of everyone else’s lives swallows the violation of black lives into an abyss of disinterest.

People of faith, in particular, should not allow deflection to take priority over reflection. When we see the signs of injustice, we must allow wonder to emerge so that we see with open eyes and hear with open ears. Deflection closes us to the possibilities that the cries for justice that we hear may actually be invitations to enter the work of God’s kingdom. It should be the people of God who are among the first to respond to those signs and who do not allow the masters of deflection to have their way.

As Jesus said to his detractors: “When it is evening, you say, ‘It will be fair weather, for the sky is red.’ And in the morning, ‘It will be stormy today, for the sky is red and threatening.’ You know how to interpret the appearance of the sky, but you cannot interpret the signs of the times” (Matt. 16:2-3).

May it not be so among us.

A Fanciful Parable

Nahari: I'm going to Hell! I killed a child! I smashed his head against a wall.
Gandhi: Why?
Nahari: Because they killed my son! The Muslims killed my son!
[indicates boy's height]
Gandhi: I know a way out of Hell. Find a child, a child whose mother and father have been killed and raise him as your own.
[indicates same height]
Gandhi: Only be sure that he is a Muslim and that you raise him as one.
(from the movie, Gandhi, 1982)


A Parable

A large group gathered outside City Hall to express their protests regarding a significant social and political issue. Ten of the protesters got into a fight, five against five. They were arrested and brought before the magistrate.

The judge heard the defenses and then ordered each protester to meet privately with him, one at a time. Each person, after being interrogated, left the judge’s chambers looking puzzled, perplexed shoulders shrugging one after the other.

After a few hours, the judge returned to the bench.

“I have learned many things about each of you today, and I have a verdict to render and penalty to impose.

“You are guilty of unlawful assembly and disturbing the peace. You may choose one of two consequences.

“I have discovered that four of your number—two from each side—are talented at cooking. Two of your number—one from each side—are musicians. One week from today, you will turn yourselves in at the homeless shelter on Main Street. You will prepare a dinner party for a group of children who have recently been rescued from the streets. Those of you who do not cook or play music will serve, help with games, and clean up.

“If you choose not to participate in this, you will be taken immediately to jail where you will remain for six months, and then pay a fine of $10,000. Your choice.”

All the defendants chose the party.

On the day of the event, the cooks immediately began to argue about the issue that started the trouble in the first place. The musicians each bragged about the protest songs they had written against their enemies. The others just folded their arms and glared. The guard assigned to them reminded them all that the children would be arriving in a few hours and failure to serve them would result in a renewal of punishment number two.

So, the cooks began to talk together, sharing recipe ideas and sorting through the supplies that had been arranged for them. The musicians shared ideas about songs that would bring joy to these lost children, and even co-wrote one just for the event. The others began setting up chairs and tables, discussing the best way to create an environment of safety and fun for the children.

The children arrived on time, the last child followed into the room by the judge. The prisoners looked at one another and gulped nervously.

The party came off beautifully. The downcast, fearful faces of the children were transformed into beacons of light and hope. The food was delicious, the music glorious, the service attentive and fun. Once the children left and the room was cleaned and put back in order, the judge informed the prisoners that they had served their sentences well and were now released, free to return back to their former lives.

“May we stay a little while longer, judge?” said one of the cooks. “There’s a bit of food left, and we’d like to eat it together.”

“And we wrote a song together about our day,” said one of the musicians. “You might want to stay and hear it.”

“We’ve got an idea for another party for the children,” said one of the servers. “There are plans to make.”

The judge stayed and dined with the protesters. After the food was eaten, the song applauded, and the plans blessed, he asked them a question.

“So, are you no longer protesting against each other?”

“Oh, no,” said one of them. “There is much on which we disagree. But today we became human and real to one another. I still protest about the issue, but I no longer have enemies to protest against. I protest now among friends.”


The above story, sadly enough, is a work of fiction.