Sermons

“Miracles on Miracles

Psalm 130; Mark 5:21-43 – Rev. Rebecca Littlejohn

Vista La Mesa Christian Church (Disciples of Christ), La Mesa, California – July 1, 2018

Holy God, bless the speaking and the hearing of these words that your compassionate, healing love may flow among us and through us, embracing all people. In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.

Our story today is two stories, and because it is two stories, it’s more than two stories. It’s a story about the one and a story about the other, from this end and that end, and so it’s a story about all of us in between. Our story today can be your story, if you need a story, and eventually, all of us need a story. Our story today is two stories, and so your story can be this story too.

Our story is from thousands of years ago, but really, it began 12 years before that. Do you remember what you were doing 12 years ago? Had your story started yet? Twelve years seems like a long time if you’re only 12 years old. Others of us may be confused to realize that 2006 was over a decade ago. Our story today understands both perspectives.

You see, the writer of Mark’s gospel made it impossible for us to read the story of Jairus’ daughter without also reading the story of the woman with the hemorrhages. It just doesn’t work. Without the crowd gathered around Jesus to see what he does in response to Jairus’ request, the woman has no cover to sneak in and grasp at healing. And without her doing so, there’s no interlude in the drama during which the news from the daughter’s sick bed can change from bad to fatal.

Far more often than we should, preachers pull selections from scripture, skipping around to collect together the relevant verses, so that we don’t distract worshipers with the extraneous parts that don’t seem to fit. But you can’t do that with this story without damaging the integrity of the text. And I think Mark did that on purpose. Part of the point of these two stories is that they happened on top of one another. So we have to look at them together, examining their similarities and differences, and considering what they mean in relation to each other.

So let’s start at the beginning. Jairus has a name. This establishes him as a person of consequence, someone Mark’s original audience might have heard of. And indeed, he’s a leader of the synagogue, which means he was a prominent personage and likely wealthy. He could afford doctors, so it seems safe to assume he’d already called on some, though it’s not mentioned. His prominence also means he has something to lose – his status – by turning to Jesus, the traveling preacher, for help. It’s not certain that this was a risk, but from what we know about Jesus’ uneven reception by religious authorities, it’s highly possible. And yet, as soon as Jesus gets off the boat, there he is, throwing himself at Jesus’ feet.

There’s something else we don’t know about this part of the story. Near the end, we learn the little girl is twelve years old. But we don’t know much about the illness. Had she always been a sickly child? Had these twelve years been full of worry and pain? Or was this a new, sudden malady that took everyone by surprise? Was her father desperate because it had been going on so long, or because it was such a shock?

This question is answered very clearly in the second story. The woman – who is not given a name – had been suffering for twelve years, as long as the little girl had been alive. Perhaps this is a contrast; perhaps it is a similarity. We don’t know for sure. What we do know is that in almost every other way, this woman is the opposite of Jairus. She has no name. She is a woman. She has basically gone bankrupt trying to get relief from doctors. And far from being a prominent personage, her presence in that crowd was essentially illegal. Because of the nature of her malady, she would have been considered ritually unclean, which meant she was forbidden to be out in public where others might touch her and become unclean themselves. Indeed, Jesus himself became unclean when she reached out and touched the hem of his garment. Perhaps it is a mercy that Mark didn’t include her name. Or maybe he just had no idea who she was since she’d been living such an isolated existence for the past 12 years.

Two stories, two very different people, and yet one common thread running through: desperation twelve years in the making. What did it take for that father to come and throw himself at Jesus’ feet? What had he already tried? How had he already failed to help his little girl? What did he have to lose and why didn’t he care anymore? Was that woman really sure touching Jesus would heal her? Or did she just figure it couldn’t hurt to try? After twelve years, was she really expecting an end to her suffering? What does faith look like under such circumstances? People will do amazingly brave and hard and humiliating things when they’re desperate.

The Bible knows about desperation. Either Jairus or the hemorrhaging woman might have been reciting Psalm 130 to themselves as they made their way to Jesus. “Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord!” “My soul waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning, more than those who watch for the morning.” There are people in this room who know what it means to watch for the morning. When your pain, when your grief, when your worry keeps you up at night, dawn cannot come soon enough. The hours between 2 am and 5 am are the very longest hours ever when you can’t sleep. When you’re sitting at your child’s sickbed, when you’re shuddering in pain and weak with blood loss, when you’re wondering when your drunken loved one will get home, when you don’t know how to pay the bill that’s due tomorrow, when you’re worried your eyes aren’t working like they should, when you can hear the babies crying from another part of the detention center but can’t reach them to comfort them, it seems like dawn will never come. When you’ve exhausted all other possibilities, what is there to do but wait on the Lord? And why does the Lord take so long? Will the sun never rise? Perhaps we must just venture out in the darkness to seek salvation, though it seems dangerous and impossible.

People will do just about anything to save their children’s lives. This story is two stories and it’s two thousand stories. Living with chronic illness or pain shifts one’s perspective to the degree that what might seem like a long-shot to someone else becomes the best option for the one affected. This story is playing out all around us. And here is what we must notice and watch for: Jesus’ response, in both situations of suffering, was healing and life and mercy and inclusion. We will never know that woman’s name, but we know that Jesus called her “Daughter,” bringing her back into the family of God from which she’d been excluded for so long. All children are God’s children, which means all children are our children. We cannot give up hope, even when those around us are saying it’s too late.

Our story today is two stories, and because it’s two stories, it’s all the stories. All the situations of human desperation, all the life-threatening circumstances, all the pain and exhaustion and running out of options – all of it is part of the story of how God responds to us with healing and life and mercy and inclusion. All of it is part of the story of how God calls us to respond with healing and life and mercy and inclusion. Whether you’re facebooking with a friend at 3 am because neither one of you can sleep, or having coffee with friends who would otherwise be lonely or isolated, or singing lullabies outside a “tender age” detention center to help children feel less afraid, we can be the hands and feet and garment hem of Christ for those in desperate need.

The night is long. The dawn tarries. The pain is real, whether we’re a prominent personage or a poor woman sneaking around illegally. But faith calls us to wait for the Lord, to seek out Jesus and throw ourselves at his feet. Faith calls us to be like Jesus, willing to be interrupted even in the midst of life-or-death undertakings, in order to share God’s mercy a little more broadly. Like Jesus, we are not to be concerned with who is deserving or following the rules or going through the proper channels, but to spread healing and life and mercy and inclusion as widely as we possibly can. We are called to meet people’s desperation with love and welcome and help. We are called to sit beside those who are watching for morning, for the night is not as long when filled with hearty conversation. We are called to believe that even our own desperation can be tempered if we can reach out just far enough to touch the hem of his garment.

Our story today is two stories and two thousand stories. It’s our story and my story and your story and the story. Eventually, all of us need a story, and our faith has given us one. Let us give thanks and praise! Alleluia and Amen!