June 30, 2024
Pentecost 6, Year B
Epiphany, Winnipeg
Mark 5:21-43
“He took the child by the hand and said to her, ‘Little child, get up.’” And immediately she got up, and started to walk around. Then Jesus told them to get her something to eat.
The child’s father is Jairus, and here’s what happens with him. He’s a leader of the synagogue, an important member of the community, an organizer; he gets things done. His neighbours respect him and he has some pull, so when he asks for attention he gets it. He’s Jairus, he’s a leader, but he has a daughter who is on death’s door. So Jairus comes to Jesus, and all can do is beg: “I can’t do anything, I can’t fix this, I can’t organize or lead or spend my way out of this. Please just come, and lay your hands on my daughter and she will be OK.” For a few minutes after that he’s still a leader of the synagogue, as they push through the crowd on their way to his home. But when they arrive at the house they hear that his daughter has died, and he’s not called a leader any more. Now he’s the child’s father, along with the child’s mother, as they fear and they hope for their daughter. “Jesus took the child’s father and mother and went in to where the girl was.”
Death or illness or suffering have a way of doing that, don’t they? All of a sudden you’re not your job or your strength or your weakness or your wealth. Like Jairus, you just become the human with a breaking heart or a struggling spirit, and being a strong leader or commanding respect just don’t seem so important any more. And Jesus goes with the child’s father and mother to where the child is.
Here’s what happens to a woman with no name who has had these hemorrhages for 12 years. As many years as there are tribes of Israel, as many years as there are disciples, so the commentaries written by men say. But more than that, there’s just something wrong inside, and at least one woman I know has said that any woman hearing this story will somehow nod and say, “I get it.” So she’s spent everything she has on doctors, and she’s run out of money and options…except for one option. She’s heard of Jesus, so she finds him in the crowd and says “If I just touch his coat I’ll be healed. I’m sure of it.” So she elbows her way through the crowd, and her faith, this trust that comes from who-knows-where, her faith just says, “Go ahead, touch his coat.” And she does. And she’s healed. And now she’s not “woman suffering from hemorrhages” anymore, she’s the woman. And she has this conversation with Jesus, and then he calls her Daughter: “Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace, farewell, and go on with your life of being well.”
She is not her illness or her condition any more. She is not only “the woman with a medical problem.” Instead, Jesus names her as someone who is connected, someone in relationship, someone in community, like a daughter or a mother or a friend or more. The point is not that if we all just believe like her we’ll get rid of our illness too; we know it doesn’t work like that. But now this woman – go ahead and give her a name, just think of one – she’s more than whether she’s healthy or how her reproductive system works. She’s a daughter, a friend, a neighbour, a person among people.
And finally, here’s what happens to a twelve-year-old girl. She’s been alive as long as the one Jesus just called Daughter has been ill. She’s at the beginning of a new time of her life, but something has happened, we don’t know what, and her death is coming close. All we know of her is that something is taking away her life,and she can’t stop it or slow it any more than her dad or her mom can. But then Jesus comes into the room and takes her by the hand and says, “Get up.” Notice – that he doesn’t take her by the hand and pull her up and set her on her feet. He just holds her hand and says, “Get up.” And she gets up.
These are stories about faith. When Jesus talks to the woman whose hemorrhaging was healed, he doesn’t say, “My touch healed you, or my word healed you, or I did this or that and healed you.” Instead he just says, “Your faith made you well.” And it’s not that her faith was the right kind or that she had enough or that it set some kind of magic process in motion. It’s just that she trusted that something good would happen in the presence of Jesus, something worth struggling through the crowd to find.
It’s just that she trusted. That’s what faith is.
When Jesus and Jairus came to the home where Jairus’ daughter was dying, his messengers and his neighbours all said that she had died, and that’s the end of the story, and that’s who she is now – the child who died. Then Jesus says, “Don’t be afraid. Have faith. Trust me.” And when everyone is weeping and wailing and insisting that dying and not living is who this girl is now, Jesus kicks the neighbours out of the house. He throws them out, because they are standing in the way of Jairus’ trust, a trust that pushed him to go look for Jesus when he had no other options.
It’s just that Jairus trusted. That’s what faith is.
These are stores about faith. And faith doesn’t mean thinking the right thoughts, or having the right ideas about God. Faith doesn’t mean accepting the facts or even knowing the facts. Faith is like this woman who has run out of options and money, and something inside says, “I trust that this one can heal me.”
Faith is like a leader, a strong one, who can’t lead or be strong anymore but who trusts that whatever Jesus is doing is stronger than what death can do.
Faith is like a roomfull of people who will soon find themselves shuffling up the aisle to kneel or stand and receive gifts of bread and wine. We are all sorts of people here. Leaders and those who prefer a lower-key kind of life, weak or strong or somewhere in between. The ones like Jairus and the ones who are happy to be part of the crowd, maybe less visible. There are those of us who are sure of this whole church and belief and Christian and Lutheran thing, and some of us might be kind of…shaky about the whole thing, or not quite sure where we’re at. Healthy and well, glad to be here or wishing we were at the lake (be honest, it’s OK). Some of us will know exactly why we’re coming up for communion, some might be not-so-sure but we come anyway. We have fears for ourselves or for someone we love. We all know our own baggage. And we’ve all heard a thing or two about Jesus, so we’ll work our way through the crowd and say “I’ve heard you can help. I trust that you can. So here I am.”
Faith is like a roomfull of people here, who kneel or stand at the rail or stay where they are while the bread and wine are carried their way. We’ll reach out our hands for the bread or to take the wine; we’ll reach out along with the woman who comes up so she can reach out and touch Jesus’ robe. We’ve just come because we hear the words “This is given for you.” And somewhere on the surface or deep inside we’ve said, “Yes, this is for me. Yes, this is for us.” Even if I don’t understand it at all – and who really does? – Jesus says “This is for you.” Then we reach out in trust.
And Jesus turns around in the crowd and speaks and for that moment we are more than our role in the community, leaders or followers. We are more than our
illness or our health, more than the way we live or the fact that we will die. Jesus turns around in the crowd and says, “Daughter, son, Jairus, insert your name here, your faith has made you well. Go in peace. You are well.”
And here we are, even if we’re feeling like that twelve year old girl who for a time cannot rise up to live again. And Jesus takes us by the hand and says, “Daughter, son, Jairus, insert your name here, stand up.” And he looks around and say, “Now get these people some food.”