Pastor Dwaine Bruns
Sermon – 4th Sunday after Pentecost
Based on Mark 5: 21-43
June 28, 2009
This is a wonderful Gospel
text we read today. We see Jesus at his
most compassionate and powerful. First
there is the way he takes time for this woman whose illness has brought her a
life of isolation and loneliness. But in
Jesus’ presence, she is restored to health – and commended for her faith. And then Jesus ignores the doubts of a crowd
as enters a house where it seems death has had the last word – but there with a
life-giving touch he raises this little girl from the dead – and restores her
to a grieving father.
Yes, I love these
stories. They are filled with the hope
and power and healing that comes from God. But even as I say that – I have to admit there is one little thing about
these stories that troubles me: It
doesn’t always turn out this way. There
are times when no matter how much people plead – no matter how much faith is
present – miracles don’t happen. I know
that. So do you.
I don’t like to say it. After all, I’m a pastor. One of the most important things I do is pray
for people – often prayers for healing. And one of most meaningful things we do in this congregation is our
periodic healing services – times when people come to receive the laying on of
hands and individual prayers for the challenges they are facing in their
lives. It is powerful thing to be a part
of. And I believe in these important
ministries. I trust that God is present,
that something happens, that people are touched by
God’s love.
But I can’t read this Gospel
story today without thinking about Jenny. I’ve told you about her before. She was a confirmation student who stopped me one day after class and
said, “Pastor, I don’t think I believe in prayer any more.” So I said, “Jenny, why would you say
that?” And she said to me, “When my
grandma got sick, I prayed that she would get well. I prayed hard. I prayed every day. But she didn’t get well. My grandma died.”
That happened over 25 years
ago, but I can close my eyes and still see Jenny. The bright red hair and sparking blue eyes –
but most of all, I see the pain and doubt on her face. What do you say to someone like Jenny?
But the truth is – I don’t
need to talk about Jenny. I can talk
about me. A year and a half ago, I was
here in my office when the phone call from my sister came. My brother was scheduled to have a fairly
routine procedure done at the hospital that day. But something had gone wrong, there was an
emergency. So when I hung up the phone –
I prayed. And my sister prayed and I
know my brother’s wife in that waiting room prayed. But a half an hour later the phone rang
again. My brother was gone.
And I know that many of you
have also been where I was that day. Believing in a loving and powerful Savior, but struggling to make sense
of the illness, the pain, the grief that still touches you or someone that you
love. Trusting in the power of prayer,
but wondering why the miracles and healings that happen in today’s Gospel lesson, often don’t
take place in our lives. And it’s not
that we don’t have faith. We just don’t
understand.
It makes me think of
something that one of my favorite authors, Barbara Brown Taylor once wrote
about this passage. The title was, “The
trouble with miracles.” “The trouble
with miracles,” she says, “is that it is hard to witness them – (like in
today’s lesson for example) – without wanting one of your own. Every one of us knows someone who is
suffering. Every one of us knows someone
who could use a miracle, but miracles are hard to come by. Not everyone who prays for one gets one, and
meanwhile, some get them without even asking.”
With those realities in mind,
how are we to understand the story we heard from Mark’s Gospel today? If it doesn’t offer us a formula for miracles
in our time, in our lives – is there something else for us to learn?
Let’s go back to the
text. Jesus is on the road when he is
confronted by a prominent man named Jairus. Jairus is a leader in the synagogue – probably in charge of the worship
there. But he’s faced with a problem
where status means nothing at all. His
daughter is gravely ill.
And for those of us who are
parents, we understand the desperation that Jairus feels. If you’ve had a child, or grandchild who was
seriously sick, you know what it’s like to wish you could take that pain upon
yourself instead. When his daughter was
in the hospital struggling with anorexia, author Frederick Beuchner wrote these
words, “the only way I knew how to be her father was to take care of her – to
move heaven and earth to make her well, and, of course, I couldn’t do
that. I had neither the wisdom nor the
power to make that happen.”
It was helplessness like that
that led this desperate, loving father to the feet of Jesus – this traveling
preacher with a reputation for healing. He’s grasping, begging for any glimmer of hope. And to his relief, Jesus joins Jairus on a
journey back to his home.
But just then, there’s an
interruption. A woman,
as quietly and inconspicuously as possible, make her way through the crowd. She doesn’t make eye contact with anyone –
especially not with Jesus. But when
she’s finally close enough, she reaches out a shaky, tentative hand to touch
his cloak. And Jesus knows. He feels the power flowing out of him, and
into her. And in that moment, he stops
walking with Jairus, and turns to the woman.
She’s desperate too. We don’t know her name, but we know her
condition. She’s been hemorrhaging blood
for 12 years – a menstrual period that never ends. And the pain and awkwardness of her problem
were just the beginning. She’d spent all
her money on cures that didn’t work. But
even worse was the fact that according to Jewish law, the law of the Old
Testament, her condition made her ritually unclean. Anybody who touched her was unclean too. She couldn’t nave contact with her
neighbors. She couldn’t attend worship
in the synagogue. Every day she lived in
loneliness, seeing fear whenever she got too close to someone in her village. So in her desperation, like Jairus, she too
comes to Jesus.
Jesus stops and talks to
her. I imagine that all the while
Jairus’s anxiety is increasing. His
daughter is dying, why won’t Jesus hurry? And the woman probably wishes Jesus would hurry on too. She didn’t expect to be noticed – didn’t
think she was worth his notice. A touch
of his garment was the most she had hoped for. Instead, she got his attention, his compassion, his love. Instead of being waved away, Jesus called her
“daughter.” Daughter, your faith has
made you well go in peace and be healed of your disease.
But there was a problem. Jesus was now unclean. He has been touched by a ritually unclean
woman – and as a faithful Jew who knew the Old Testament, Jesus knew what that
meant. He needed to stop, go home and
wash his body and his clothes – and enter no other house until sundown. That’s what he was supposed to do. But that’s not what he does. Instead, he resumes his journey to Jairus’s
house.
But on the way, messengers
come. It’s too late. The little girl has
died. Mourners are already there, the
weeping has begun, funeral arrangements are
underway. Jesus ignores it all and keeps
on walking. Be realistic Jesus. Face
reality. She’s gone. He keeps going. “She’s just sleeping,” he says. “She’s going to be alright.” And they laugh at him.
Now remember, Jesus is
unclean. He’s been touched by an unclean
woman, and now he’s entering the house of a leader of the synagogue – a man
whose whole life is about being faithful to the Jewish law. You can be sure than nothing in this house in
unclean – nothing, that is, except Jesus.
And then Jesus takes this
girl’s small hand in his. The Old
Testament law is clear about that too. Touching a dead body also makes a person unclean – and if you do it there
are ritual washing and cleansings that must take place. So once again, Jesus is unclean. But at this moment, none of that seems to
matter to him. All that matters is this
child – so Jesus takes that hand, lifts her lifeless body and for the second
time in our story speaks a word so intimate and loving, something so startling
that Mark gives it to us untranslated – using the very Aramaic Jesus spoke,
“Talitha Cum” - “Little girl” or maybe
better yet, “Little lamb” – “get up.”
And as I watch the amazing
love that Jesus showed to both this little girl and the suffering woman,
perhaps I begin to realize that these stories are about something more than
offering a blueprint for how miracles happen. Instead these stories are about Jesus. They are about a loving savior who comes and stands with hurting, lonely
and broken people.
It makes no difference if
that means that others will call him unclean, or that they laugh at his
promises. He will be present in all the
places where people need his love. No
matter what, we can depend on Jesus’ presence in all of the difficult moments
of our lives.
In today’s Psalm, we shared
these words, “Out of the depths, I cry to you O Lord.” In today’s stories, we see that Jesus is
God’s answer to that prayer. All of us have those moments when we live in
the depths. But as we cry to God – Jesus
comes to meet us there. Perhaps that is
the greatest miracle of all. There is
nowhere we go that God’s love in Jesus Christ does not go with us. There are no depths to which we can descend
where the love of Christ cannot find us. There is no sickness, no isolation, no loneliness, no guilt, no sin that can prevent Jesus from reaching out, taking us
by the hand and calling us by name as children in God’s family. As we see in today’s story, not even death
can separate us from his loving hands.
And maybe that is the answer
to my friend Jenny. I don’t know why her
prayers weren’t answered – but I trust in this promise: The day will come when Jesus will reach out
with strong and loving hands to her grandma and say once again, “Little girl –
Daughter – Get up” And I live in the hope that one day he will reach
out those same life-giving hands to my brother.
In the meantime, even as we
live with unanswered questions, Jesus is with us. Even when we don’t feel
worthy. Even
when we are filled with doubts. Even when the miracles we long for, don’t
happen. Even then Christ is with
us. He holds with hands that will never
let go.