This sermon was preached on June 30 and July 1, 2018 at Trinity Lutheran Church in Connellsville, Pennsylvania, using the texts for Lectionary 13.
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A few
years ago, Daniel and I were on vacation in Arizona when we stopped at a rest
area along the highway on our way from the Grand Canyon to my grandparents’
home in Phoenix. As we sat at some tables in the shade, I noticed that one of
the people sitting at the table next to ours looked like Daniel’s favorite
pro-wrestler: Daniel Bryan. As I whispered this to my Daniel, his eyes got huge and he tried to
sneak a glance over his shoulder. “What are you going to do?” I asked him. “Are
you going to say hello?” We had left our phones in the car, so there was no way
to sneak a picture.
I could
see the turmoil on Daniel’s face - should he play it cool and let them have a
moment of peace without being bombarded by fans? Should he say hi and take a
picture with him, because he really was his most favorite pro-wrestler. Should
he say something deep and meaningful about how inspirational or funny or
talented he was?
Ultimately,
Daniel was too star-struck and nervous to say anything, and the moment passed.
They left the rest area, and then we did, with no evidence of who we had seen.
There are days when Daniel names this as one of his biggest regrets.
I thought
of this encounter while reading about both Jairus and the unnamed woman in
Mark’s Gospel story today. While Jesus wasn’t necessarily a celebrity, his
renown was growing with each healing, each exorcism, each lesson taught and
story shared. He had a reputation as someone who could heal in the most dire of
circumstances, and we hear that many, many people came to him with desperate
requests.
At the
beginning of our Gospel reading we meet Jairus. He was a leader of the
synagogue, respected and known in the community. His daughter was very sick,
and so when Jairus heard that a healer was nearby, he pushed through the crowds
and fell at Jesus’ feet. “My little daughter is at the point of death. Come and
lay your hands on her, so that she may be made well, and live.”
I think
there’s a kind of desperation that comes into play when your child is
sick or in trouble. Forget barriers, or dignity, or the prescribed way of doing
things - when it’s your precious little one who needs help, you do whatever it
takes to help them. And so this respected member of the community throws
himself at the feet of an itinerant teacher and begs him for help on behalf of
his daughter. And Jesus goes with him.
As
they’re making their way to Jairus’ house, the crowd is pressing in around him.
Other desperate people who perhaps lacked the privilege or courage or loud
voice to approach Jesus as Jairus had.
Among
them was a woman who had been bleeding for twelve years. She was alone. That
much bleeding, an unrelenting menstrual cycle, would have left her shunned and
pushed out from respectable community as she was labeled “unclean” and perhaps
even “punished by God.” She had been poked and prodded, had seen doctor after
doctor grimly tell her there was nothing he could do, had forked over
everything she had to pay for unsatisfying answers. And now? She was out of
stamina, had no privilege or power, nothing that would make this teacher and
healer see her and heal her out of that whole crowd of people.
But she
really had nothing left to lose. Maybe it would be enough just to touch him.
Maybe she really could be made well. So, with the crowd pressing in, and people
shouting to be heard, she stretched out her arm - past robes and bodies and
baskets and bags - and she touched his cloak. Immediately, her bleeding
stopped. She could feel it. That constant companion, nuisance, debilitation for
twelve years suddenly and immediately ceased. And as immediately as the blood
stopped going forth from her, Jesus felt that power had gone forth from him.
Jesus’s
question “Who touched me?” is rather laughable. I imagine the disciples giving
one another incredulous glances. “Really? You’re asking who touched you?! Look
around! Probably everyone has touched you!” Unable to sneak away, the
now-healed woman presents herself, falling down before him, fearful that in her
desperation she had done something she shouldn’t have. But Jesus looks on her
with love, and tells her what she has already felt in her own body - daughter,
your faith, your trust in me has made you well. You have been saved. You have
been healed. Wholeness, finally, is yours. In an instant, everything
changed.
I wonder
how often we feel “star-struck” when thinking about our connection to Jesus.
How often we feel unqualified to talk about our faith, or to read the Bible
well, or to pray with confidence. I wonder how often our prayers go unspoken
because we are certain that the God of the universe surely has bigger, more
important things to worry about. I wonder how often we stay away from worship,
and from communion, because we see ourselves as too sinful, too ashamed, too
far beyond redemption for God’s grace and mercy and healing to possibly be for
us.
The good
news today is this: You and your needs are not insignificant. In a world where
it seems that we are constantly bombarded by big, important, urgent issues,
your smallest desires for wholeness and healing are felt by the God who created
you and calls you beloved.
However
you approach Jesus – with confidence or uncertainty, in desperation or calm - you
are welcome. There is a place for you here. Jesus sees you and knows you, and
this changes everything. Shortly the crowds will press in and we will gather
around the table together, hoping to catch a glimpse of the one who heals us
and makes us whole. There is no need to be afraid. God’s abundant mercy is for
you. God’s grace is for you. Wholeness is for you.
When you
reach out your hands, you, too, will touch Jesus. The smallest morsel of bread
and the tiniest sip of wine is enough. In this we receive the promises of Jesus
- that we are seen, that we are loved, that we are forgiven. That nothing can
separate us from the love of God. That the wholeness that God desires for all
of creation is for you, too. Thanks be to God.
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