Messages, Meditations, and Musings on the Life of Faith by Rev. Dr. Scott E. Olson, Interim Pastor, Christ Lutheran Church, Preston, MN

Sunday, January 24, 2016

"Jairus" - Sermon for the Third Sunday after Epiphany

Jairus
Epiphany 3 – Narrative Lectionary 2
January 24, 2016
Grace, Mankato, MN
Mark 5.21-43

This message was delivered by today's guest, Jairus.

I was desperate. My daughter was dying and I didn’t know what to do. As much as I wasn’t sure about him, it seemed that Jesus was my only hope.

My name is Jairus and your pastor asked me here today to tell you about my experience with Jesus. But first, a little about me: I am a leader of the local synagogue, which means I make sure that everything runs smoothly, that all of our traditions are followed. In other words, my job is to keep it all together.

Yet, where my daughter’s health was concerned, I was helpless. I had lain at her bedside, night after night, praying to God. I had doctors come and tried any folk remedy people would suggest, but nothing helped. I have to admit, for someone whose job it is to be in control, I felt just the opposite.

Then my wife suggested I go to Jesus and ask him for help. Of course, I knew Jesus and had even heard him teach in my synagogue. I have to admit, his messages were compelling, but could he help my daughter? Then I remembered that he’d gone away and what little hope I had was crushed. “No,” my wife said, “He’s back.” Looking one last time at my daughter, seeing her shallow breathing and pale face, I knew that she was near death. So I ran.

I, a leader of the synagogue, respected by all, ran to find Jesus. I heard him before I saw him because I know he would be amid the excited voices of a crowd. When I turned the corner and saw them, I pushed through the crowds and fell at his feet. I didn’t ask Jesus to heal my daughter; I begged him to heal her. And I didn’t care who saw me or what they thought of me; all I cared about was the little girl who I had nurtured and taught, who was now dying. “Come, lay your hands on her, so that she would be saved,” I pleaded. And he came!

But the joy and small hope I had was short-lived though as Jesus abruptly stopped, saying, “Who touched my clothes?” Like his followers, we all thought it was a crazy question because there were so many around him. Again he said, “Who touched me?” with authority but also with kindness. Sure enough, the people parted as a woman worked her way forward and fell down at Jesus’ feet, just as I had done a few minutes earlier.

Now, I knew this woman or at least I had. She attended the synagogue regularly and gave regularly until twelve years ago, about the time my daughter was born. Because of her flow of blood, she was considered unclean and couldn’t attend. And because she spent so much on doctors, she stopped giving as well. I felt sorry for her, but rules are rules. If we touched her or anything she sat on, we’d become unclean, too, and unable to worship.

I didn’t feel sorry for her that day because she interrupted Jesus while we were on the way to my house. I was desperate to get going, even pulling on Jesus’ robe, but it didn’t matter. Jesus stopped as if we had all the time in the world and then he said an amazing thing, “Daughter, your faith has saved you; go in peace and be healed of your disease.” His words both startled me and angered me. How was she saved and how dare he spend time with her when a leader of the synagogue needs his help?

My anger turned to despair and rage when we received word that it was too late. My daughter had died while we lingered. Jesus turned and looked me in the eyes and said words I’ll never forget: “Do not fear, only believe.” If only I could believe!

It seemed that Jesus had enough faith for the both of us. In a daze I went with him and a few of his followers to my house. When we got there, the professional funeral mourners had already arrived and were in full lament. And when Jesus told them to stop, that my daughter was only sleeping, they just laughed. Now, I had heard a lot of reactions to Jesus, but never the laughter and mockery I heard that day.

We went into the room and the moment I saw my daughter, I knew she was dead. I shouldn’t have been in the room because now I was unclean, as unclean as the woman I had just scorned. But I didn’t care; I wanted to be with my daughter. All I could think about was how here she was on the brink of being a woman and her life cut short. No marriage; no children; just emptiness.

Jesus saw the hurt and anguish and pain in our eyes and I could see the pain reflected back in his. He felt the sting of death as much as we did, maybe even more, if that’s possible. He turned, walked over to my daughter and took her by the hand. (He certainly doesn’t care about touching someone unclean!) Then he said, “Talitha cum” and she did! My daughter took a gasping breath, the color came back into her face and she got up! My wife and I were beside ourselves with joy. My daughter was alive.

Then Jesus told us the queerest thing: we were not to tell anyone about this. As if we could keep it a secret! I returned to the synagogue and so is my daughter. And you know what, so is the woman I had no time for, but Jesus did. Coincidentally, my daughter and the woman Jesus healed have formed a bond, two daughters who have been touched by Jesus’ healing power.

I took some heat from other religious leaders for seeing Jesus, but I didn’t care; my daughter was alive. I’ve been thinking a lot about that day and the things Jesus said. It seems that Jesus’ healing power is far greater than the power of uncleanness, and so I wonder. I didn’t understand what Jesus meant by, “Your faith has saved you” until he brought my daughter back to life. It also seems that the saving power Jesus has means being restored to wholeness and a relationship with God. If that’s the case, then Jesus certainly raised me from death to life as well.

Thank you for letting me share my story with you today. I’m still not sure what to make of Jesus, but whoever he is, he seems determined not to leave the world the way it is, and for that I’m grateful. Shalom.

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