And She Told Him Everything
Mark 4: 21-39
July 1, 2012
Last week, I spent five fun filled days camping in the hills of North Carolina at the Wild Goose Festival. This is a festival of progressive Christianity, and a glimpse of the ways that the church is changing and evolving.
It’s an interesting mix of people, ranging from recovering evangelicals to social justice Mennonites to charismatics to post-Christian types.
One thing that characterizes this event is that it is coming out of the emergent church movement, which—in a nutshell—is a movement (especially among young people) to re-imagine what church looks like. Now, I have a lot of questions about the movement—I love the theology that’s emerging, but I have a lot of questions about the worship style that’s coming out of it.
The worship style tends to be a lot like you are hanging out in your friend’s living room. It’s sharing stories, with a focus on a spiritual theme. It’s not my bag. But—this is not a sermon criticizing the emergent movement. What I appreciated about this casual worship style is that people really opened up. They talked about times when they were really down, and God was there. In God’s presence, it wasn’t all warm and fuzzy, it wasn’t perfect, it was still bad. But God’s presence and God’s people were there, being the hands and feet of Jesus in broken and terrible situations.
There was a transparency and openness at this event, an openness that perhaps comes with living together in a field in extreme summer heat and humidity, sharing trips to the water pump and ingredients for s’mores, and taking turns looking after each other’s kids. It was a glimpse into the Christian community, as it was intended when we love God, listen to the spirit, follow in the way of Jesus, and bear each other’s burdens.
Our gospel story today comes from Mark. It’s actually a series of stories, all of them important to each other, and all of them connected. In this stories there are four main characters—Jairus, the father of the unnamed girl; the 12 year old girl who is ill then dies; the unnamed women with a gynecological problem; and Jesus.
Jairus, a religious leader and a rabbi, went to Jesus to ask for help. He managed to get the attention of Jesus, who was surrounded by a large crowd. He begged Jesus to help his daughter. Jairus got on his knees and begged Jesus—in front of this large crowd—to heal his daughter.
Imagine that. A religious leader, a man respected by the people in his community, on his knees in front of a controversial yet popular religious leader. Jairus was desperate for help, and was willing to put his reputation on the line to save his daughter’s life. And he had faith in Jesus, that Jesus was really the one that could heal his daughter, at a time when she was about to blossom into womanhood.
As Jesus and Jairus were heading to Jairus’ home, Jesus was surrounded by people clamoring to see him, to be near him. And Jesus, in the middle of this crowd, notices that someone has touched the edge of his robe. Even in the middle of all this attention, the crowd pressing up against him and demanding things of him, Jesus managed to be open enough to notice the needs of someone desperate enough to touch even the edge of his clothing. He noticed this, the text says, because he was aware “that power had gone forth from him.”
Jesus asked the crowd, “Who touched me?” Probably a dozen people could have answered, “I did!”, but this woman knew what Jesus was talking about because she knew she had been healed. She felt the power too. So, in front of the pressing crowd, this woman told Jesus everything. She told Jesus that she had been bleeding for years, that no one could help her, that doctors only made it worse. She revealed her intimate, personal, reproductive problems in front of this crowd of people.
And even in the middle of this confession, Jairus’ friends arrived and told him that Jesus was too late—that his daughter, herself about to be of child-bearing age, was dead. But Jesus had faith and encouraged those around him to believe, particularly Jairus, the Rabbi. He brought just a few of his disciples to the home of Jairus, and when he arrived, there were already mourners everywhere. It was a scene reminiscent of the raising of Lazurus.
Jesus told these mourners, rather matter of factly, that the daughter was not dead, but sleeping. And they laugh at him. Which is a much better reaction than what I may have had. I could see myself lashing out at Jesus for making such a ridiculous claim.
Jesus went upstairs to where Jairus’ daughter was, took her by the hand and said to her, “Talitha Kum”. Little one, get up. Now, as an aside, I’m struck by the use of the Aramaic here. Talitha Kum. We know Jesus spoke Aramaic, but the story of Jesus is written here in Greek. Why did the writers leave this statement in Aramaic? I haven’t been able to figure out the why, but from a cursory read it strikes me that speaking in one’s native language the sweet words, “Little one, get up” is very parental, very pastoral, very kind and personal.
This story is actually 3 stories wrapped into one. It’s the story of Jairus, the story of the woman who touched Jesus’ robe, and the story of Jesus healing Jairus’ daughter. And at the center of all of this is Jesus. Now, as a preacher, there were about 100 different and wonderful directions I could have gone with this sermon. But, today, in the context of Germantown Mennonite Church, what strikes me about this story is that Jesus doesn’t say much. There’s a frenzy of activity, people trying to get near to Jesus, people pressing against him, crying, or telling Jesus intimate things. And in all of this, Jesus said little. He noticed when the woman touched his clothing, and asked “Who touched me?” He gave her words of hope, saying “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.” When he heard that Jairus’ daughter was reportedly dead, he said “Do not fear, believe.” And when Jesus saw the girl, he said to her, simply, “little girl, get up.”
The words from Jesus were simple. Simplistic, perhaps some could say that they are simple-minded. But they come from a place of deep listening, of being deeply in tune with what’s happening around him. When Jairus came to Jesus, begging Jesus in front of the crowd to heal his daughter, risking his reputation, his community standing, Jesus didn’t say anything. He listened and followed Jairus to his home.
With the woman who was ill, Jesus said so little. He asked “who touched me” and the woman told Jesus everything. She poured out her soul to Jesus, and all he did was ask a perceptive question, a question that indicated that Jesus was aware of himself and his surroundings, even when the crowds were pressing up against him.
And with Jairus’ daughter, Jesus only had to say, “Talitha Kum”, and the power and gentleness of those words restored her.
At the Wild Goose festival, there is a forced community atmosphere that takes places. There’s something about camping and heat and sharing stories that creates an intimacy. But, the intimacy cannot and does not happen when there is not vulnerability. I would not have gotten to know my neighbors if I didn’t ask for a can opener, or if I my kids hadn’t asked the neighbor’s kids to play frisbee.
The folks in this story were vulnerable in this community—perhaps in desperation, thinking that Jesus was their only hope, or perhaps with hope that Jesus truly had the power to heal.
We gather today as a community of believers. Some of us talk more than we listen, others listen well and intuitively. Some of us come with heavy burdens—we are grieving, we are sick, we fear the future, we are worried about our finances, we are underemployed. We bring those burdens here, and here we can share them. We share them, and those whose burdens are lighter gladly pick them up, carry them for a while, and help the load feel lighter.
And as those burdens are indeed lightened, we have stories of hope to share, stories of the ways that God has been fully present in difficult situations. We testify to them here too, offering words of encouragement to those who need them. We say to our sisters, “Talitha Cum”, friend, get up. We stretch out our hands and help our sister up. We say to our brother, “I’m listening to you, and I’ll walk with you.”
This is what it means to follow in the way of Jesus. It means not having it all together. It means sharing our burdens with others, and holding each other up when we have the strength. It means listening, it means being perceptive, it means asking questions.
This is not a contrived community, born out of being forced to be together in the heat and discomfort of five days of camping. This is a real and voluntary community of people. We choose this. Which means we choose it when we are struggling, and when others around us are struggling too. And in choosing this community, we covenant to walk with each other, to listen, and to speak words of healing and hope to each other.
AMEN.