Desperation [Proper 8B - Mark 5:21-43]
The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson
Mark 5:21-43
Desperation
The late, great Henri
Nouwen once wrote, “While visiting the
University of Notre Dame, where I had been a teacher for a few years, I met an
older experienced professor who had spent most of his life there. And while we
strolled over the beautiful campus, he said with a certain melancholy in his
voice, “You know, my whole life I have been complaining that my work was
constantly interrupted, until I discovered that my interruptions were my work.”[1]
I
suspect, perhaps, Jesus agreed more whole-heartedly with this sentiment than
did Jairus. Because when Jesus stopped,
then so did the little girl’s heart. It
is true that Jairus witnessed a beautiful miracle in that moment of
interruption. But also that same
interruption cost him the miracle for which he so desperately longed. And therein lies the tension: the
interruptions are the work, but so too is the task list. And sometimes the interruption means an important
task gets left undone.
The
unnamed woman knew nothing of the little girl or that child’s critical
predicament. And I do wonder if she knew
the reason Jesus passed through her village that day, if she would have stayed
home. But she didn’t; she knew only that
she had to try - again. Because nothing
else ever worked. For twelve years, the
doctors took her money and drained her hope.
Literally and figuratively, life was bleeding her dry.
And
so she desperately rushes toward Jesus, unaware that he is rushing in the
direction of the home of a desperate father with a dying daughter. Jairus and the hemorrhaging woman are forever
linked by this text, but they had very little in common. He was wealthy; she was broke. He was prominent and respected in the
community; she is not even named in the story.
And her issue of blood marked her as ritually, and perpetually,
unclean. Jairus rode the crest of that
patriarchal society – the same society that was burying this woman alive. But what the two did have in common, perhaps
the only thing, was desperation. It was
desperation that drove them both to the feet of Jesus.
Desperation
can drive one to act with an unnatural boldness. Certainly, it was desperation that compelled
this woman to push through the jostling crowd and grasp the cloak of a
traveling healer. She should have never
done it; she knew better. She was, what
the ancient texts called, unclean. It
wasn’t her fault, but it was the case nonetheless. She shouldn’t have been touching the people,
tainting them, infecting them. And she
shouldn’t have touched Jesus either.
Jesus
initiated his previous healings. He was
the one who touched those in need. He
accepted the risk, chose to bore their illnesses. But this unnamed woman, she steals her
miracle. And she leaves Jesus drained
and confused.
He
asks the disciples, as he often does, a question to which they could not
possibly know the answer: “who touched my clothes?” Surely, the twelve thought the question
absurd. The writer already informed us,
in this very text, that the crowd was large and was pressing in on Jesus. Likely dozens of people touched, grabbed,
tugged, and brushed against Jesus’ clothes.
Likely no one touch appeared in any way notable or remarkable to the
disciples – themselves probably smothered and spun by the mass of frenzied
humanity surrounding their master.
Her
desperation relieved and her boldness subsided, the woman finds herself healed
and afraid – perhaps suddenly aware of the situation in which see has placed
this prominent, devout Jewish man.
All
the while, during this unexpected interruption, Jairus’ daughter dies. And once again, these two characters, the
unnamed woman and the well-known man, find their lives marked by stark
contrast. The best moment of her life
coincides with the worst of his. She is
happy and he is sad. She is healed and
he is utterly broken.
While
these two have almost nothing in common, the healed woman becomes the model of
faith for this desperate father. Jairus’
friends come to stop the procession.
They don’t want Jairus to get his hopes up. Don’t want Jesus to waste his time. When Jairus originally approached Jesus it
was worth a shot. But now the shot clock
has expired. And the idea that Jesus could
possibly make a difference at this point was, to these emissaries,
laughable.
But
Jairus had just witnessed Jesus do the impossible for a desperate woman of
reckless faith. And that gave him enough
hope to allow Jesus to guide him home, carrying his broken heart on his
trembling sleeve.
Jesus
finds the little girl – dead but not beyond hope. And he holds her hand. He should have never done it; he knew
better. She was, in her breathless
state, what the ancient texts called, unclean.
It wasn’t her fault, but it was the case nonetheless. And Jesus didn’t have to touch her – he wore
a powerful cloak, after all. He didn’t
have to take her little hand in his. But
he did. And like the woman on the way, the
little girl came back to life.
What
holds these stories together is not just that they are both healing
stories. Or that those healed are both
women – although those things are true.
What amazes me is what these stories tell us about love. There is a desperation at the heart of love –
and it is as beautiful as it is messy.
Love
is what drives us to find miracles in a world that can feel harsh and
unforgiving and even hopeless. Love
falls down at the feet of Jesus and pushes through the crowds and grasps for
something to hold onto and finds enough hope to keep going. Love believes despite the cynical laughter
and touches the unclean. Love finds life
in the valley of the shadow of death. Love is desperate enough to save what cannot
be saved.
Sometimes
we encounter love during life, interrupted.
And sometimes right on time. But
we always find it, and when we need it, because love is as desperate as we
are. While we, like the hemorrhaging
woman, desperately search the world for miracles, love, like Jesus on the way
to the little girl’s home, is desperately searching for us.
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