I’ve taken multiple opportunities, in the recent past, to preach about my children.
On Father’s day, a couple weeks back, I gave a rather emotional sermon about being a father to my two boys. In December, preaching about Old Simeon taking the Child Jesus in his arms, I found myself relating the first time I held my infant daughter in my arms. And, of course, back in September, when my youngest boy left for college, you listened patiently as I tried to adjust to the dreaded empty nest.
I am so lucky to have a whole community of sympathetic and patient ears who are willing to put up with my emotional ruminations.
I know this.
Allow me to thank you – all of you – for listening… It helps! I am blessed by your kindness.
This is all important to me because I, like all of you, treasure my children above all else.
Above all else.
This morning, too, I find myself thinking of children.
This, of course, is because there is a child in the story that Judith just read for us.
It seems to me that this little girl is crucial to the spiritual lesson that we can gather from this story.
Jesus is a teacher and a healer. All of his followers – from his first disciples, to all us gathered here this morning, know this about him.
And this story involves healing.
But this story is notably different.
Most of the people Jesus heals are grown mean and women who come to him in their extremity. These people act on their own behalf.
In this story, we are introduced to a father – Jarius – who comes to Jesus on behalf of his daughter.
We – you and I – immediately place ourselves in this role. We identify with this father, because we too – whether we are parents or not – we too are driven to protect a child.
The child ratchets up the stakes.
The child transforms a healing story, into a tale of desperation.
The suffering of a grown man or woman is not to be taken lightly, but the suffering of a child leans more heavily on us. Our response is more intense because we are hard-wired to do all that we can to protect young children.
Any death is hard to resolve, but the death of a child is an affront to our very nature as humans. Our instincts cry out against such a possibility.
Lest there be any doubt about this assertion, I need only remind you of that awful moment, back in 2012, when you first heard the news reports about the Mass shooting in Sandy Hook Connecticut.
Of course, every mass shooting is a grotesque horror. But our spiritual despair was undeniably more agonizing when we heard that twenty children – all 6 and 7 year-olds – were killed.
I think that we feel that there is a sacredness to the life of a child. Perhaps this sacredness has to do with the fact that they trust us to protect them – and we willingly… with all our hearts… accept this responsibility.
The predicament that Jairus is in brings all of this to life in our hearts.
There is no desperation that appeals more directly to the human spirit, than the desperation of this man, Jairus.
He has come to appeal to Jesus to save his daughter from death.
Can you imagine an errand more desperate than that?
I cannot.
**
A number of years ago, when I was still somewhat new to my ministry here in Jaffrey, I was in my office before the service, when I was surprised by a knock on my door.
It was Estelle O’Neil.
Most of you will remember Estelle. Michael’s mother, and Tina’s mother-in-law, Estelle was a sweet old woman whose smile…
Oh my…
I swear, Estelle’s smile could light up this whole sanctuary, it was so complete and so freely given.
I loved Estelle’s smile so much, I made it my practice to wander down to her pew every Sunday and take her hand. I did this because I had learned, early on, that this made her smile.
This particular morning, I was, blessedly, more or less ready for the service, and so I could give Estelle all of my attention. I invited her into my study, and she sat down.
“What can I do for you, My Dear?” I asked.
Estelle sat before me, and as I watched, she lowered her head, and slowly, a tear rolled down her cheek.
This was about the saddest and most beautiful thing I had ever seen. My heart swelled, and I had some trouble keeping back my own tears.
“It’s Barry,” she said. “I don’t know why…”
Estelle couldn’t really get much more than this out. But it was all she needed to say. Tina had told me what happened to Barry.
Estelle sat there weeping quietly. If you can imagine, her tears were old tears – there was no sobbing, no drama. They were the quiet tears of an ache she knew all too well.
Her son Barry was just a boy when he went missing. Later, he was found downstream in the Contoocook. He had fallen in and drowned. The tragedy occurred several decades ago – but the wound was still there, in the darling old lady’s quiet tears.
Our children.
They are sacred.
They are above all else.
They are our sacred trust. They trust us, and our lives are given over to the urgency of their need.
If, for some reason, we cannot respond to that need, our suffering is intolerable.
If there is still time to respond – as there was for Jairus – nothing can get in the way.
Nothing.
Till now, we have spoken in general terms about the story of Jairus and his daughter.
Let me remind you, in broad strokes, what happened.
The gospel of Mark tells us that Jairus approached Jesus and…
fell at his feet and pleaded with him repeatedly, “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.”
Jesus may have responded to Jairus, but Mark does not record his words, if he did. Mark just gets to the point and reports:
So he (Jesus) went with him.
Jesus responds immediately. He does not hum and haw. He has no difficulty recognizing the urgency of the situation. But as directed as everyone’s intention is – the errand does get interrupted. A sick woman approaches from beyond and touches Jesus’ garment and is healed.
This story is worth a sermon of its own – and I am looking forward to giving that sermon – but we will leave that for another day.
For today, we can simply note that the interruption appears to be fatal for the child. The text reports that
some people came from the synagogue leader’s house to say, “Your daughter is dead.”
At this juncture, it appears that all is lost. The worst has happened. The more dire of human tragedies – the one that we all know to be intolerable – has befallen Jairus.
Let’s stop here.
We know that the story continues, and that Jesus transforms the story as only he can do.
But at this juncture, all of us – Jairus, Jesus, the disciples, Jairus’ people, Mark the Gospel writer, and every person throughout the centuries who has read, heard, or studied this passage – every human who has heard this story – is the same.
Jew, Greek, slave, free, man, woman, black, white, gay, straight, young, old, fat, thin… if we live and breathe… we are one. The story is an invocation of our deepest, most elemental fear – the fear that the one we love above all else, can be ripped from us, in a moment.
In the face of this singular spiritual unity all of the artificial distinctions that separate us and cause us to oppress each other fall away.
The love of children – the need to protect them – is an imperative that transcends all of the reflexes of power.
But we have known this from the outset of the story. Jairus – as you have known, but I have neglected to remind you, until now – Jairus is not just a man with a daughter. Jairus is a “leader in the synagogue.”
Jairus is a man whose religious beliefs are being threatened by the teachings of Jesus.
Under any other circumstances – any other circumstances, these two individuals – Jairus and Jesus – would be directly at odds with each other.
But here, in this story, the considerations of religious belief, power and influence, that would necessarily command their interaction with each other, are completely absent.
The concern for the child eclipses all of that.
Power is ignored.
Love is emphasized.
This story is a case study – a direct illustration – of Christ’s teaching from the 5th chapter of Matthew:
You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you,
**
To those who blithely dismiss the relevance of what they derisively call “organized religion”… I direct them to this story.
Imagine…
Imagine if we lived in a world in which the death of a child was as intolerable to those in power, as it is to you and me?
As intolerable as it is to God?
According to the United Nation’s agency for Palestine refugees, “more than 50,000 children in Gaza require treatment for acute malnutrition.”
These Palestinian children are in danger of starving to death.
As Christians,
As Jews,
As Muslims
This is intolerable.
It is intolerable to us
and it is intolerable to God.
Amen