As I was sitting down to start writing my sermon yesterday, I received a text from Pat Cournoyer, telling me that Debbie Elliot was near the end.
When it rains it pours.
As you well know, Jerry Elliott’s mom, Elsie, died back in March, and now, barely four months later, it is mid-July, and it looks like he’s close to losing his wife Debbie.
When Elsie’s end came, I was away, and had not been able to be present – a fact that I still feel bad about. So when I got Pat’s text, I was not about to let anything get in the way of being there for the Elliott family this time! I stowed my laptop, got some stuff together, and got in the Prius to head up to Jaffrey.
I have told you this before, and I don’t mind telling you again, that at moments like this I feel more than a little discomfort. Driving north on Route 119, the persistent question nagged at me again… what on earth can I offer in a moment like this? Doctors have medicine, and lawyers have legal advice, but what do I have to give? I am honored to be present, but I am humbled too. I want to help, but it is hard to know what to say.
I suppose I have spent more time than the average person, thinking about the nature of eternity. But can I claim to know anything about it?
No.
Death itself is a mystery. We can guess. We can imagine. But we cannot know.
So I struggle to know what to say to a person who is near the end.
We can only know about death from our vantage, here among the living. From here, it means loss.
The person we love will be gone.
Irrevocably gone.
What can be said?… what can be done?… in the face of this kind of pain? This kind of loss.
This morning’s scripture passage should sound familiar to you – and not because it is particularly famous, or because you won all the chapter-verse contests in Sunday school. It should sound familiar to you because you heard it read here at the United Church of Jaffrey, quite recently. Not last Sunday, but the Sunday before.
Two Sundays ago is recent enough that I hope you remember the deal with this story – this healing story is a story within a story. A Pharisee named Jairus comes to Jesus pleading for him to come heal his daughter , and Jesus immediately sets forth to see the child. It is on the way to see this child that the story we heard today took place.
Today’s passage, then, is a story within a story.
When I preached, two Sundays ago, my heart and mind was fixated on the theological significance of Jairus’ dying child, so when it came time to acknowledge this part of the text – this story within a story – I rather nonchalantly set it aside by saying:
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.
Well…
Just so you know that I am a man of my word (and also, frankly, because I was not crazy about the gospel story that the lectionary served up for today), I have decided that today is that other day.
In this passage we learn about a sick woman. When the gospels tell us about the sick people that Jesus encounters, we usually learn about their concern only through the way that they are identified to us: a blind man, a leper, a man possessed by demons. In this case, however, we are given a rather detailed look at this woman’s ailment – it’s like we have walked into her hospital room and read the chart hanging from the bottom of her bed.
And it’s not pleasant.
This poor woman has been bleeding. The text tells us that she
been suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years. She had endured much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had; and she was no better, but rather grew worse.
A lot of ink has been spilled about this woman’s medical condition. Since my mentor in seminary was a feminist biblical scholar, it was often pointed out that, in this story, Jesus defies the Jewish prohibition to touch women during their menstrual cycle. This story is cited as a moment when Jesus undermines the notion, common in the Abrahamic faiths, that women are ritually unclean during their period.
I have never had much use for the idea of ritual impurity. Why did synagogues and Mosques and churches ostracize women during their reproductive cycles? Didn’t the religious establishment know that it is this very process that makes it possible for any of us to be here in the first place?
It seems to me that women should be revered during their period, not reviled!
I cannot imagine God having a problem with women’s menstrual cycles. It makes no sense to me. You know what does make sense to me? I think the ones who have problems with women’s reproductive process, are men who want to keep women in their place. In other words, it’s about power, not love. Someone, somewhere, wanted to keep those ladies down… and blaming God for it was a handy way to do it.
God, unfortunately, is used to rationalize a lot of horrible things.
Wouldn’t it be nice if Jesus changed all that? I wish we could own this moment of transition as much in reality as we have in theory. I don’t think Christianity, as a religion, can claim to be any more liberated about this issue than Judaism or Islam. I am thankful, nonetheless, that no such tradition has ever held sway (as far as I know) in the history of the United Church of Jaffrey.
All of this is important and interesting, but it’s not what I find most compelling about this story.
When we interpret a story about Jesus, there is a factor at work that is not present in other stories. In other stories all the characters are human, and are subject to all the vanities and frailties that we humans suffer. Jesus though, is, in some mysterious way, both human and divine. So when a story involves Jesus, it involves God. A story about Jesus has, built into it, a universal significance.
Hence, this is not just a story of a sick woman touching the hem of another person’s garment.
This is the story of a human being reaching out and touching God.
God, in turn, is touched by a human being.
This story is a story of connection. The connection between a creature who exists in time, and the mysterious eternal… the divine.
What was the occasion for this connection, and what is the meaning that we can gather from it?
When I arrived, Jerry welcomed me into his home. His three daughters were present, as were a handful of other relatives and in-laws. Jerry and I talked about this and that for a few minutes in the kitchen, eventually, the time came to go in and see Debbie. Everyone present, filed in.
After a few moments the dog came in too.
“We’re all here now.”
I sat beside Debbie. Her eyes were closed.
At length, I took her hand and the hand of the person nearest me.
“Let’s pray together,” I said.
In a moment, without speaking and without agreeing to do so, our hands formed a circle. Instinctively, in the face of great mystery – great pain – we reached out and touched each other, forming a circle of love.
That’s what touch can do. It can form a circle of love.
We prayed together.
In this story, the woman’s pain was the reason that she took the risk – it was her suffering that created the occasion for this human/divine connection.
Let us not forget this important detail. This human/divine connection was initiated by the woman – not by Jesus.
So this story tells us that we can reach out to God. When we are in great pain, we can reach out. We can try to touch the hem of God’s garment.
But this may not be easy. It was not easy for her. She was scared. She was frightened, but in that moment of fear – in that moment of pain – she was healed.
Touch. In this story, touch heals.
This touch, though, is a certain kind of touch. It is the touch of faith. It is the touch of love.
The touch of love, in this story, is not, as we would expect, a tender, gentle touch.
It is a courageous leap of faith.
When he first feels this touch Jesus turns around and says:
‘Who touched my clothes?’
She could have kept quiet. She could easily have melted back into the crowd.
But remember, this is Jesus we are talking about. She has touched one who is both human and divine. She has felt the power of love and it has healed her. Perhaps part of her would like to stay quiet – this might be the safe thing to do, but she does not. The text says:
the woman, knowing what had happened to her, came in fear and trembling, fell down before him, and told him the whole truth.
Jesus is inspired.
Jesus is inspired by the woman’s faith. He says to her:
‘Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.’
None of us are Jesus. None of us can claim to have his kind of healing touch.
But we can all reach out in love.
This story tells us to take the risk.
To make the connection.
We may not know what to think when we face eternity.
We may not know how to comfort those whose loved ones are near death…
But God teaches us to reach out.
To take the risk.
To be courageous, and seek love.
To touch.
To form a circle of love, and pray.
Amen.