I’m going to ask y'all to keep the gospel reading close by. We’re going to look at something in a moment.
Last weekend I officiated a wedding down in the Hill Country.
Peyton and Elena Francis were confirmed here in May and married last weekend.
Beautiful time.
I like doing weddings. I’ve had the opportunity to do many through the years.
I enjoy the pre-marital counseling, I enjoy the ceremony, I enjoy the reception.
Well….I should say I enjoy the reception if Ericka is with me. If my wife isn’t with me, my introversion kicks-in and I tend to not go. Also, I’ve spent too many times at a reception by myself where inevitably a groomsman corners me to talk about relationship woes or tell me the reasons he doesn’t believe in organized religion. Or…a bridesmaid after her fourth shot of tequila says to me something along the lines of…”I am…just….such a huge fan of God.”
But if Ericka’s there…it’s like a date, great meal, 9 times out of 10 they seat us next to the grandparents, and that’s who I’d rather be talking to anyway. So…it’s fun.
I’ve noticed something though about myself as far as the ceremony is concerned. For a long time, I always paid a lot of attention to that moment when the groom first lay eyes on the bride…You know the music ques, the doors open, and she starts walking down the aisle – and I always loved just watching the groom’s reaction. Not any more though.
Now, I find myself paying close attention to something else.
The father of the bride. Because…I have a daughter.
You see the groom’s face is filled with this anticipatory delight…overwhelmed by beauty…
the face of a life just beginning. The father’s – the face of a man who can’t make life slow down. In his eyes I see the transience of all things – this inescapable quality of existence that shows us the only way to get through this dear life of ours is to let go of all that we’ve held on to for dear life. And although that is the source of our deepest pain, it is also the source of our deepest pleasure. From the same well we draw laughter and tears, joy and sorrow, courage and fear, darkness and light.
So, these days I watch the fathers’ face – as they walk their daughters down the aisles.
This morning…our gospel reading has fathers and daughters. Some we see and hear from…others we don’t, but they’re there…
Jairus was a father…he was also an important member of this Jewish community’s ruling class. A prominent member of the synagogue. To achieve that level of prominence you had to display a certain level of personal piety, manage your home effectively, possess a certain level of wealth. And it is this man…this man of piety, of position, of privilege – the man many looked to for guidance, direction, leadership…this man is now on his knees begging Jesus to heal his daughter. Jesus agrees and begins to follow Jairus back to his home, where a big supportive family and household of friends keep watch over this sick little girl.
But something happens along the way.
She goes un-named in this story. Unlike Jairus’ daughter she is not surrounded by a loving family. You can imagine her belonging to a family at some point. At some point she was someone’s daughter. Not anymore. Why??
Because of what we do know about her – for the past twelve years she’s suffered from a terrible condition. A condition that excluded her from community, from worship, from her family. Because of her medical condition, her family would have shunned her – separated themselves from her. To her father she would have been a broken dream, a disappointment, an embarrassment – living with this affliction – a sign of her “un-cleanness” before God.
It's not like she hasn’t tried! The story even says she sought the help of physicians – she probably went to every MD in town and when that didn’t work she went to every quack and snake oil salesman and when that didn’t work well…what do you do?
Now, the gospel passage doesn’t say this…but this is how I imagine this scene unfolding. I think this woman came out that day to see Jesus, maybe see if she could even get an audience with him. But then…then…big, important, prominent, holy Jairus enters and now all the attention is on him. Now, Jesus is on his way to Jairus’ house and she’s afraid she’s missed her chance – there’s no way to get Jesus’ attention now… “Who am I compared to Jairus?? He’s important…people respect him…I’m just a poor, sick, amount-to-nothin’…But maybe, maybe I can just touch his garment…maybe that’ll be enough.”
Have you ever been that desperate? I mean not just at wits end…just the end. Not just at the end of your rope…but there’s just no.more.rope. Perhaps, it was out of this kind of desperation the woman reaches out her hand. Covertly, secretly, not wanting to draw attention to herself. The untouchable woman risks it all to touch the hem of his garment. Counting on staying hidden, counting on not making a scene. There’s a saying, “dangerous diseases call for dangerous remedies” and she’s about to discover the dangerous remedy in store – not just for her but for a culture that’s fixated on who’s in and who’s out – a culture with all these rules about who gets to have support, who gets to experience community, who gets to receive love.
Now…look at what Jesus does. Look at what he does.
Here you have Jairus – pleading on behalf of his daughter – who is surrounded by a loving family. And here is this woman who for twelve long years has lived alone, hidden, ostracized, excluded. She has no family. No father pleading for her.
Look at the gospel reading now. Pick it up and look at it.
What is the first word Jesus spoke to her? What does Jesus call her?
Daughter. Jesus calls her daughter.
I can’t help but wonder. I can’t help but wonder.
When was the last time she heard anyone call her that?
Now, you could read this story and focus on the curing – Jairus’ daughter – cured. This woman – cured. But I’ve heard too many sermons and too many thoughtless comments tying faith to curing – and I got nothing to say on that. I don’t know why some people get better and some people don’t. And I refuse to make theological or scriptural sense of pain. Lord knows the Church has tried – and, ultimately, for me I have found that things don’t hurt any less even if they can be explained.
But, Jesus called her daughter. I can’t get past that.
I see and hear in that one word – a world of healing.
And maybe one reason why the Church for centuries has read this story – is it reminds us that one of the things we are to be….is a community of healing. A people who gather and witness those daughters and sons orphaned by an imperfect love – walk down the aisle, healed and held by the One who showed us perfect love.
The One who once called her daughter.
Amen.
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