Proper 8B, July 1, 2012

O God of healing and restoration, grant us the strength, the wisdom and the courage to seek always and everywhere after truth, come when it may, and cost what it will.

You know I always begin my sermon reflections with that prayer, amended from a prayer attributed to Phillips Brooks, once Bishop of Massachusetts. It helps me find my preacher voice, as my daughter Laura calls it. Praying it is a way to locate myself in this position of privilege which you grant to me, and to give myself permission to say things from time to time that might be challenging – hard for me to say or hard for you to hear or both. And it’s a frequent reminder that truth is not predictably or reliably found, and that the seeking is what I am about. What I’m afraid doesn’t come through in this prayer is the idea that, while truth is costly, it always sets us free. That’s how we know it is truth. So the seeking for truth is not at all about fact-finding, it’s about experiencing freedom and joy.

We have before us a Gospel story from Mark – actually, two stories in one. The story of Jairus’ daughter is interrupted by the story of the hemorrhaging woman. It seems like evidence of the Gospel of Mark’s rough and tumble story-telling. Mark has historically been viewed by theologians as a rather clumsy story-teller, lacking in the more refined rhetoric and narrative flourish of the other evangelists. And while his style is certainly spare and even abrupt, I think he was actually a quite creative theologian. I think that interruption is an ingenious rhetorical device for Mark. He uses it nine times in his Gospel account. German theologians have a fantastic word for this rhetorical device “Ineinanderschachtelungern.” [1] I was just dying to use that word in a sermon. (Don’t worry, it won’t be on the test.)

The rhetorical idea is that the interruption or the middle story “provides the key to the theological purpose of [what one writer calls] the sandwich. The insertion interprets the flanking halves.”
[2] So we can look to the hemorrhaging woman not just as a creator of dramatic suspense, delaying our arrival to Jairus’ house where his daughter is dying, but as the interpretive solution to a puzzle about faith and healing. The key is about faith against all odds, and a power of healing associated with Jesus that is more effective than medical treatment, so strong it can be transmitted through clothing, and so indiscriminate and untamed it can be transferred without his explicit consent. [3]

It’s ironic that this story within the story, originally intended to inspire faith becomes an obstacle to faith for so many who get stuck in the traffic jams scientific or socio-historical analysis of whether or not these things could have really happened. You know the type! To that I respond, it might not have happened, but “just because it didn’t happen, doesn’t mean it isn’t true.” (That WILL be on the test.)

The contrasts between Jairus (a name that literally means “God enlightens”) and the hemorrhaging woman could not be more stark or extreme. The man was named. The woman was anonymous. Jairus was a prominent member of the community. The woman was a nobody. Jairus made a public display of repeatedly begging Jesus in front of his face. In a shocking reversal of his dignity, he fell at Jesus’ feet. The woman came up to Jesus from behind in secret. In a shocking reversal of her indignity, she stole a touch of Jesus’ cloak. Jairus had everything to lose. The woman had nothing left to lose. Jairus was advocating for his daughter. The woman had no advocate; she was advocating for herself.

If her story is the interpretive key, what is opened up to us by studying her? Well, nothing less than heaven’s gates! I think that her story teaches us that if the healing power of Jesus is available to folks on both ends of the spectrum of honor and shame, surely it is available to you and me. This healing power of Jesus is wildly inclusive of people who normally would not associate with one another. And there seem to be no obstacles too great or ailments too inconsequential for the healing power of Jesus. Even women and girls are included![4] And healing is not just for women like Peter’s mother-in-law who seem to be healed just so that they can serve a meal. This hemorrhaging woman (and Jairus’ daughter, for that matter) are healed and not heard from again. They become free to live their lives in thanksgiving. They become free to excel in generous undertakings.

It’s also ironic that this message of hope about how the healing love of Jesus is for everyone – that none is left out, gets used as a perverse measuring rod of people’s faith, which is then used to find faith lacking. I want to remind you that in Marks’ Gospel, the disciples consistently lacked faith, and regularly failed to understand what they had witnessed first hand. While faith and understanding were often cited as reasons for healing, faith and understanding were never a prerequisite to experiencing the healing, transformative love of God. Despair and fear are the norm throughout Mark, in spite of everything. So if you are frequently feeling despair or fear, or feel that your faith is very small, Mark is the Gospel for you. The healing and transformative love of God through Jesus goes on, believe it or not, understand it or not, consciously permit it or not! I think the message in Mark is that if you hang around Jesus, you just might experience healing whether or not you have faith.

I want to say something about what I think hanging around Jesus could mean for folks who are sitting in an Episcopal chapel on a hot July Sunday morning. I don’t think it has anything to do with intellectual assent to a fairy tale, but it does require a leap or two of the imagination. For example, it might mean imagining that Jesus’ body is no longer in the world except through communities of Christians. It might mean imagining that the Church is the body of Christ. It might mean imagining that we are members of the mystical body of Christ – not the only members, mind you, but members with a healing power not to be dismissed.

And being the body of Christ does mean exercising some discipline. Exercising the discipline of community is the difference between going to church and being the church. We have a call – an invitation – to be powerfully healing and transformative – in a place where the person you least want to live with always lives, with the awareness that sometimes that person is your very own self, as Henri Nouwen once said.[5]  It’s about submitting to being interrupted, about being jostled by the crowds, and about going out of your way for people who are desperate for healing – whether they are prominent, honorable, going through the proper channels, or they are anonymous, shame-filled, and grabbing for whatever they can get. It’s about admitting that you, too, are desperate for healing.

It’s actually about knowing that in each and every one of us lies both the hunger for healing and the power to offer healing to one another. It reminds me of the parable told by Rabbi Chaim of Romshishok, who often began his talks with this description of hell and heaven. [6] 

I first went to see Hell and the sight was horrifying. Rows of tables were laden with platters of sumptuous food, yet the people seated around the tables were pale and emaciated, moaning in hunger. As I came closer, I understood their predicament. Every person held a full spoon, but both arms were splinted with wooden slats so no-one could bend either elbow to bring the food to his or her own mouth. It broke my heart to hear the tortured groans of these poor people as they held their food so near but could not consume it. Next I went to visit Heaven. I was surprised to see the same setting I had witnessed in Hell – row after row of long tables laden with food. But in contrast to Hell, the people here in Heaven were sitting contentedly talking with each other, obviously sated from their sumptuous meal. As I came closer, I was amazed to discover that here, too, each person had arms splinted on wooden slats that prevented elbows from bending. How, then, did they manage to eat? As I watched, one picked up her spoon and dug it into the dish before her. Then she stretched across the table and fed the person across from her! The recipient of this kindness thanked her and he returned the favor by leaning across the table to feed his benefactor. I suddenly understood. Heaven and Hell offer the same circumstances and conditions. The critical difference is in the way the people treat each other. I ran back to Hell to share this solution with the poor souls trapped there. I whispered in the ear of one starving person, “You do not have to go hungry. Use your spoon to feed your neighbor, who will surely return the favor and feed you. ‘You expect me to feed the detestable person sitting across the table?’ said the person angrily. ‘I would rather starve than give that one the pleasure of eating!’

You know, Jesus followers were called “the people of the way.” What is the way? My wise brother-in-law once said, “However far out of the way you are willing to go, that is the way.” It’s about the practice of supporting one another, of learning how to disagree in love, of developing trust in one another and holding ourselves and one another accountable, of forgiving (and forgiving and forgiving), and of celebrating one another’s gifts, and of healing one another. Exercising the discipline of community is about the difference between being a spectator and experiencing the joy, the honor, and the privilege of making burdens light for other folks and noticing when the power of healing has been transferred, when it has gone out of us with or without our permission, that we are simply serving as vessels of God’s grace.

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