Healing in the Crowd

A sermon preached with the people of St. John’s Episcopal Church in Oakland, California.

This morning, Jesus is back on home turf. He’s crossed back to the familiar side of the sea, and the crowds have been waiting. Not only waiting, they have been growing.

And as soon as his sandals hit land, he hears the voice of a powerful man. A man named Jairus; a leader in the synagogue. I imagine Jairus stood out from the throngs of people; wearing expensive clothes, maybe accompanied by assistants or even bodyguards.

And this powerful man falls to his knees before Jesus. And begs him to heal his sick 12-year-old daughter. And Jesus looks the man in the eyes, and he sees him. He does not ask questions. He does not interrogate. He simply comes along with the man, to see his daughter.

They make their way through the sea of humanity – sweaty and smelly and hot. And I imagine, to some people in that crowd, this moment would not have been surprising, but it may have been disappointing: “Of course this Jesus we have heard about; this preacher and healer who is like no one else; this man who seems to be of God in a way that cannot be explained. Of course he arrives here, among the thousands looking to catch a glimpse of him, and is immediately intercepted and taken away by a powerful man – in this sea of hope and need and wonder, Jesus notices this man.”

I imagine muttering: “well that’s that. We had hoped for something different. We had hoped for the world to change. But obviously this Jesus, like all of them that came before, is for the rich and the powerful. For the comfortable. There is nothing new here.”

But then, something happened. I wonder how many people in the crowd saw it, noticed it. A woman who had been hemorrhaging – bleeding – for 12 years; suffering from an un-discussable problem, even today; had the faith to demonstrate that this Jesus is indeed something new.

This woman, whose name no one bothered to write down — something in her knew that in God’s reign no one’s existence will be embarrassing or unspeakable or expendable. None of God’s children will be unclean or untouchable, as she would have been declared to be. And something in her knew that this Jesus was God. Something in this woman dared to have faith that this was something different.

And so, she reaches her hand out for those things she knows to be true. She reaches her hand out for something more than just her own healing and restoration to physical health, but for nothing less than salvation; for all of us.

And she touches Jesus’ cloak and feels her body change immediately. The heavy ache lifts.

And Jesus feels the energy of this moment and he asks who touched his clothes. And the disciples don’t want to take the time to figure it out, they want to continue their movement through the crowd. There is important work to do. And when she hears this, the woman, who had been so brave, starts shaking, hardly believing she had done it. And she falls before Jesus in this pocket of healing within the chaos of the crowd. And she tells Jesus what she did. And he looks her in the eyes and says:

“Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.”

And then, Jesus hears a group of people push through the throngs and tell Jairus that his daughter has died. Did Jesus’ turn in attention to one human being condemn another? Is there a cap on the amount of healing grace that can be handed out. Jesus says “no.” He takes up the Gospel narrative from our unnamed woman and heads to Jairus’s house. And people laugh at the thought that God’s love is that big. So big as to overcome death. So big as to include us all.

Jesus says “Little girl, get up!” And she does. She awakens from her slumber, healed. Two are healed: the daughter of a powerful man made humble in desperate grief, dropping to his knees before Jesus  and the marginalized woman made brave in desperate pain, reaching her hand toward Jesus. 

In God’s reign no one’s existence will be embarrassing or unspeakable or expendable and none of God’s children will be unclean or untouchable.

But we know that in our experience people are deemed embarrassing, unspeakable and expendable; untouchable and unclean. Based on gender, how they present themselves, immigration status, ethnic background, the color of their skin, who they love, their religion, the size, shape or condition of their body, where they live or lay their head, and on and on and on.

And, I’m afraid, we’re hearing more and more of this from powerful men and women, who do not question their own value, but find no worth in so many. And we among this crowd in this place and time might mutter, “We had hoped for something different We had hoped for the world to change.”

And I don’t pretend to have great answers for navigating this anxious time, with a whole lot of bad, and often scary news. But I do take from our story this morning a hint; that we should always look closer to find the Gospel narrative inside the overwhelming larger setting. Look for quiet signs of that hope; signs of that change; signs of God’s promised reign. Look for just one person being healed, in any sense of that word. Look for one person getting fed when she was hungry; housed when she was not.

Look for people who were once deemed embarrassing, unspeakable and expendable being respected, welcomed and celebrated. Maybe not everywhere. But somewhere.

And maybe, we can help make those small things happen. Through the triage of day-to-day assistance – feeding, driving to medical appointments, helping cut through red tape to apply for public assistance programs. But also, advocating and working for change that reduces suffering among the crowd. On the local, on-on-the ground level, where we can see it.

And, last, I wonder if we can dare to have the kind of faith that allows us to ask for healing. Like Jairus and the unnamed woman; to take our own needs, our own hopes, our own concerns to God, and know that God will look us in the eyes and see us.

And to take these things to one another. Lean on each other. When I just can’t find, don’t see, Jesus out there healing people, one by one (which happens!), I know I have a friend who can. And I know you do too (hint: you can find them in this room). And when we find that friend, we’ve also found Christ. Always here. In a pocket of healing. Within the chaos.