Monday, July 30, 2018

Walking on Water

In Nomine Iesu
St. Mark 6:45-56
July 29, 2018
Proper 12B

Dear Saints of our Savior~

Two familiar Bible stories frame this morning’s divine service. On the one hand, it’s all fairly basic. In our reading from Genesis, the Lord gives the rainbow as a sign and promise that He will never again destroy the entire earth with floodwaters. And in our
reading from Saint Mark, Jesus walks on water as if it were solid ground. The plain and simple message is that Jesus is God. It’s like we sing in the Matins liturgy: The sea is His, for He made it, and His hand formed the dry land. Jesus is God; and we’re not. We get it.

But if you take a deeper dive into the details of today’s Holy Gospel, you’ll find a lot of things that seem odd, strange, and just plain weird. First of all, did you notice that Jesus “made” His disciples get into the boat? Jesus insisted that the twelve set off in a little boat on a big sea, just as the sun is setting and darkness is creeping in. Furthermore, Jesus insisted that they row off into the sunset without Him. You boys just go on ahead and I’ll catch up. See you later. From there, Jesus heads up a mountain to pray while the disciples undertake a cruise beneath the stars.

If the disciples had any misgivings or hesitation about this, we aren’t told about it. But the experienced fishermen on that little boat—they knew that strong winds often whipped up at night on the Sea of Galilee. And sure enough, those winds kick up and the disciples are straining at the oars. Nine o’clock comes and they’re still rowing. Midnight, and they’re still rowing. Three AM and they’re still at it—their little boat bobbing up and down, wind in their faces, getting nowhere in the damp darkness.

Now, as if things couldn’t get any weirder, it’s right about then that Jesus comes to them. But Jesus needs no boat. He’s walking on the surface of the deep. The sea is His for He made it. And did you catch this shocker from Saint Mark: He meant to pass them by. Jesus wasn’t even planning on stopping to say “hi.” But then something caught the Lord’s attention. Perhaps it was twelve grown men screaming like little girls telling ghost stories around a campfire. Sure enough, the disciples thought Jesus was a ghost.

This account doesn’t play out the way we might have scripted it. To sum up, Jesus sends the twelve out on the sea in a boat, by themselves, has them rowing for six frustrating hours in the dark, battling wind and waves, then walks out to them on the water at 3AM, scares the living daylights out of them and says, “Hey guys, buck up! It’s me. Don’t be afraid.” He gets in the boat with them, the wind becomes calm, and the twelve are left to stare at one another and scratch their heads without a word of explanation from Jesus.

One thing’s perfectly clear: this passage is not about the disciples’ great faith. There isn’t any. They don’t get it. They didn’t understand about Jesus feeding five thousand with just five loaves and two fish. They didn’t understand about Jesus walking on the water. In fact, St. Mark says plainly, “Their hearts were hardened.” In the Scriptures, hardened hearts are unbelieving hearts. There are no faith heroes in this boat—just twelve tired, frightened, damp disciples, without a clue.

But let’s not be too hard on the Twelve. After all, you can identify with them. No, Jesus isn’t compelling you to set sail on a dark and stormy night. But He is compelling you to follow His will and walk in His ways—to conform your life to His Word. Perhaps Jesus is compelling you to give up the addiction, the adultery, the idolatry. Perhaps Jesus is compelling you to stop the gossip or to end the envy. Perhaps He’s compelling you to forgive the one you refuse to forgive—to honor your parents, to submit to your husband, to love your wife as Christ loves the church. Perhaps Jesus just wants you to be content—to quit coveting how good everyone else seems to have it.

And as for you, well, you are trying. You know that in Jesus you are precious and holy—loved and died for—baptized and blessed. You’re trying; but you’re tired. You feel like you’re just rowing into a stiff headwind and you’re weary. The Christian life feels like running on a treadmill sometimes. Fatigue is setting in and you’re tempted to give up and give in. Perhaps it seems like your heart is hardening. And this is the whole point of all these strange events on the sea that night: Jesus was teaching the Twelve—and us—that no amount of rowing we do will fix things—no amount of strength on our part will be able to get us through all the temptation and opposition and persecution that just keeps coming our way. On our own, sin and death will sweep us away. Without Jesus, we can do nothing.

The same Jesus who strolled on the water of the Deep—who stilled the winds, who cast out demons and healed the sick—this same Jesus would hang helpless on a cross for you—to do what you cannot do. Jesus would become a corpse on a cross to conquer the darkness, the demons, sin and death. In today’s text Jesus gave His disciples a 3AM glimpse of His power and glory. But then He buried that power and glory in the 3PM darkness of His crucifixion cross for your deliverance, forgiveness, and salvation. This is how it’s done. Jesus uses death to accomplish life. He shows His strength in weakness. He overcomes sin by becoming our sin. He overcomes Adam’s curse by being cursed and hanging from a tree. In His cross you have life.

Jesus Christ will not pass you by in your time of struggle—in the weariness of your sin—in your fear and fatigue. “Take heart,” He says, “It is I. Do not be afraid.” Jesus did not pass by His disciples in their distress. Jesus joined them in their distress. Jesus joined them in the boat—climbed right in together with them. This is our Savior. He doesn’t command you to walk on water. He doesn’t compel you to climb your way up to where He is. Instead, God Himself joins you in Jesus of Nazareth. He jumps right in to your sinking, struggling life to save you. Take heart; it is I. Do not be afraid.

One day Jesus would send out these men in the boat as His apostles and ministers. He would be sending them out into a dark world of death and despair—into the strong headwinds of opposition and persecution. But because of what happened that night on the Sea, they knew that Jesus would come to them. Jesus would help them. He would be their refuge and their strength. Jesus would care for His church. And His church would be like a little ark of salvation, afloat in a flood of destruction. Jesus would be with them, even when their numbers were as few as two or three. Jesus would be with them always, to the very end of the age.

Jesus will always keep His church afloat. He comes to us as He did that night on the sea—in strange and mysterious ways that leave us marveling. He comes to us in the preaching of His Word. He comes to us in His body and blood, saying, “Take heart; it is I. Do not be afraid.” At the end of the great flood, God set a rainbow in the heavens as a sign. Never again. Never again would water be used by God as an instrument of worldwide destruction. But now, until the end of time, God uses water as an instrument of life and salvation in the cleansing waves of Holy Baptism.

Through these precious means Jesus Christ comes to you, bringing calm to your chaos, and peace in times of trouble, and forgiveness for your sins. He has placed you here, in the ark of His holy church. Here as baptized believers our lives are continually unfolding and growing into who we are in Christ. We are “works in progress.” And when you find yourself in the dark, in a little boat, making no headway against the opposition—it just might be because Jesus is exercising that faith that His Spirit has created in you—to deepen your trust in His promises—so that you might learn to expect the Lord to come to you in such times, in the last watch of the night, just before the break of day. He will come to meet you there—at your worst and at your weakest. “Take heart,” He says, “It is I. Do not be afraid.”

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Monday, July 23, 2018

The Compassionate Christ

In Nomine Iesu
St. Mark 6:30-44
July 22, 2018
Proper 11B

Dear saints of our Savior~

Two weeks ago we watched the Savior send off His disciples two by two. The time had come for the Twelve to take their first baby
steps as apostles and ministers of the Lord Jesus Christ. Still today in the church we send out pastors-to-be for a whole year of vicarage, or internship. Many of you know that I was a vicar at Luther Memorial Chapel in Shorewood under Pastor Wieting. To say that I learned a lot that year would be an understatement. There’s hardly ever a week that goes by to this day where I don’t draw upon my experiences that year. You can only learn so much in the classroom, right? Eventually, you’ve got to roll up your sleeves and get your hands dirty.

Today’s Holy Gospel picks up at the end of vicarage, as the apostles Jesus sent out are returning to their Teacher. They’re excited, energized, and eager to tell Jesus about all of their little adventures—demons exorcised, diseases healed, good news preached and proclaimed. So many stories to tell—successes and failures, joys and sorrows. So Jesus takes them on a little retreat in the wilderness, away from the crowds. It was supposed to be a time to recharge and reflect, to rest and recuperate. So they went off in a boat by themselves.

But the crowd followed them. Somehow, word got out that Jesus and the Twelve were back together again. The crowd grew larger as people ran from their houses with their sandals barely strapped on. They came from all over, a huge sea of humanity, clamoring for Jesus and the Twelve. They were like rock stars, celebrities, heroes. Everyone wanted a piece of them. Plans to rest and recuperate quickly evaporated. There was no escape and no retreat.

We don’t know what the disciples thought about all of this; but we do know what Jesus thought. Jesus saw the crowd, and He had compassion on them because they were like sheep without a shepherd. Jesus wasn’t annoyed or overwhelmed or angry. No, Jesus was filled with compassion. For Jesus, it was literally gut-wrenching to see people so desperate—people so lost and confused—people without a clue. Jesus saw sheep without a shepherd—vulnerable people, people at risk—accidents just waiting to happen.

Have you ever imagined what the Lord must think of our generation today? What must He think of a people who imagine that their own feelings can determine the most basic biological realities of maleness and femaleness? What must the Lord think as He sees our idolatry of celebrity—the ways we glamorize what is evil, and the ways we demonize what is good and decent? What must the Lord think when He looks at this mob of humanity, in the year 2018, that will chase after anything and everything that promises health, wealth, or pleasure?

The answer is “compassion.” He is the compassionate Christ—the One in whose wounds we find our healing and forgiveness. Jesus understood that the crowds chasing Him and His disciples were there for all the wrong reasons. They just wanted a quick fix—a piece of the action—a glimpse of glory—just a few favors. But as Jesus looked deeply into the hearts of that crowd, He saw what no one else could see: the need, the emptiness, the fear, the guilt, the despair that was driving the frenzy. And seeing all that, Jesus had compassion on them.

Beloved in the Lord, Jesus Christ looks at you the same way, with the same compassion. For you don’t always turn to Him as you should. And when you do turn to Him it’s not always for the right reasons or with the right attitude. He sees right into that heart of yours—sees the guilt, the shame, the fear, the despair—all the byproducts of your sin. The Lord Jesus looks upon it all and His reaction is compassion. That’s just how Jesus is. He is the compassionate Christ—our Savior.

But the compassion of the Christ is more than just a feeling. It’s not just that Jesus just feels sorry for you. No, Jesus sees your troubles and He addresses them. He provides what you need. Look at what He did for the “shepherdless” souls that were crowding around Him in today’s text. He began to teach them many things. Don’t overlook that simple sentence. Jesus taught them. He gave them His Words. And He has the words of eternal life—words of Law and Gospel.

And after Jesus fed them with His Word, He miraculously multiplied five loaves and two fish to make a feast for thousands. He showed them that He was their Shepherd. Echoing the 23rd Psalm, Jesus had them sit down in green pastures. And taking the loaves and fish, Jesus looked up to heaven—up to His Father from whom all blessings flow—and He blessed the bread and the fish and had His disciples distribute to the people.

It’s another teachable moment for the Twelve. Jesus has them distribute the miraculously multiplying bread and fish. Jesus is teaching them what it means to serve—to minister. For they would be the church’s first pastors. Jesus was teaching them how it would go. He would be the source; they would do the feeding. He would work the kitchen; they would be the runners and the platers and the waiters and the servers, bringing His food to His people.

This is the compassion of the Christ! And this is the place where that compassion flows into your life. Here He teaches you many things through the preaching and proclamation of His pastors from this pulpit. Here He provides a miraculous meal for you—bread that is His body and wine that is His blood. In the early church the bread and wine for the Sacrament were brought forward as part of the offering. The people brought their bread and wine to Jesus, just as the loaves and fish were brought to Jesus in today’s miracle. Only here the miracle isn’t merely making more bread and more wine. That would be nice. But by the power of His Word, Jesus does something better. He takes our meager bread and wine and makes it precious, priceless, and powerful—makes it His own body and blood for the forgiveness of our sins. This is the compassion of the Christ for you.

This miracle—the feeding of the five thousand—is the only one of Jesus’ miracles that you can read about in Matthew and Mark and Luke and John. Not one of the evangelists dared to omit it. There’s something here that’s so fundamental and foundational for those who follow Jesus in faith. Jesus invites us to place our meager and insufficient resources into His hands, and He uses them in miraculous ways—to pour out His compassion on all the lost sheep of this sinful world.

Jesus took five loaves and two fish and fed a crowd of thousands. He takes our bread and wine and feeds us with His own precious body and blood. He takes our ordinary water and washes us in Holy Baptism—forgiving us and making us His own dear children. He takes sinful, ordinary men and gives them to His church as pastors—as undershepherds of the Good Shepherd to serve His people. He takes our dollars and our cents—the dirty cash and quickly-scribbled checks we call the “offering.” And with the wealth we faithfully place into His nail-scarred hands, the Lord does marvelous, miraculous things—supporting missionaries and ministries that span the whole world.

You can trust this Jesus with everything you have and everything you are because compassion is the name of His game. For when the day comes that we depart this life—once again we will simply do what we have always done. We will place what we have into the hands of Jesus, trusting His promises. As we Christians leave this world, we commend our bodies and souls to the compassionate Christ. And we await the magnificent, miraculous result: the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting.

On Good Friday Jesus bore your sins in His body on the cross. The compassion of Jesus is what led the Lord to His crucifixion cross. You can trust Him with your very worst. You can confess your sins to Him. And in exchange you have His blood-bought forgiveness and righteousness. This is the love of Jesus. This is the compassion of the Christ. And it’s all for sheep like us.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Monday, July 16, 2018

The More Things Change . . .

In Nomine Iesu
St. Mark 6:14-29
July 15, 2018
Proper 10B

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

There’s an old saying: The more things change, the more they stay the same. It doesn’t matter how many years go by, or how much new technology gets added to the mix. People are people. Human behavior (and human misbehavior) is fairly predictable. The players may change. The circumstances may change. But the more things change, the more they just stay the same.

Today’s Holy Gospel tells of the martyrdom of St. John the Baptist. It’s a grim and grisly affair, to be sure, which culminates in John’s death by decapitation. But in just the past several years, how many Christians have met a similar fate? How many Christians in
places like Syria, Iraq, and Egypt have departed this life at the hands of Muslim extremists—in explosions and executions perpetrated to kill those who confess Jesus Christ as Lord? I don’t know how many; but the Lord knows.

But the parallels of John’s martyrdom with this present age go much deeper than this. In today’s Holy Gospel we have a politician behaving badly. Power corrupts and no one was more powerful in that neck of the woods than King Herod. He was so powerful, in fact, that he had taken his brother’s wife as his own. Of course, it takes two to tango and Herodias probably saw divorce and adultery as a pathway to more power for herself. But again, the more things change, the more they stay the same. How many members of congress—how many Hollywood elite—lost their jobs due to sexual misconduct in recent years? Has there ever been a time when God’s gift of marriage meant so little to so many? I don’t know; but the Lord knows.

It was this mix of sex and marriage and politics that ultimately led to John’s demise. John had the temerity to speak God’s truth to power. He told Herod that shacking up with his brother’s wife was sinful. It was contrary to God’s Law. It was wrong on ever level. Plenty of other people probably thought the whole situation stunk to high heaven too, but had the good sense to keep their mouths shut. Not John. John was the Lord’s bulldozer—raising the valleys and leveling the mountains to make way for Jesus. John did what John did best—calling all people (kings included) to repentance.

Now, interestingly, Herod listened to what John had to say. Herod heard John gladly. Herod locked John up in prison not to punish him, but to protect him from Herodias. The new Mrs. Herod held a grudge against John and wanted him put to death. Apparently, she didn’t appreciate John preaching publicly about her sin. I tell you what, the more things change, the more they stay the same. Still today, nothing gets people madder—nothing gets people more furious—nothing triggers more righteous indignation than to tell them that what they are doing is wrong—that it’s sinful. We know that confronting sin is an act of love. But rarely does the confronted sinner respond with love and thanks and appreciation.

That’s because our sinful nature always wants to justify our sinful behaviors. We have no trouble selling ourselves plenty of good excuses—laying out a reasonable rationale for why our sin isn’t really a sin at all. But when someone like John comes along, points their finger at us, and says, “Repent,” well, nothing makes our molars grind faster. Nothing stirs up our thirst for revenge and retribution more readily than when someone calls us on the carpet. Together with Herodias, our mantra becomes, “Heads will roll.”

Confronting sin is actually part of a pastor’s job. Not only do pastors preach and teach and encourage and exhort. They also rebuke and correct those who have gone astray. As you might imagine, that’s the part of the job that most pastors enjoy the least. It’s worth pondering perhaps: What would you do if your pastor confronted you about some sin in your life? Would you listen and take his concerns to heart? Or would you be more inclined to say, “Off with his head?”

John’s gory death certainly foreshadows the gory death of Jesus. John’s death also pointed ahead to the deaths of all those who would be martyred for their faith in Jesus Christ. And John’s death also teaches us something about the nature of evil. Acts of great evil aren’t always perpetrated by evil geniuses—the Hitlers and Stalins of the world with their masterplans for genocide, torture and starvation. No, sometimes evil doesn’t happen because of evil men; but just as often it’s because of weak and feckless men like Herod—men who care more about their own reputations than the truth—men who care more about being liked than about doing the right thing. There’s a King Herod inside each of us—proud, boastful, and fickle—hungry for power and eager to be liked—with no regard for doing the right thing. This is why we still need to hear John’s message: “Repent . . . and behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.”

That Lamb is Jesus. And what’s surprising about this whole episode is that Jesus is strangely silent. He apparently has nothing to say on the matter. But how can Jesus have “no comment” on the disgraceful and unjust death of His cousin, John? Maybe it’s because He had His own disgraceful and unjust death awaiting Him in Jerusalem. Jesus had a sacrifice to make that would deal once and for all with the sins of the whole world, including the sins of corrupt kings in their adulterous bedrooms. God doesn’t deal with the sin of the world by instituting a program of moral improvement, or by recruiting an army of social justice warriors to stage protests and fight corruption. No, God deals with human sin by sending His Son in the flesh—to put sin to death in His flesh on the cross.

It’s likely that John held the same notions about the Messiah that his contemporaries did—that the Messiah would be a powerful messiah, a righteous King unlike Herod and his brothers—God’s king on God’s throne ruling God’s nation. That’s what people were waiting for—a superman who would clean up corruption and establish truth, justice, and the Israelite way.

But that wasn’t the way of Jesus or of His kingdom. Earthly kingdoms are about power. Their kings lop off the heads of their critics. But God’s kingdom is about the mercy of a King who dies for the people (for all of them, including His critics). It’s about the kindness of a King whose glorious grace embraces the worst, the lost, and the lowly. John had to decrease. Jesus had to increase. John had to get out of the way for Jesus to be the way, the truth and the life. John was safe in death because Jesus was going the way of the cross to rescue Him and the world.

It’s tempting sometimes to be like John—to criticize the disappearing morals of our own perverse and wicked generation. There’s so much in our world that’s not right and unjust. There’s much that needs to be said in the public square. And we should speak out and stand up for what is right, defending marriage, defending the unborn, affirming the distinctive goodness of male and female, speaking God’s truth in love.

But remember: John served best when he pointed his prophetic finger at Jesus and said, “Behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.” There’s God’s answer to all of this. There’s God’s solution to the world’s problems and to your own sin and death. The one thing needful has been done. Christ has died. Christ has risen. It is finished.

The more things change, the more they stay the same. The more the world around us changes, the more God’s promises stay the same. Blessed are you who recognize your sin and repent of it. Blessed are you who hear His Words and keep them. Blessed are you who do not despise preaching and His Word, but hold it sacred and gladly hear and learn it. For in that word is life and salvation and strength to bear your crosses and to speak the truth in love. In Jesus you have life that lasts forever. And that gift no man—no king and no court—can ever take from you.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sunday, July 1, 2018

Why Trouble the Teacher?

In Nomine Iesu
Mark 5:21-43
July 1, 2018
Proper 8B

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

Little Maggie was twelve years old. She was a happy, active little girl, deeply loved by her father and mother. On a beautiful summer day she was playing beneath a pear tree when she suddenly felt faint. Her mother carried her to her bed, but her pain and weakness only increased. Doctors were consulted. The very best medical care was applied, but little Maggie’s condition became critical. At one point her father prayed aloud: “I love her dearly, but if it is your will, dear God, to take her, I shall be glad to know that she is with you.”

With each passing day, death drew near. Maggie’s mother sat at the bedside with her face in her hands to hide the tears. The girl’s father gently knelt down and spoke softly to his little girl: “My little daughter, you would gladly remain here with me, your father. Are you also glad to go to your Father in heaven?” The girl replied with a faint whisper, “Yes, dear father, God’s will be done.” They buried her beneath the pear tree where she had first fallen ill. Her father, a pastor and university professor named Martin Luther, spoke to the gathered mourners: “I’m glad she is in heaven,” he said. “My sorrow is of the flesh. Our little daughter is at rest in body and soul. We know that this must happen to gain eternal life” (Luther, Letters of Spiritual Counsel, p.50-51).

If you think that account sounds somewhat melodramatic or overly emotional, then I can only say that you have never been with a mother and father whose child has died. If you’ve been fortunate enough to avoid that situation, then you must allow Saint Mark to take you there this morning. But in fact, today’s Holy Gospel is a story of not one, but two, daughters. One daughter, the daughter of Jairus,
was dying. The other, an older woman whom Jesus addresses as “daughter,” she was as good as dead, having suffered with a discharge of blood for twelve years. This “female problem” had not only rendered her infertile, but had made her an “unclean” outcast under the OT ceremonial laws. Let’s take the account as Mark presents it to us.

There can be no doubt that Jairus had tried everything to save his dying twelve-year-old daughter. The synagogue prayer chain was no doubt praying for the sick girl. The best medical help had been consulted. By the time Jairus comes to Jesus for help, he’s a father filled with desperation and panic. When you’re a dad and your little girl is dying, there is an unbearable feeling of helplessness. “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.” How could Jesus say “no” to that? Without hesitation Jesus goes with Jairus.

But along the way there’s a delay. Crowds press in on Jesus such that he can barely get through the narrow streets of Capernaum. The woman with the discharge of blood sneaks up behind him. She’s suffered for twelve long years, as long as Jairus’ daughter had been alive. Physicians have taken all of her money but delivered no cure. She was hoping for a drive-by miracle: “If I touch even his garments, I will be made well.” And with one touch she felt healing come into her body. Jesus, too, felt that power had gone out from Him—that the lights had momentarily dimmed. But Jesus doesn’t do impersonal, anonymous, drive-by healings. He stops to connect with the woman—to see her, look her in the eye, speak to her.

Lots of people had probably touched the robe of Jesus—jostled Jesus, or bumped into Him. Personal space was at a premium for a celebrity like the Savior. Even the disciples were incredulous when Jesus stopped to find out who had touched Him in that sea of humanity. What do you mean, ‘Who touched me?’ Everyone is touching you! But not everyone had faith. This woman did. She believed that simply touching His garment would bring healing. She had faith. That’s what made her different. That’s why power went out from Jesus. Faith receives what Jesus has to give. She knew she was considered unclean. No one would want to touch her. But she trusted that if she could only touch Jesus it would all be better. Jesus says as much: Your faith has made you well. By faith she received the healing power of Jesus. A happy ending.

But at that very moment, devastating news came from Jairus’ house: Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the teacher any further? Those words must have stabbed deeply into his very heart. His precious little girl . . . dead. They had been so close, but now it was too late. Why trouble the teacher? After all, dead is dead. No one can change that. Why trouble the teacher? Because Jesus came to be troubled with this very thing. Because Jesus came to be bothered by our death. And He aims to do something about it.

This entire account pivots on what Jesus says next. He looks at the devastated father and says, “Do not fear, only believe.” You trusted me with her illness, when she was sick. Now trust me with her death. Do not fear, only believe. Trust me.

Jesus says that for your benefit too. To you, here and now, this morning Jesus invites and draws out faith from you. Do not fear, only believe. Your prayers may mostly be unanswered. Like Jairus, you might feel that others take priority over you—that you’ve been put on “hold” while the Lord deals with problems more pressing than yours. Do not fear, only believe. You may be in despair, trapped by your own besetting sins or by the sin of others. You may have lost all faith in institutions, in your fellow man, in your country. You may be grieving the death of a child (you never get over that). Do not fear, only believe.

Jesus came to save all—the woman with the discharge of blood, Jairus and his little girl. He came for them all and for you too. He came to bring healing from the sickness of sin, to bring order to your disordered life, to give you light in your darkness. For the joy of your salvation, He endured the cross and scorned its shame.

In Holy Baptism He reached out to touch you just as He did with the two dear daughters of today’s text. No, you didn’t touch His garment. No, He didn’t take you by the hand. He did much more. He baptized you. He gives you His body and blood to eat and drink. Jesus doesn’t get any closer or more personal than that. The hem of His robe is nothing compared with His life-giving, sin-forgiving body and blood. This is the body and blood that went to death for you—that was raised to life again—that conquered death and the grave—that is glorified at the right hand of the Father—now given and shed for you. Take and eat. Drink of it all of you. Do not fear, only believe.

Loud lamentation and mourning was already underway by the time Jesus and Jairus got to the house. Still today in the Middle East people are open and public with their grieving. There’s no quiet, stoic sobbing, but only loud weeping and wailing. With this being the synagogue ruler’s daughter, after all, you can bet that most of the congregation was there to add to the swelling chorus of despair. Jesus surveyed the scene and said, “Why all the weeping? The child is not dead but sleeping.” And they laughed at Him—not the laughter of joy, but the sneering, scoffing snickering of unbelief. Still today the world laughs at the notion that Jesus can do anything about death.

Jesus ignored the report that the girl was dead—Jesus said she was sleeping—not because she wasn’t dead, but because waking her from death was, for Jesus, no greater task than it had been for her father to wake her up from a nap. Why trouble the teacher? Here’s why: Jesus went to the bedside and took her cold little hand into His. He gently says to her, “Talitha, cumi.” Little girl, arise. (Just like a dad waking up his daughter for school.) With those words from Jesus, life and breath and beauty returned to that young and precious body. Her ashen face became pink and rosy. Sullen, staring eyes danced with life and light. Lifeless lips started to smile. This is exactly why Jairus dared to bother Jesus—to trouble the teacher with death.

You too can trust this Jesus. You too can bother Jesus, like Jairus did. You can trouble the Savior when you’re troubled by death. Because Jesus knows all about death. Because He’s tasted it for you. Jesus came to be bothered by your sin and death. That sin He came to absolve. That death He came to destroy. Christ is risen, and in Him you too will rise.

When it was all said and done, Jesus strangely told everyone to keep quiet about it—that no one should know what He had done for the daughter of Jairus. Why not? Because this is not how Jesus is going to deal with sickness and death—not just one at a time—a widow’s son here, a synagogue ruler’s daughter, an old friend named Lazarus. He raised three dead people that way. But Jesus didn’t come to save only a few, but the world. He came to die and rise for the whole world—to invite the whole world to believe in Him. That’s the Jesus we look to in faith—the one hanging from the cross whose wounds bring us healing, whose death is our life, whose shame is our glory, whose weakness is our strength. On the cross, power went out from Him. On the cross, life went out from Him. Strength and healing went out from Him. And today, by faith, all that went out from Jesus on the cross—these all come into you—rich blessings received by faith.

When you are desperate. When death draws near. When you feel most helpless. Trouble the Teacher. Bother the Savior. Do not fear, only believe.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.