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.