It is noisy here today. So much for the empty nest. I've got people asking how we are doing with all the kids gone and while sometimes it does seem more empty, it isn't silent. The biggest change I notice is that when La Donna calls for someone to set the table there’s no one but me. Unless we could train the crazy dogs to do that.
Fat chance. At the moment I would like to be able to train the crazy dogs to shut up. First of all the weather is so nice, there are some neighborhood boys who have to try their hand at fishing in the pond out back. Apparently, adolescent boys out at a pond is frown upon by the crazy dogs. No, wait, I take that back. It would be great if they only frowned. No, we have to bark, loudly and incessantly, taking exception to every move they make and every shout they shout (not sure what shouting has to do with fishing, but apparently it is necessary from time to time). Though the boys won’t take any notice, the rest of us are wearing thin.
And then today, La Donna decided that she needed to have a garage sale to get rid of some of the stuff she was sorting from her mom and dad’s house, plus a few extra things we may have picked up over the years, or stuff the kids outgrew, or lost interest in. Good idea I thought. Bad idea barked the crazy dogs. Bad idea because it means she is of their sight for most of the day and that strange people keep showing up in the driveway and having the audacity to make noise. Walking, talking, breathing, you know those offenses against the canine sense of order in the universe.
Even when things seem to calm down for a little while, some unheard, unseen, unknown offense sets them off like a alarm you didn’t realize was on snooze. It can be startling to say the least. Hard to focus, hard to stay on target. What was I talking about? Well, nothing yet, to be honest. What was it going to be? I can’t remember. If only these dogs would be quiet...
Mark 5:21-43 When Jesus had crossed again in the boat to the other side, a great crowd gathered around him; and he was by the sea. 22 Then one of the leaders of the synagogue named Jairus came and, when he saw him, fell at his feet 23 and begged him repeatedly, "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." 24 So he went with him. And a large crowd followed him and pressed in on him.
25 Now there was a woman who had been suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years. 26 She had endured much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had; and she was no better, but rather grew worse. 27 She had heard about Jesus, and came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak, 28 for she said, "If I but touch his clothes, I will be made well." 29 Immediately her hemorrhage stopped; and she felt in her body that she was healed of her disease. 30 Immediately aware that power had gone forth from him, Jesus turned about in the crowd and said, "Who touched my clothes?" 31 And his disciples said to him, "You see the crowd pressing in on you; how can you say, 'Who touched me?'" 32 He looked all around to see who had done it. 33 But the woman, knowing what had happened to her, came in fear and trembling, fell down before him, and told him the whole truth. 34 He said to her, "Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease."
35 While he was still speaking, some people came from the leader's house to say, "Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the teacher any further?" 36 But overhearing what they said, Jesus said to the leader of the synagogue, "Do not fear, only believe." 37 He allowed no one to follow him except Peter, James, and John, the brother of James. 38 When they came to the house of the leader of the synagogue, he saw a commotion, people weeping and wailing loudly. 39 When he had entered, he said to them, "Why do you make a commotion and weep? The child is not dead but sleeping." 40 And they laughed at him. Then he put them all outside, and took the child's father and mother and those who were with him, and went in where the child was. 41 He took her by the hand and said to her, "Talitha cum," which means, "Little girl, get up!" 42 And immediately the girl got up and began to walk about (she was twelve years of age). At this they were overcome with amazement. 43 He strictly ordered them that no one should know this, and told them to give her something to eat.
I wonder if Jesus got exasperated at the interruptions. It seems that time and time again someone comes running up to change his course. I know he is ready to help and to heal and to go where he is most needed, but still. The demands of a crowd wanting something from him must have been like barking dogs getting on his last nerve. Must have been. But you can’t tell it by reading the gospels. There seems to be an infinite supply of patience that he could draw on. OK, maybe one time he seemed a bit short with someone (that’s a story for another time), but for the most part he was grace incarnate.
Well, duh. Of course the point is, not only him, but us as well. That’s the hard part. To not see needs, people, opportunities as interruptions, but as grace moments. To give and to receive. To be attentive and to be present. To be alive and real. Like he was. He is.
There is more here, however than the interruption. There is healing, there is acceptance, there is life out of death, there is hope. There is twelve years of a downward spiral leading to rock bottom, there is twelve years of young life that seems to be vanishing like the morning mist. There is a daughter reclaimed from shame and suffering, and there is a daughter reclaimed from death. There is wonder and there is laughter - both before and after Jesus has come into the picture. And there is a secret.
Ah, the secret. Why does Jesus tell them not to tell when they aren’t going to help telling. When you undo a funeral someone is going ask some questions. It seems an odd thing for Jesus to do. Surely he knew that they were going to tell. Unless the commandment wasn’t not to tell, but who got to do the telling. The only ones in the room were the little girl’s parents and three disciples. Maybe he wanted to story to be hers and not theirs. Maybe Jesus was setting the precedent for witness. Tell your own story, not someone else’s. And tell it with your living rather than your words, at least at first. “Give her something to eat!”
But the reason we turned to this story at all has to do with Jairus first of all. He is our example of a real follower, in our series based on the book by Michael Slaughter (Real Followers: A Radical Quest to Expose the Pretender Inside Each of Us).
Jairus is a leader of the synagogue, Mark tells us. That gives him some status, that puts a certain aura around him. Jairus is one others go to, he is a decider, a determiner. He has resources, he has position, he has power. He is used, I am sure, to solving all his own problems. Except this one. “My little daughter,” he says, she’s twelve years old, almost an adult. Marriageable age, ready to move out and move on. But at the point of death she becomes his little daughter again. “Lay your hands on her,” he asks, bless her, ordain her, set he apart, heal her, he asks. Save her. The word that we translate here is sozo, sometimes translated as heal, sometimes translated as save. As in “are you saved?” Save her, he asked. “So that she may be made well and live.” Not just made well, but live also. Bless her with the fullness of life, give her all that is in store for her, the potential, the goodness, the glory of God. Let her shine, he asks. No, he begs, on his knees, face down in the dust, clinging to Jesus ankles, begging.
That’s a follower. He hadn’t been before, as far as we know. But he is now. Because he interrupted the interruptible Jesus, and pleaded for help. We can’t do this alone. We need help. We need His help. Lay your hands on us, bless us, bless them, bless all we encounter. Use our hands, use our knees, use whatever it takes to save us, to make us well and alive .
Maybe even barking dogs.
Shalom,
Derek
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