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“Just Keep Trusting,” Rev. Melissa St. Clair, 6/28/15

“Just Keep Trusting”

A sermon preached at

Heart of the Rockies Christian Church (Disciples of Christ)

Fort Collins, CO

by the Rev. Melissa St. Clair

June 28, 2015

The Supreme Court had quite a week, didn’t it?

I’m a preacher, not a politician, so I’ll stop there.

Let’s talk about Jesus instead.

Jesus also had a busy week in Mark’s gospel.  You could get whiplash if you’re not careful.

Last week, he was on his way to one side of Sea of Galilee, the Gentile side.  While he’s there, he sends 2,000 pigs over a cliff in the name of demon exorcism.  (Never a dull moment with Jesus.) Now he’s headed back to the other side of the sea, the Jewish side.  It’s there that he encounters a synagogue leader, a crowd, and an unnamed woman.  I invite you to grab a pew Bible and follow along, because we’re about to dig into a famous Markan sandwich (no condiments required).  He starts with one story, inserts another, and then comes back to where he started.

READ MARK 5:21-43

I’m squeamish about blood.  Now, I don’t pass out when I have to have it drawn, but I don’t look either.  As a kid, I spent some time in the hospital at various points.  I loved the nurses who took care of me, and consequently, I was pretty sure I wanted to be a nurse when I grew up.

The next time my Grandma St. Clair comes to visit, be sure to ask her about that.  She was my #1 patient.  Never has anyone been so, well, patient, with the administering of a toilet paper cast as my grandma.

I would turn on the huge old TV in the basement of my parents’ house to a channel that was all static, which was most of them in those days, and interpret the jagged lines into a diagnosis of the heart condition du jour.

And then somewhere along the way, I discovered that nurses have to deal with bodily fluids.  A lot of them.  All the time.  It’s a non-negotiable part of the job.

And my nursing career was over before it began.

And then there’s the blood of Jesus.  You might know the hymns.  This one was a favorite in the last church I served – Just As I Am. 

Just as I am, without one plea,

But that Thy blood was shed for me,

Just as I am, and waiting not

To rid my soul of one dark blot;

To Thee whose blood can cleanse each spot…

As the music director there now knows, I’ve never felt entirely comfortable with Jesus’ blood either.  Pragmatically, the idea of being washed in blood seems terribly unsanitary at the very least.  And near as I could figure, Jesus was killed by people who felt threatened by him because of how radically he loved those whom he was not supposed to love.  His blood didn’t take the place of mine.  But it is in my blood to live life as boldly as Jesus did.

I can still remember when my home church pastor’s wife explained to me what was really happening in this story in Mark’s gospel with the unnamed woman:  She had been having her period for a really, really long time.  My teenage self immediately understood – and was horrified.

Squeamishness aside, the blood is a significant detail.  It makes the woman unclean in society’s eyes.  (Talk about adding insult to injury!)

She had “bad blood,” so to speak.

And then there’s Jairus’ daughter.  Jairus, one of the lay elders of the synagogue.  He wasn’t the one who would preach the sermon or moderate the board, but if you wanted to gripe about the synagogue’s hard seats or poor heating, Jairus was your guy.  In a society heavily influenced by the dynamics of honor and shame, Jairus held a highly honorable position.[1]  His daughter, then, had good blood.

Two different women – one who had been suffering for twelve years; one who has only minutes of her twelve years left to live.  Who does Jesus tend to first?  The one with the “bad” blood.

I can imagine that her elation at being heard – and healed – was only matched in intensity by Jairus’ grief that his daughter had now passed.

If there’s something we know with certainty about our God, though, it’s that death doesn’t have the final word. Ever.

By the time Jesus gets to Jairus’ daughter, the mourning has already commenced.  Professional mourners (yes, that was a thing in those days) have already gathered and are leading the weeping and wailing.

Jesus, more prophet than pastor in this moment, tells them to cut it out.  They laugh in his face, which seems utterly unprofessional, especially for professional mourners.  And then Jesus speaks a word of resurrection – talitha cum.  Little girl, get up!

She does.

This faith Jesus calls us to is a verb.

In fact, that’s why we so often hear it translated as we do this morning – as “believe.”  Do not fear, Jairus, only believe, Jesus says.  (Easy for you to say, Jesus.)  It would sound funny to tell Jairus to just go “faith,” so it often gets translated into English as “believe.”[2]

But what if we were to go faith?  What would that look like?

Would it look like hosting families who have no place to call home in our church building?

Would it look like learning more about the issues of injustice that face our community and discerning what we could do about them?

Would it look like having faithful conversations about inviting community partners who serve the most vulnerable among us to build on our land?

Would it look like engaging in sacred conversations about race?

Would it look like creating spaces in the community for people to gather and talk and pray together about how God is at work in the world?

Would it look like inviting the neighbors over to our place for dinner?

Would it look like participating in programs that serve our children and our schools?

Would it look like trying out a ministry around here that you’ve not yet invested in?

Whatever faithing looks like for you, for us, it’s so vitally important that it is authentic to whom you – and we – really are.

The unnamed woman, trembling, came out to Jesus.  She told him her whole truth.  He saw her – really saw her – for who she was.  She held nothing back.  And she didn’t have to be someone she was not in order to find favor with him.  She certainly didn’t play the rules, as Jairus did in coming to ask for Jesus’ healing on his daughter’s behalf.  She didn’t fit the expectation.  Jesus still calls her daughter.  She is as beloved by him as Jairus’ twelve-year-old is by her father.

Jesus didn’t make a whole lot of friends doing what he did, faithing.  In fact, where he’s headed next, his own hometown, he manages to offend everyone and leaves accomplishing next to nothing.

Jesus is doing good work.  Work that he believes is faithful to the God with whose very being he was created.  For centuries, the ones who have followed after him have felt that work worthy of emulation.

Jesus was in a tough business, though.

The business of seeing people that others couldn’t (or wouldn’t) see and listening to them speak their truth, making sure they knew that they were worthy of love and dignity and a chance to be free.

The business of creating a society where there was compassionate care for those who were suffering, especially those who were nameless, and concern for the well-being of all.

This is the kind of business is risky.  It’s the kind of business in which it would seem like you couldn’t always predict the bottom line.

Except we know what Jesus’ bottom line is:  Love wins.

[1] John Petty, Lectionary Blogging: Mark 5:21-43.  Posted June 25, 2015.  Full post here.

[2] Ibid.