Mark 5:21-43, Luke 8:40-56

His little girl never met the woman who would cause her death.  The year the little girl was born the woman retreated into her house and abandoned her place in the community.  Twelve years later, when she ventured once more into public, the little girl’s life hung in the balance.

In a society where sons were more highly valued than daughters, you might have expected an important man like Jairus to be disappointed over his only child.  But, if ever he wished for a son, no one knew it.  His little girl was the delight of his life and her laughter filled the large house of the synagogue ruler. The phrase, “God wills” often was spoken in resignation, disappointment, frustration or despair, but not in the house of Jairus.  There, it was an expression of praise.  “God wills,” Jairus was fond of saying, “God wills that I have a daughter and he has blessed me with my little girl.  Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

The synagogue was the heart of the community.  More than merely the meeting place where the people came together weekly to hear the reading of the Law and the Prophets, to pray and to learn, the synagogue was where disputes were settled by the wisdom of the elders, where marriages were arranged, where politics were argued.  It was the town church, the village school, the local courthouse and the neighborhood coffee shop, all in one.  The ruler of the synagogue made it all work together.  He was the pastor, the mayor, the school superintendent.  His chief assistant, it seemed, was his little girl.

Even as she approached marriageable age, and the heads of prominent families began to make polite inquiries, Jairus continued to think of her as his little girl.  “Abba,” she would tell him, “I am nearly grown.  I’m not a little girl anymore.”

“I know, talitha,” he would respond, “I know.”  And they both would smile.

The smiling ended suddenly when the sickness came.  The fever sapped her strength and confined her to her bed.  There were no antibiotics, no fever reducers, no sophisticated tests to run, just the herbs and washings of the doctors.  And when she began to dehydrate, there were no IV’s and hanging bags of isotonic solution, just the fear in her mother’s eyes and the fervent prayers of her father.  The mystery of illness stood against the prayers and ignored the cool cloths on her forehead. Her father held her hand and pulled against that ancient enemy who was dragging his little girl into the darkness.

When men came running to the house to announce that Jesus, the healer of Nazareth, was just offshore, coming from the far side of the Sea of Galilee, Jairus did not hesitate, though the teachers of the law and the Pharisees from Jerusalem doubted both his miracles and message.  The father kissed his little girl on the forehead and ran from the house toward the beach.  On the street, well-meaning wailers were gathering to offer their loud mourning when the expected happened.

A crowd had already gathered as Jairus came upon the scene.  Jesus and his companions, their legs still wet from dragging their boats onto the beach, were rapidly being engulfed by what seemed to be the entire village.  Everyone knew Jairus, and most knew of his dying daughter, and the crowd parted as he rushed forward.  He fell at the feet of Jesus, the ruler of the synagogue kneeling in the sand before the itinerant preacher.  “Death has grabbed hold of my daughter,” he implored, “She lays dying.  Please come.”  So they turned toward town, Jairus and Jesus, hurrying through the crush of people.

Then Jesus stopped – stopped in mid-stride and turned to gaze into the crowd.  “Who touched me?” he asked as he scanned the faces in the crowd.

Jairus was near panic.  “My daughter,” he pleaded, “my daughter.”

“Master,” said one of his companions, “we are nearly crushed by the people.   How can you ask ‘who touched me’?  Everyone is touching you.”

“I sensed my power go out,” Jesus said and again he looked into the crowd.  “Who touched me?” he repeated.

The attention of Jesus had settled on a woman, cowering in the street.  Jairus recognized her, though it had been many years since he had actually seen her.  She was a woman chronically ill, perpetually unclean, shunned and considered by many to be cursed and abandoned by God.  She was out of place, there on the street, and Jairus shook his head as if to make her go away, as if she was a bad dream.  It all was feeling like a bad dream.  Jesus, who should have been rushing to save his little girl, was engaged in conversation with the woman.  Jairus wanted to grab his cloak and drag him away, but the Rabbi’s disciples had come between them, crowding to hear their teacher, and had blocked his way.  He felt he had to get back home, but he could not leave without Jesus, without the healer.  He wanted to cry out and his breath was coming in short gasps.  The crowd swam before his eyes and for a moment he thought he was going to faint.

Then Jesus turned back to Jairus, his business with the woman finished, and Jairus turned back toward his home and pressed again into the crowd.  “Please,” he cried, “let us through.”

They had gone but a few steps when the men from the house met them.  They were good and true friends, who knew how he loved his little girl and their faces told him the news.  “No,” he said to them, so softly it could not be heard above the noise of the crowd.  “No,” again his lips formed the word as he grabbed the one before him by the arms, to steady himself.

The man looked past Jairus at Jesus, then back to his friend.  “Why bother the teacher anymore?” he said, “Come home.  Your wife needs you.  Your daughter is dead.”

The world had grown silent around Jairus.  He saw the people around him, neighbors, people he knew.  Their lips were moving, but he could only hear the beating of his heart.  It seemed to him that he was floating – or falling.  He felt as if he had come unmoored, adrift, disconnected.  Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, firm, strong.  Jesus had stepped up next to him and turned him a quarter turn to face him.  “Do not be afraid,” Jesus said, “only believe.”  And again they began to move toward the house of the synagogue ruler, this time with Jesus leading.

They left the trailing crowd behind as they entered the courtyard of Jairus’ house.  The mourners assembled there grew silent for a moment as they recognized the arrival of the father of the dead girl, then began anew to weep and wail.  Jesus raised his hand to quiet them.  “Why all this noise and confusion?” he asked.  “The child is not dead.  She is merely asleep.”  The mourners looked at the ashen face of Jairus, close now beside Jesus, his fine robes in stark contrast to the rough garments of Jesus and his disciples.  They turned to look at the wife of the synagogue ruler, just emerging from the doorway to meet her husband, her face wet with tears.

“Asleep?” someone cried out. “Is he joking?”

“Well, it’s a bad joke,” said someone else.  “A dead child is a bad place to be looking for a laugh.  You looking for a laugh, Nazareth?”

“Here’s a laugh for you,” shouted another, “and then get out!”  And he laughed a great sarcastic laugh.

“No,” Jesus said, his voice clear but not loud, “You are the ones who must leave now.”  His disciples had seen this before, in the temple when Jesus ordered the sellers and money changers to leave and when he ordered demons from those possessed.  There was an intensity in his gaze, a certain timbre to his voice, something to do with his bearing – something about authority – that caused people and demons to obey his command.  Now the wailers moved silently out of the way.

Jesus moved forward to Jairus’ wife.  “She is just asleep,” he said, “Come, let’s go in to her.” And followed by Jairus and his wife, Jesus entered the darkened room where the child lay.  He motioned three of his companions to follow and the six stood beside the bed.  Jairus knelt and brushed a bit of hair from the forehead of his little girl, shocked by the unnatural coolness of her now so pale skin, lifeless as potter’s clay beneath his touch.  His wife lay a hand on his shoulder and he could feel a sob shudder through her.

But Jesus was smiling.  “Just believe,” he whispered to them, “I am the life.”  Then he lifted her limp hand in his own.  “Oh, talitha,” he said, “little girl, listen, time to get up.”

Jairus’ little girl opened her eyes and sat up.  She turned to Jairus.  “Abba,” she said, “you’re crying.  Are you okay?” and she threw her arms around his neck.

“Are you hungry child?” Jesus asked her, and then to her parents, “I think she would like to eat, most twelve year olds do.  And please, it’s not yet my time.  Life and love are stronger than death.  She was just asleep.”