"Midrash: The (Com)Passion of the Daughter of God"
Preached at House for All Sinners and Saints
Denver, Colorado
Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time
1 July 2012
Day Texts: Lamentations 3.22-33
Psalm 30
2 Corinthians 8.7-15
Mark 5.21-43
(Audio available at end of post)
-She has sat outside the synagogue alone for at
least a decade, begging. The
doctors had long ago ceased making empty promises about cures once they knew she could no longer afford care. She’d been on the streets of Bethsaida so long, her friends forgot about
her or thought she was dead. And
it was just as well. If people
remembered that she was the one with the unstoppable flow of blood, they’d have
driven her away long ago. Today, like every day, she sits alone and ignored as people pass. People who will never know that, just by stepping near the ground on which she sits, they too have become ritually unclean.
-But today is different. Because today, Jesus of Nazareth has
come to town. She’s heard stories. He casts out demons. He stops hurricanes. He is the Son of God. She hears excited rumors that he is
going to the synagogue leader Jairus’ house to heal his sick daughter. The crowds are swelling at the promise
of a spectacle. And something in
her whispers to her. He can make
you well, too. It’s not just for
the rich man’s daughter. It’s for
you. Go now. Touch him.
-She surveys the chaos of the crowd. This is no Red Sea to easily part like
Moses; this is a flood of humanity, crushing one another in their curiosity and
desperation. This will be a
challenge. But twelve years of hemorrhaging
blood is no cakewalk, and at this point, she has nothing to lose. And so, with little more than a psychotic
faith that is only a hair’s breadth from despair, she takes a deep breath, and
plunges in.
-At first she makes headway. But the surge is too great. The waves of bodies pressing together,
reeking of sweat and selfishness choke her senses. Arms push, and elbows strike, and she quickly realizes there
is no way forward. “Forget getting
his attention,” the voice inside her whispers. “if you only touch his robe, you’ll be healed.”
-And then she is thrown to the ground. Sandled feet step on her fingers. She is kicked again and again. Between flashes of pain, she recognizes
feet. She has seen them as she
sits outside the synagogue, head bowed, begging for alms and assistance. Dust fills and burns her eyes. But Jesus is ahead, whispers the
voice. And Jesus is getting away.
-She cannot see Jesus. But on the ground, she sees the
direction feet are pointing in, and so she chooses the only option left to her. She crawls. And crawls. And
crawls, clutching ankle after ankle, pulling herself inch by hellish inch. And yet, from down here, on the ground,
forgotten and unknown, she moves faster than those unwilling to stoop in the dust and dirt.
-Feet.
More feet. She sees them
covered in dust, their warts, their deformities, their scars. She knows their secrets and their
impurities. And then, the fringe
of Jairus’s fancy cloak. And then,
a simple robe, dirty and weathered by the road. These are not feet she has seen before in town - and she has
seen them all. These are the feet
of the one who can make you well, whispers the voice. These are the feet of Jesus.
-And she lunges. And she grasps the hem of Jesus’ garment. And she feels world explode in a rush
of lightning coursing through her loins.
And then, like the most refreshing of rains, washing the fire from her,
she feels it. Something she has
not felt for twelve years. The
bleeding has stopped. And she is
full of Power. And this power is
terrifying.
-Terrifying, not merely because she has touched
the one called the Son of God. She
is afraid, because the flow of blood has been replaced by the sensation of
electricity still coursing through her body. Today we might say she was like a child who stuck her finger in a socket. She is unable to tear herself away. And, charged with the very power and grandeur of God, her mind is flooded with visions.
-She sees countless people from countless ages,
past, present, yet to come. People
like her. Desperate people, beaten
down into the dust. People used to
being ignored. Helpless people
whose issue is not an uncontrollable fluke of biology and blood, but who feel
themselves broken down by unstoppable flows of appetite, desire, anger, addiction. People who cannot stop spending
money. People who cannot stop
drinking. People who cannot stop
looking at strange, moving images of naked folks on glowing squares on their
tables.
-She sees desperate people. People crying out to God from the
flames of hells of their own choosing, and hells that have been chosen for them. She sees women who are denied the right
to speak, and she sees sick folk who, like her, have found no doctors to heal
them. She sees mothers grieving
for children stolen from them by violence in the streets of strange
cities. She sees men, sitting on
couches in dark basements, paralyzed by fear and self-loathing. She sees families fleeing their burning
houses as fire reigns down from the mountains. She sees Jairus, weeping because, for all his power and
privilege, the doctors can do no more for his daughter than they could do to help her flow of blood.
-And then she sees Jesus. Crawling. Feet around him are kicking him as voices rain down
insults. She sees him, like her,
bleeding uncontrollably in the dust as a whip strikes his back. On his shoulders she sees a cross. And then, she sees Jesus on this cross,
screaming out, “my God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” For just that moment, fingers charged
with the searing force of God’s power, she sees what Jesus sees, what he
carries with him, where he is headed, who he really is. And she is afraid.
-And then, suddenly, a memory. She remembers once, as a girl, when she was
taken to Jerusalem and witnessed the anointing of the high priest. Ointment was poured high over his head,
and the precious stuff settled down his robes and collected around his
feet. Her father told her that it
is the feet where the sweetness of the incense is strongest.
-And she wonders: what does it mean that the sweetness of Jesus' robes is her hand, unable to release its grip? That the incense that ordains him is not fine myrrh, but the infirmities, the brokenness, the damage of the entire world? That his power is not found in fine robes, but down here, in the dust, where clean and unclean collide?
-And just as suddenly it began, the vision ceases. And she realizes that the crowd has
fallen silent. Because Jesus has
spoken. He is wondering who has
touched him. How did he know? But she knows he knows. He knows the little touch of intimacy
she has stolen, there, in the dirt and dust amidst the feet of the city. He knows, and at his piercing,
searching glance, the storm of the pressing crowd is stilled.
-Full of fear and trembling at what she has seen,
she knows she cannot hide from this man.
And while she is terrified, she knows there is nothing else she can
do. And so she stands, and she
tells him. The whole truth.
-He does not look at her with contempt or anger
or even embarrassment. He gazes
deep into her eyes. She sees there
a faint smile, as if to say, “now you know Now you’re in on it too.” And then, he speaks aloud words she never imagined hearing “Daughter,
your faith has made you well. Go
in peace and be healed.”
-And suddenly, she realizes she’s almost forgotten
the fact that she’s no longer bleeding.
Because a deeper miracle consumes her imagination. Jesus called her Daughter. The Son of God called her Daughter.
-That is her identity now. Not bleeding
woman. Not unknown beggar. Daughter. Of God. Done. End of
old story. Beginning of new
one.
-Because God has come near to her. God has come close enough to touch in
the dust of the street. God has
come near, and God has called her Daughter. It will not remove her suffering. If anything, she knows it will plunge her into the
sufferings of others. Yet,
somehow, being God’s daughter, it’s going to change everything. And she knows that being Daughter is
the beginning, and not the end, of her healing. And of the healing of everything else too.
-And she looks down at her own, weary feet. And they begin to dance.
-Amen.
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