When life lays you low

Sermon by Pr. Craig Mueller on the Sixth Sunday after Pentecost + Sunday, June 30, 2024

When life lays you low, sometimes you will do anything. To get well. To make things better. To work things out.

Your best friend is so depressed they can’t get out of bed. You would do anything so they would make it through another night.

As parents, you learn that your child has a terminal illness. You would do anything so that your child would live. You would trade places with them, if you could!

Consider the story of little Gary. On a short, end-of-summer vacation Gary died in a terrible boating accident. He was six years old. Gary loved anything with sparkle and glitter. He was a beautiful, outgoing boy who introduced himself to strangers and greeted his teachers at school with exuberance. For his parents, his church, and all who loved Gary, his death was heartbreaking, devastating, traumatic. Gary’s parents would have done anything to redo their vacation and not gotten into the boat that day! They shared their grief with their pastor, and they returned quickly to church as they knew the community would share their heartache and hold them during the dark days ahead. 1

Many of us have lived—or know about—such stories that upset the normal order of things. And seem to rip out our hearts.

If only our faith guaranteed the outcome we desire, the results we pray for, the ending we hope for with all our heart. If only we could believe, if only we could trust the words from today’s psalm: “weeping spends the night, but joy comes in the morning.”

When you’re in the middle of a dark night. When sleep won’t come. When your mind is racing. Joy comes in the morning? Yah, right. Just let me just get through the night.

The two characters in today’s gospel are in such dire straits. They push through crowds to get to Jesus. Imagine the scene. Jesus is wildly popular. People are flocking to him. Imagine the crowd.

I remember my first time in Times Square. I nearly froze crossing the street. The crowd was immense and overwhelming. Like nothing I had ever seen. And I didn’t find it pleasant at all.

A great crowd is gathering around Jesus. And Jairus, a respected religious leader, pushes through. Makes a scene. Falls at Jesus’ feet. His heart is broken. His hopes are dashed. His twelve-year old daughter is near death. Jairus would do anything for her. He begs Jesus. He pleads with Jesus. “Come to my house so you can lay your hands on her. Only you can restore her to health.”

Things move quickly in today’s gospel. The crowd is getting larger and pressing in on Jesus. And then! And then a woman, an unclean woman, bleeding for twelve years, does the unthinkable. She will do anything to become well. She has heard about Jesus the healer. She risks everything. She touches the cloak of his garment, essentially making Jesus unclean. “If only I touch him, I will be made well,” she thinks to herself.

Oh, the power of human touch. How hard it was during the pandemic to live with the fear of contagious disease. Some people went months without a hug. Some people were not able to be with—or to touch—their loved one as they died.

When you are in an immense crowd, do you feel others pressing against you? Worry that you will be pickpocketed? I remember being in Jerusalem last September and waiting in a long line, a huge crowd, to see the Holy Sepulcher. I was scrunched against others, a super Covid spreader if there ever was one.

In the immense crowd, Jesus feels the touch. Feels the surge of healing power leave him. Jesus looks around. “Who touched me?” The crowd gasps. Jesus must be angry. But he’s not. Instead, he affirms the daring faith of this outcast woman. “Your faith has made you well. Has saved you. Has rescued you. Has given you life.”2

Jairus is still standing there, waiting for a response from Jesus about his daughter. And some of his colleagues push through the crowd with the terrible news that his daughter has died. “You might as well go home,” they tell him, their faces crestfallen.

But Jesus pushes through the crowd, breaks down more barriers. Goes to the home of Jairus, and takes the hand of the dead child, another ritual taboo, and calls her to life: “Little girl, get up.” And she does.

As we cry out for healing and wholeness this day—for our ourselves, for our loved ones, for our country, for our city, for the Middle East, for the world, for the earth—Christ comes to us. Takes our hand. Calls us back to life. Lifts us up.

On this Pride Sunday in our vibrant neighborhood—for those who struggle to believe they are loved, those who are rejected because of who they love or their gender identity—God’s grace enables them to stand tall, to march with pride, to find a place in a crowd that exudes acceptance.

Weeping may spend that night, but joy does come in the morning. Great is your faithfulness!

On a dark, overcast day, a mother receives a heartbreaking diagnosis about her husband’s health. Her little daughter, protected from the bad news, insists that the sky is blue. Her mother replies that the sky is dark, literally and figuratively. Until the little girl points to a small, small patch of blue sky. She points and says, “look, Mom. It’s blue, it is blue.”3 God’s mercies are new every morning. Even when the sky is mostly gray and cloudy.

Little Gary’s parents are still grieving the death of their beloved son when they return to church the next Sunday. To their surprise, there is a baptism of a baby girl. It is quite a crowd that day, and a very happy one, indeed. How will they hold their devastating loss while most of the congregation is celebrating the birth, the new life, the hopeful future of a little girl? Yet, somehow, the baptism is a sign that life goes on. That we can hold grief and joy, despair and hope at the same time.

Even amid brokenness, even amid struggles, even amid heartache, Christ comes to you this day. To break down barriers. To touch you with grace. To raise you up to stand tall with pride. To give you hope. To point you to the patch of blue sky and the gifts of life beyond our telling. To give you a voice to sing, even amid tears: great is your faithfulness. Your mercies, O Lord, are new every morning.

1 Adapted from a story in The Amen Effect: Ancient Wisdom to Mend our Broken Hearts and World by Sharon Braus, pp. 88-89.

2 Salt Commentary on the readings, https://www.saltproject.org/progressive-christian-blog/2021/6/22/get-up-salts-lectionary-commentary-for-fifth-week-after-pentecost

3 Braus, p. 11.