Enlightened

Enlightened

               

              When Jesus went in the boat back to the other side of the lake, a large crowd gathered around him there. A leader of the synagogue, named Jairus, came there, saw Jesus, and fell at his feet. He begged Jesus, saying again and again, “My daughter is dying. Please come and put your hands on her so she will be healed and will live.” So Jesus went with him….

While Jesus was still speaking, some people came from the house of the synagogue leader. They said, “Your daughter is dead. There is no need to bother the teacher anymore.”

But Jesus paid no attention to what they said. He told the synagogue leader, “Don’t be afraid; just believe.”

Jesus let only Peter, James, and John the brother of James go with him. When they came to the house of the synagogue leader, Jesus found many people there making lots of noise and crying loudly. Jesus entered the house and said to them, “Why are you crying and making so much noise? The child is not dead, only asleep.” But they laughed at him. So, after throwing them out of the house, Jesus took the child’s father and mother and his three followers into the room where the child was. Taking hold of the girl’s hand, he said to her “Talitha, koum!” (This means, “Little girl, I tell you to stand up!”) At once the girl stood right up and began walking. (She was twelve years old) Everyone was completely amazed. Jesus gave them strict orders not to tell people about this. Then he told them to give the girl something to eat. (Mark 5:21-24, 35-43)

There I stood at one side of the living while a friend of mine stood at the other. My job was to close my eyes and walk. My friend’s job was to be my eyes and talk me safely across the room. With phrases like, “Take two baby steps to the left,” and “Take four giant steps straight ahead,” my friend successfully navigated me through a treacherous maze of chairs, a vacuum cleaner, and a dog. Then it was my friend’s turn as I guided him past my mom’s favorite lamp, and shouted just in time to keep him from colliding into the wall when he thought his right foot was his left foot. After several treks through the darkness we eventually stopped.

“I didn’t like that,” I said. “It’s scary going where you can’t see.” “I know! I was afraid I was going to fall,” my friend agreed. “I kept taking little steps just to be safe.”

Did you ever do that when you were a kid? Better yet, do you do it now as an adult? We grownups don’t like the dark. But we walk in it. We often complain about how scary it is to walk where we can’t see so we take timid steps so we won’t fall. And we’ve good reason to be cautious: we’re blind. We can’t see the future. We have absolutely no vision beyond the present. For instance, I can’t tell you with certainty that I will live long enough to finish this paragraph any more than you can tell me you’ll live long enough to read the next one.

But I’m not talking nearsightedness or obstructed views, here; I’m talking opaque blindness. I’m not talking about a condition that passes with childhood; I’m describing a condition that passes only with death. We’re blind – blind to the future. It’s one limitation we all share. The wealthy are just as blind as the poor. The educated are just as sightless as the unschooled. And the famous know as little about the future as the not-so-famous.

None of us know how our children will turn out. None of us know the day we’ll die. No one knows whom he or she will marry, or even if marriage is in the cards. We are universally, absolutely, unalterably blind. We are all with our eyes shut, groping through a dark room, listening for a familiar voice — but with one difference. My childhood surroundings were familiar and friendly. Ours as adults can be hostile, even fatal. My worst fear then was a stubbed toe. Our worst fear now is more threatening: cancer, divorce, loneliness, death. And try as we might to walk as straight as we can, chances are a toe is going to get stubbed and we’re going to get hurt. Just ask Jairus. He’s a man who’d tried to walk as straight as he could. But Jairus was a man whose path had taken a sudden turn toward a cave — a dark cave. And he didn’t want to enter it alone.

Jairus is the leader of the synagogue. Now, that may not mean much to us these days, but in the days of Christ the leader of the synagogue was the most important man in the community. The synagogue was the center of religion, education, leadership and social activity. The leader of the synagogue was the senior religious leader, the highest-ranking professor, the mayor, and the best known citizen all in one. And Jairus had it all; job security; a guaranteed welcome at the coffee shop; a pension plan; golf every Friday; and an annual, all-expenses-paid trip to the national leadership convention. Who could ask for more? Yet Jairus does. He has to ask for more. In fact, he would trade his entire package of perks and privileges for just one assurance — that his daughter would live.

The Jairus we see in this story is not the clear-sighted, black-frocked, nicely groomed civic leader. He is, instead, a blind man begging for a gift. He fell at Jesus’ feet, “… saying again and again, ‘My daughter is dying. Please come and put your hands on her so she will be healed and will live.’” (Mk 5:23) He doesn’t barter with Jesus. (“You do me a favor, and I’ll see that you’re taken care of for life.”) He doesn’t negotiate with Jesus. (“The guys in Jerusalem are getting pretty testy about your antics. Tell you what, you handle this problem of mine, and I’ll make a few calls.”) He doesn’t make excuses. (“Normally, I’m not this desperate, Jesus, but I’ve got a little problem here.”) He just pleads.

There are times in life when everything we have to offer is nothing compared to what we are asking to receive. Jairus was at such a point. What could a man offer in exchange for his child’s life? So there were no games. No haggling. No masquerades. The situation was starkly simple: Jairus is blind to the future and Jesus knows what the future holds. So Jairus asks for his help. And Jesus, who loves the honest heart, goes to give it. And God, who knows what it’s like to lose a child, empowers his son.

But before Jesus and Jairus get very far, they are interrupted by emissaries from Jairus’ house. “Your daughter is dead. There is no need to bother the teacher anymore.” (v. 35) How’s that for being blunt? But here’s where the story gets kind of interesting because Jesus goes from being led to leading; from being convinced by Jairus to convincing Jairus; from being admired to being laughed at; from helping out the people to casting out the people. Here’s where Jesus takes control. “But Jesus paid no attention to what they said ….” (v. 36) I love that line. It describes the critical principle for seeing the unseen: Ignore what people say. Block them out. Turn them off. Close your ears. And, if you have to, walk away.

Ignore the ones who say it’s too late to start over. Disregard those who say you’ll never amount to anything. Turn a deaf ear toward those who say that you aren’t smart enough, fast enough, tall enough, or big enough — ignore them. Faith sometimes begins by stuffing our ears with cotton.

Jesus turns immediately to Jairus and pleads: “Don’t be afraid; just believe.” (v. 36) Jesus is compelling Jairus to see the unseen. And when Jesus says, “Just believe …,” he’s imploring, “Don’t limit your possibilities to only what you can see. Don’t listen only for the audible. Don’t be controlled by the logical. Believe there is more to life than meets the eye!” “Trust me,” Jesus is pleading. “Don’t be afraid; just trust.”

There was a father in the Bahamas who issued the same plea to his young son who was trapped in a burning house. The two-story structure was engulfed in flames, and the family — the father, mother, and several children — were on their way out when the smallest boy became terrified and ran back upstairs. His father, standing outside, shouted to him: “Jump, son, jump! I’ll catch you.” The boy cried, “But Daddy, I can’t see you.” “I know,” his father called, “but I can see you.” The father could see, even though the son could not.

A similar example of faith was found on a cellar wall in Cologne, Germany where Jews had hidden during World War II. “I believe in the sun, even though it doesn’t shine; I believe in love, even when it isn’t shown; I believe in God, even when he doesn’t speak.” And I try to imagine the person who etched those words. I try to envision her hand gripping the broken glass or stone that cut into the wall. I try to imagine his eyes squinting through the darkness as he carved each letter. What hand could have cut such a conviction? What eyes could have seen good in such horror? There is only one answer: eyes that chose to see the unseen. Paul wrote: “We set our eyes not on what we see but on what we cannot see. What we see will last only a short time, but what we cannot see will last forever.” (2 Cor. 4:18) The Hebrew writer said much the same: “Faith is the confidence that what we hope for will actually happen; it gives us assurance about things we cannot see.” (Heb. 11:1) Jesus is asking Jairus to see the unseen. To make a choice. Either to live by the facts, or to see by faith. When tragedy strikes we, too, are left to choose what we see. We can see either the hurt or the Healer. The choice is ours.

Jairus made his choice. He opted for faith and Jesus … and faith in Jesus led him to his daughter. At the house, Jesus and Jairus encounter a group of mourners and Jesus is troubled by their wailing. It bothers him that they express such anxiety over death. “Why are you crying and making so much noise? The child is not dead, only asleep.” (v. 39) And that’s not a rhetorical question. It’s an honest one. From Jesus’ perspective, the girl is not dead — she’s only asleep. From God’s viewpoint, death is not permanent. It’s a necessary step for passing from this world to the next. It’s not an end; it’s a beginning.

As a young boy I had two great loves — playing and eating. Summers were made for afternoons on the baseball diamond and meals at the dinner table. Mom had a rule, however. Dirty, sweaty boys could never eat at the table. Her first words to me as I came home were always, “Go clean up and take off those clothes if you want to eat.” Now, no boy is particularly fond of bathing and dressing, but I never once complained and defied my mom by saying, “I’d rather stink than eat!” In my economy, a bath and a clean shirt were a small price to pay for a good meal.

And from God’s perspective death is a small price to pay for the privilege of sitting at his table. “Flesh and blood cannot have a part in the kingdom of God …. This body that can be destroyed must clothe itself with something that can never be destroyed. And this body that dies must clothe itself with something that can never die.” (1 Cor. 15:50, 53)  God is even more insistent than my mom was. In order to sit at his table, a change of clothing must occur. And we must die in order for our body to be exchanged for a new one. So, from God’s viewpoint, death is not to be dreaded; it is to be welcomed. And when he sees people crying and mourning over death, he wants to know, “Why are you crying?” When we see death, we see disaster; when Jesus sees death, he sees deliverance.

But that’s too much for the people to take. “They laughed at him.” (v. 40) Now, look closely because you aren’t going to believe what Jesus does next. He throws the mourners out. That’s what the text says, “after throwing them out of the house ….” (v. 40) He doesn’t just ask them to leave. He throws them out. He picks them up by collar and belt and sets them sailing. Jesus’ response was decisive and strong. In fact, in the original text, the word used here is the same word used to describe what Jesus did to the moneychangers in the temple. It’s the same verb used thirty-eight times to describe what Jesus did to the demons. Why? Why such force? Why such intolerance?

Perhaps the answer is found by going back to my living room experience. After me and my friend had taken turns guiding each other through the living room, another friend thought he’d be funny. So, on my last trip he snuck up from behind me (as I was walking with my eyes shut) and began whispering, “Don’t listen to him. Listen to me. I’ll take care of you.” I stopped. I analyzed the situation and made my choice between the two voices. “Be quiet,” I said, and then continued on in my other friend’s direction. Undeterred, my diabolical friend then grabbed the lid of a pan, held it next to my ear and banged on it with a spoon. I jumped to a stop. My friend from the other side of the room, seeing that I was in shock, did a great thing. He ran across the room and threw his arms around me and said, “Don’t worry. I’m right here.” He wasn’t about to let the noise distract me from the journey.

And God isn’t going to let the noise distract you from yours. He’s still busy casting out the critics and silencing the voices that could deter you. Some of his work you’ve probably seen. Most of it you haven’t. Only when you get home will you know how many times he has protected you from luring voices. Only eternity will reveal the time he interfered with that transfer, protecting you from a corrupt supervisor, or flattened your tire preventing you from getting into an accident at the intersection just ahead. And only heaven will show the times he protected you by giving you a mate who loves God more than you do, or opening the door for a new business so you could attend the same church.

Mark it down. God knows you and I are blind. He knows living by faith and not by sight doesn’t come naturally. And I think that’s one reason he raised Jairus’ daughter from the dead: not for her sake (she was better off in heaven), but for ours — to teach us that heaven sees when we trust. Oh, and the meaning of Jairus’ name? It’s Hebrew for enlightened, as in “He Enlightens.”

Grace,

Randy