Oak Chapel United Methodist Church

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“A drying well,” Madeleine L’Engle wrote, “A drying well will often lead the spirit to the river that flows from the throne of God.” When we realize, at some point in life (often when facing personal tragedy), that our own inner resources for dealing with trouble are running out, that our well is drying up -- if we are to survive, at that point, we must find the endless resources (“the river”) of God. Sometimes, that understanding of our own helplessness comes as we face an intractable addiction, or some other harmful habit, which try as we might over many years we’ve been unable to conquer (those long suicides which seem so common today). Or some incurable illness. Or our inability to make someone else be what we want him or her to be. There’s no more kidding ourselves, we can’t lick the problem on our own, our well is dry. We either find the river or we die. “A drying well will often lead the spirit to the river that flows from the throne of God.”

It happens in old age, when, as T.S. Elliot described it, we have seen “the moment of our greatness flicker, seen the eternal footman hold our coat and snicker, and, in short, we are afraid.” Injuries don’t heal, illnesses don’t get better, as they used to. We can’t stop the onslaught of death. One older gentleman said, “After I turned 70 the question was never one of being well but only of being less sick.” That’s why the churches are full of old people – not because they are nearing death and want to guarantee themselves a place in heaven (as the cynics say), but because old people are wise enough not to be taken in by that wonderful conceit of youth – that they, themselves, can fix everything that ails them. They know that’s not true.

A lot has been made of the different socio-economic classes of the two main characters in today’s scripture. Jairas is socially prominent, a leader of the synagogue, probably wealthy. The nameless woman in the crowd, on the other hand, who snuck up on Jesus and touched his robe, was poor and an outcast. (Remember, her unending hemorrhage would have made her permanently impure, unfit to mingle in polite society. Other women only suffered that indignity once a month.) Not much in common between the two. Except that they were both utterly desperate! They had come to Jesus as their last and only hope. Their springs had run dry. They needed to find the river.
Jairus, of course, was facing an unspeakable tragedy, the impending death of a child. At this moment, his wealth, his rank, even his piety, weren’t worth a tinker’s dam. His public image no longer matter either, nor did any dispute that may have existed between Jesus and the synagogue. He was “beside himself,” as Mark tells us. He took a risk of faith. With eyes full of tears, and with the whole town watching, this respected leader fell on his knees and begged Jesus for help – using not the formal word for “daughter” but a diminutive nickname: “…my little sweetie” is at death’s door. Come lay your hands on her …” Utterly desperate. He would either find the river or die.
The woman faced a different kind of death, a lifetime of illness and isolation. She had had it with her HMO. For twelve years she had tolerated their voice mails, and their touch-tone menus. (“If your problem’s above the waste, push 1; below the waste push 2.”) She had been treated by a different doctor every time. They had taken her money, but hadn’t made her one bit better. Desperate! She had to either find the river or die. She, too, took a risk of faith. She crawled between the legs of the crowd. “If only I could touch the hem of his robe….”

Often in life there’s an enormous difference between what we think we need and what we really need. Jairus thought he needed his little girl to be saved. (The word for “save” and word for “make well” is the same word in the New Testament.) And, of course, he did need that at one level. And Jesus gave it to him. The woman thought she needed healing, and, of course, she did. So Jesus gave her that. But what they both needed, he said, more than anything was faith. (There it is again, the mysterious “F word” of Christianity.) Miracles are never magic in the Bible. Especially the woman here has a very magical view of what she wanted to happen. Jesus, for her, was a magician whose magical powers somehow permeated even his clothing. Jesus searches the crowd for the one who had touched him, and received healing, and for a moment she hides, afraid. For she is sure she has stolen a magic power from a professional magician and will be scolded for it, maybe even expected to pay for it. Jesus takes the trouble to find her because he wants her to understand what really happened: it was her faith, not magic, that made her well. If it were magic, and if she were to become ill again (say tomorrow), she would have to seek another magician, and that might take twelve years more! But if she could understand that miracles like hers come from faith, and demonstrate the presence of God, who brings health and wholeness, she would understand that such blessings could be hers always and everywhere.

We need more than physical healing. In the last century we made giant strides in medicine. We learned to cure and prevent many diseases. We kept people, especially children, amazingly alive so that they could go off and be killed in two world wars, or in Korea, or Viet Nam, or so that they could destroy their lives with drugs and alcohol. John Stuart Mill said, “Wherever I go, there I am again, and I spoil everything.” We need more than physical cures. We need a change of person, and that is the great prize Jesus has to offer. That’s why he didn’t want to be known only as a healer.

William Sloan Coffin said he finally figured out the central problem of the Christian church today: Most of us fear the cure more than the illness. The illness, of course, is sin and everything that grows out of it: war, and disease, and racism, and all the rest. And we’d like to be rid of these things. They cause us endless pain. But the cure is faith, a relationship with God that is based on confidence and trust. And faith is risky. Why do we have to be at the end of our rope to adopt a life of faith? Why do we wait until our wells runs dry? Why can’t we drink from the river of God and live with him, in faith and in trust, before we are in extremis? I guess it’s pride. We like to think we can take care of ourselves. Sooner or later we learn that’s a lie. And sooner or later we come to the river, or we die.