Tag: miracles of Jesus

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Bible Challenge 38: Messiah – Signs and Wonders

One thing almost everyone knows about Jesus, if they know anything about him at all: He performed miracles.  He healed leprosy with a touch, made the blind see and the lame walk, cured every kind of disease, often with just a word–on one occasion, from a word spoken miles away.  It was word of these spectacular events, even more than word of his singular teaching, that drew “great crowds” everywhere he went.  But it may surprise you to know that the word miracle, or rather its Greek equivalent, is never used in connection with these supernatural happenings.  Instead, the word used to designate them is sign.

Our reading this week will be all in the Gospel of Mark, and if you read carefully, you’ll notice that Jesus could not possibly have healed everyone, and not all the healings were accomplished with great fanfare.  In fact, he continually told people not to tell how their blindness or lameness or illness had been cured.  These “signs” were to testify to his authority, for those who personally witnessed them.  Like the Kingdom of Heaven, they were super-powerful, yet semi-secret; motivated by compassion, but also by something else.

To see what that was, download this week’s printable challenge, with scripture passages, thought questions, key verse, and activities:

Bible Reading Challenge Week 38: Messiah – Signs and Wonders

(This is a continuation of a series of posts about the “whole story” of the Bible.  I plan to run one every week, on Tuesdays, with a printable PDF.  The printable includes a brief 2-3 paragraph introduction, Bible passages to read, a key verse, 5-7 thought/discussion questions, and 2-3 activities for the kids.  Here’s the Overview of the entire Bible series.)

Previous: Week 37: Messiah – The Kingdom of Heaven

Next: Week 39: Messiah – The Road to Jerusalem

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What It Takes to See

And taking the twelve, he said to them, “See, we are going up to Jerusalem, and everything that is written about the Son of Man by the prophets will be accomplished . . .”  Luke 18:31-32

They are getting close to Jericho, as far south as their journey would take them.  Jerusalem is close, just over the horizon.  Anticipation glows like an ember in the pulsing, gripping moment before it bursts into flame.  Then he says,

“Let me tell you one last time what will happen when we get there.  The prophets wrote of it, Isaiah foretold it: the Son of Man will be delivered to Gentiles, mocked, scorned, slapped and spat upon.  After whips have drained the vitality from him they will take his life, but not for good—on the third day he’ll rise to life again.”

The words fell like rocks, hard and smooth and impermeable.  Their minds turned rocky, slow and dense.

They did not understand.

His words made no sense.

They could not see.  Comprehension reached out, fingered the hard surface, fell away.

By morning it seemed like a bad dream, and the journey was back on course.  When you live through many days that are governed by the same routine, your mind accepts it as habit, half-consciously expecting that all future days will continue like these.  First sunrise, then breakfast, after which they gather their few possessions.  Then on the road again, followed by the hangers-on and joined by the passers-by.  By the time the walls of Jericho (fabled in song and story) rise before them, the usual “great crowd” has developed.

Meanwhile, outside the city another routine day is going on as usual—hot and crowded.  And for Bartimaeus, dark.  Always dark.  The blind beggar had felt his way to this same spot outside the wall ever since he was a child.  His parents used to bring him, but they are long gone.  Most of his childhood friends, too; they’re either dead or living on outside his comprehension.  His beggar friends come and go, because begging is a short-lived trade.  As for a wife–who would have him?  The only stable presence in his life is his alms box.

For him days pass like beads on a string, rounded and sullen and mostly alike–but this morning he feels a crackle in the air.  It isn’t just the noise.  Wedding crowds and funeral crowds and the occasional stoning crowd have their recognizable character, but this is different: a rush, as though the day were breaking loose from the frame it is stretched upon and curling toward the center.  “What is it?” he asks the crowded air.  “What’s going on?”

The voices come back, overstepping each other like excited children: “Jesus of Nazareth is passing by!”

Who hasn’t heard of Jesus of Nazareth?  They say he’s Messiah, coming in a triumphant procession of healings and preachings and signs and wonders.  Oh, the things they say!  The news bubbles up in Bartimaeus like a fountain.  His voice, so long wrung dry of things to say, breaks out feebly.

“Son of David!  Son of David!  Jesus, Son of David, wait!”

Where does that come from?  They say he’s Messiah, the great King, the restoration of the glorious throne of Israel, heir to the giant-slayer, the sweet singer, the man after God’s own heart—“Son of David, stop!”

Hush, they’re saying.  You’re making a scene.  People are staring at you.

That doesn’t matter.  He’s been crowded into silence all his life by the fault of not seeing.  He is a turd in the road, a blot on the landscape, an occasion for charity from more fortunate men.  But now everything inside of him gathers itself up, hopelessly, desperately—he is Bartimaeus, son of Timaeus, standing now on unsteady feet, his voice ringing out, “Have mercy on me!”

The tumult collapses from those words like scaffolding.  In the sudden quiet, voices that had previously hushed him now come back, passed hand over hand from the center of the crowd.  He’s calling for you.  Get up.  Come forward.

He takes one uncertain step, then ablind mannother and another, belatedly realizing he’s left his stick behind.  And his alms-box.  Step after step, hands outstretched and fingers spread, he feels the crow both pulling back from and directing him, with a nudge here, a touch of the shoulder there.  Until he finally comes to the glowing, living center.

“What do you want me to do for you?” says the center.

“Lord–” For there is no other way to address him—“I want to see.”

“Then see,” says he.  No touch, no breath, just words.  As simple as, Let there be light.  This is what it takes to see: his words.  And his open, empty eyes flood with light.

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For the original post in this series, go here.

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On the Border

On the way to Jerusalem he was passing along between Samaria and Galilee.  And as he entered a village, he was met by ten lepers who stood at a distance and called out, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us . .  .” Luke 17:11-19

Remember: he’s on his way to a specific destination, though he seems to be taking a very roundabout route.  And remember, when he first “set his face” to go there (Luke 9:51), his way was barred—not by Pharisees and scribes, who are his most outspoken critics, but by Samaritans, who didn’t like where he was headed.  That was some time ago—no telling how long.  He’s been here and there among the Galilean villages, probably even across the Jordan to spend some time among the Decapolis (Ten Cities).  Soon he will cross the Jordan and head southward through Perea.  From then on, his route will be more direct.

The mention of the border reminds us he wasn’t wanted in Samaria.  Most of us don’t want him—until we need him.

Suppose the crowds have thinned out here.  Suppose Jesus has stepped up the pace, and his followers are hurrying to keep up.  They’re being watched by a party of ten, gathered “at a distance.”  Suppose those ten lepers are not there by chance–they knew he was coming, and they found a favorable position, and they need to be heard.

Remember the first leper Jesus healed?  “Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean” (Luke 5:12).  I am willing, he replied.  Of course he is.  He touched that one; he doesn’t have to touch these ten.  His voice wills; his stance wills, his very stillness in the moment before he speaks is full of willingness.  He has poured out willingness over the months of his ministry, in all he does and says.  All he says now is, “Go show yourselves to the priest.”

The priest is a necessary link in the healing process, dating back from Israel’s wilderness days (see Leviticus 14).  At least nine of these men know that the priest had to officially pronounce them clean before they could re-enter society.  Good sign, yes?  Like, Jesus could already visualize them as clean?  Nudging one another, anticipating their dreams fulfilled, they obey him.  Perhaps a quick consultation about the whereabouts of the nearest priest—and they’re off!

He says go, and they go.  The leprosy goes, too: even the microbes hear his voice.  Stealing glances at each other, they see the ugly sores dry up, the white patches shrivel.  Skin appears—glorious skin, supple, springy, bronzy-gold with a blush of pink underneath–what joy!  They must have danced and shouted on their way. No a second to lose now—they must get official confirmation and then find the wife and kids, clasp hands with the neighbors, take their places again in the normal life that seems so precious to them now.

Our Sunday-school piety shakes a disapproving finger at them: You forgot to say Thank You!  I’m sure they were thankful—perhaps they made a quick mental note to look Jesus up after they’ve fulfilled their religious duties and reconnected with the folks.  He’ll be around.  If you haven’t hugged your kids in years, wouldn’t that be a priority?

10 lepers

The only one who returns is a Samaritan.  Samaritans are not under Israelite jurisdiction—did he even have a priest to show himself to?  Probably not, but maybe there’s more going on here than overwhelming gratitude.  Watch him as he approaches, shouting at the top of his lungs, waving his arms, clapping his chest, where blooming skin shines through the rags.  He falls on his face at Jesus’ feet.  He isn’t just saying Thank You.  He’s also saying, in his uninformed way, the same confession Simon Peter made before this journey to Jerusalem began: You are the Christ.

Jesus commends him: Your faith has made you well.  But didn’t the others have faith?  They did exactly what he told them to do.  They called out to him from the border, that edge of belief where they knew Jesus could heal them, but didn’t know who Jesus was.  They had priorities.  But this man has only one priority.  He has crossed the border: rather than clean for now, he’s clean forever.

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For the first post in this series, go here.

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Daughter of Abraham

Now he was teaching in one of the synagogues on the Sabbath.  And there was a woman who had a disabling spirit for eighteen years.  She was bent over and could not fully straighten herself.  Luke 13:10-11

He’s still teaching in the synagogues.

And why not, since the people are still listening, but it has to be a hostile atmosphere by now.  On this particular day, while he’s speaking his eye falls upon a women who is bent over from the effects of a “disabling spirit.”  It seems unlikely that Luke, a physician, would have used that term to describe her condition if Jesus had not used it himself later on.  It might have taken unusual discernment to notice her because a woman would not have been sitting up front with the men.  Would she had been behind a screen?  Tucked away but still there, either because it was her habit or because Messiah was teaching?  She didn’t ask to be healed.  Maybe she had tried to get close to him before and wasn’t able—obviously, she didn’t get around too well.

bentoverwoman

Anyway, she’s there: bound and bent and old before her time.  Leaning forward probably, listening with her head down, looking at the ground (like always), entranced by his words, though she doesn’t understand them all.  All Kingdom he speaks of . . . can she get there?  Or can it come to her?  Is it for her at all, or only for the powerful and knowledgeable?  Perhaps she could come close.  I’d rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of wickedness, for—

“Woman!”

Even without looking, she knows he’s speaking to her—that shiver down her frozen spine feels like the very word.

“You are free of your affliction.”

And those words . . . They’re like warm water seeping into her bones.  Her back flows as the vertebrae loosen one by one.  For eighteen years they were locks in place and could not move without shrieking pain.  For eighteen years, crabbed and stunted, she had crept along like an insect, scarcely looking up, unable to lift her head.  His few words pour into her, the high and low tones of his voice seek out the tiny nerves and blood vessels and muscle fibers, massaging them to life again.  Slowly she . . . straightens . . . up.  with no pain—the opposite of pain—the rush, the vigor, the dance of body parts working as they were created to work.  It’s perfectly normal, and normally perfect; she feels like Adam in the moment he stood up and stretched and felt his body for the first time.  Her entire body surges; every nerve tingling, every bone rejoicing.

She can’t help herself; she bursts out in song.

I will sing unto the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously! . . .

Meanwhile, an argument is going on.  She notices with half a mind.  The ruler of the synagogue is lecturing someone.  Oh.  He’s lecturing her, along with everyone in earshot which is a big audience because she has attracted quite a crowd.  Somehow her dancing feet have carried her right out of the synagogue and into the street, where Jesus is—she must rush up and thank him—along with the rulers and scribes.  She notices they’re angry.  What about?

“. . . . six days out of the week you have to come and be healed.  You know the text: Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the Sabbath day is holy to the Lord.  On it you shall do no work . . .

Silly men!  What’s happened to her is holy to the Lord.  Satan bound her, God healed her.  The word is very near, in her mouth and in her heart.  The Lord is speaking—about her!  His voice sounds angry—but not at her.  She’s a daughter of Abraham who walked by faith . . . but bound by Satan—for eighteen years!  The experts of the law would untie an ox or donkey to water it on the Sabbath, but throw a fit when this woman—her!  I’d rather be an ox or donkey in the stable of my God than . . . than anything.

But he lets me be myself.  Look, this is me, free at last!

Her joy is contagious, spreading through the crowd of relatives and neighbors and perfect strangers, all giving glory to God while his Messiah contends with that little surly knot of naysayers.  She feels like Miriam (Exodus 15), leading the women of Israel in their victory song:

The horse and its rider he has thrown into the sea!

For the first post in this series, go here.

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Prince of Demons?

Now he was casting out a demon that was mute.  When the demon had gone out, the mute man spoke, and the people marveled.  But some of them said, “He casts out demons by Beezebul, the Prince of Demons.”  Luke 11:14015

Most of the demons Jesus has encountered have been obnoxiously talky, but this one is mute. Not only that, but it has bounds its host with muteness, so neither of them can hail Jesus as the Son of the Blessed One or beg him to go away.  So it was a quiet exorcism, as these things go, but the observers are duly amazed.  But there’s always a skeptic in the crowd—this time not identified as scribes or Pharisees, so they may just have been run-of-the-mill village atheists.  Wherever these observers are coming from, their observation is profoundly stupid: “Well, suppose he’s in league with the demons?  Ever thought of that?  He could be getting his power from Beelzebul!”

Logic-choppers usually forget there are real issues at stake.  And conspiracy theorists get so lost in their thickets of conjecture they lose sight of good sense altogether. Jesus is following the convoluted unreason in their heads and in their whispered conversation and knows it for what it is: not rational but rationalizing.  It doesn’t deserve a response (in my opinion), but he responds anyway.  Look, people:

Satan is not a myth or an abstract concept—he’s the enemy.  Possession isn’t a trick or a parlor game to him—it’s a battle tactic.  He’s in this to win.  But so am I.House Divided

A house, a family, a kingdom divided against itself cannot stand–correct?  Now, think: if a commander divides his troops and orders them to fight each other, how long will he last?  Let’s rule out that option, shall we?  And if we do, what’s left?

The kingdom of God has come upon you.

God’s counteraction has rushed upon this world and its uneasy, illegitimate ruler (Satan) and threatens to unseat him.  The invading kingdom is rattling the bars and picking the lock, and Satan—Beelzebub—looks a great deal less masterful than he did.  He clutches his most cherished weapon—death—upon his throne of human skulls, and waits for his opportunity to use it.  This is reality, people: The kingdom is upon you.

But—

Perhaps he turns to the formerly-possessed man, whose pent-up words are pouring out to his wife and children and neighbors.  Feeling that gaze, the man falls silent.

“When the unclean spirit has gone out of a person, it passes through waterless places seeking rest, and finding none it says, ‘I will return to my house from which I came’ . . .  The demons are defeated, but not destroyed.  It’s still around, that spirit who once dominated you, who squatted in your mind and held your tongue.  Do not suppose your soul is your own.  If the spirit of muteness is banished, you are subject to a spirit of excess.  If by God’s grace you have overcome addiction, you may fall victim to pride.  A house is made to be occupied; you can’t clean it up and keep it for a showplace.  Your locks and deadbolts are nothing to the spirit world; if God does not reign in your heart, Satan will.  Whether you recognize him, or not.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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Clueless and Faithless

On the next day, when they had come down from the mountain, a great crowd met him.  And behold, a man from the crowd cried out, “Teacher, I beg you to look at my son, for he is my only child . . .”     Luke 9:37-38

Another day, another demon.  From the heights of clarity into the thicket of confusion.  Mark gives a lot more detail: as Jesus returns from the mountaintop he observes a crowd and a disturbance.  There’s an argument going on between scribes and disciples—who, when they see him coming, break off the dispute and run toward him.  They’ve attempted a healing and it failed.  The argument was probably about authority, and who has it (remember that Jesus had given them authority to cast out demons in 9:1, but this one defies them, giving the scribes an opportunity to say Aha!)  So apparently an act of mercy had degenerated to a theological dispute, with this boy and his poor father forgotten in the flying fur.

That may be why the father doesn’t wait his turn to speak, but blurts out an explanation: “A spirit seizes my child, and he suddenly cries out.  It convulses him to that he foams at the mouth, and shatters him—and I begged your disciples to cast it out, but they could not–”    Imagine his relief, after dealing with ineffectual disciples, to see the Master himself approaching.  Now he can finally get some action!  But that sense of euphoria comes crashing down—

“Oh unbelieving and rebellious generation!  How long must I put up with you?”  These are the harshest words Jesus ever said to a layman.  Mark indicates that a qualifier from the dad (“If you can do anything”) provokes this outburst.

Does the father deserve this?  His only child is getting worse—how many times will the boy be “shattered” by this demon before he falls apart?  Hearing that Jesus is nearby, the man packs up his son and hits the road–a daunting prospect in itself, since a major challenge posed by the demon-possessed is keeping them out of sight–only to find the Master is not available!  Not to worry, his followers say: He gave power to us; we can cast out demons as well.  An excruciating scene follows.  One by one, Andrew, Philip, Thomas, Judas—the boy’s father loses track of these names and turns out it doesn’t matter.  One by one, they give it a shot: “I command you to come out of him!”  But the evil spirit just laughs in their faces, that horrible, growling laugh coming out of his boy, more unnerving than the destructive fits.

The repeated attempts and failures draw attention, and now father and son are subjected to a doctrinal dispute, of which they are the object lesson but no longer the concern.  The boy sits in the middle of it all, twitchy and drooling, while his father would like the ground to just open up and swallow them, please.  For a moment his heart lifts when he hears the Master is coming.  In his eagerness and relief, he stammers out an explanation, and the master explodes.  Over three little words: If you can.  Really?  What did I say, and what’s touched him off, and how can I salvage this mess?

Unbelieving generation—faithless—rebellious—“Don’t you know all things are possible for him who believes?”

At this, the fear and frustration and failure of a hundred unbelieving generations burst out: “I do believe!  But please . . . help my unbelief!”

Help my unbelief

It would be nice to read that Jesus’ heart was moved and he looked on this poor father with compassion.  Maybe he did, but we don’t see that; only a curt, “Bring him here.”

The boy was left behind in all the excitement.  The demon within him, having enjoyed a very interesting morning, may be taking a break.  But as they drag the boy forward, the demon recognizes his worst nightmare and throws one last hurrah, writhing and convulsing at the Master’s feet.  One sharp command is all it takes: screeching, the evil presence departs for good.  After a long pause the boy sits up, in a crowded silence of unspoken echoes.

If you can—If—I asked them but—can’t do anything—If—If—

Faithless generation! is God’s own cry.  Remember the fury of Moses when he came down from his mountain?  This is a difference in degree, but not in essence.  The same skepticism that prompted a nation of ex-slaves to worship a golden calf is showing up in their descendants: why won’t they (why won’t we) just believe what God says?  Jesus has been talking with ancients on the mountain about what awaits him in Jerusalem.  That is because of this: the refusal of all generations to believe.  Oh yes, they can show faith when it benefits them, when there’s something in it for them.  But what will happen to their faith when the miracle worker obviously needs a miracle?

The boys are asking questions: Why? Why couldn’t we cast it out?  Because this kind of demon, he patiently (or not-so-patiently) explains, can only be driven out with prayer. Did you pray for power, or just assume you had it?  Thought so.  News flash: the power is not yours but God’s.  Can you remember that in the future?

Listen: things are going to get very complicated.  In fact, the Son of Man will soon be betrayed by sinners like you and delivered to the mercy of other sinners.  Get it?

No.  They did not understand.  It was hidden from them.  They couldn’t grasp it (9:45).

Oh, faithless generation!  If there was any other way to fix you, I would do it, but the very best among you is a child, driven by self-interest and operating on instinct.  I could drive out demons all day and still be left with unbelieving hearts.  What you need is a new heart: like a child’s in the best way, completely believing and trusting.  We can do that, but if you only knew the cost . . .

“Teacher, which of us is the greatest?”

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For the original post in this series, go here.

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Road Trips


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And he called the twelve together and gave them power and authority over all demons and to cure diseases, and he sent them out to proclaim the kingdom of God and to heal.  Luke 9:1-2

How long has it been since this all began—a year?  Two?  There comes a time in every ministry when its effects must be multiplied.  The word and its power bubble up and spill over, or as Jesus said earlier, “a good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over.”  The twelve hit the road with a message and instructions to live off the land and its bounty.  What does Jesus do during this time?  He’s due for a retreat, I would think: time alone in the hills?  Withdrawal to the villages?  Given what he will say later on in this chapter, this might have been a time for coming to terms will his full mission.  I hope he got some rest.  I hope his body was restored and his spirit refreshed, because the time is coming closer and the days are short . . .

The mission of the twelve was apparently successful, however long it took.  On their return the apostle told him all that they had done.  And he took them and withdrew apart to a town called Bethsaida.  When the crowds learned it, they followed him . . .

This is a huge bunch of people—at least 10,000 if we assume about as many women and children as there are men.  Where did they come from, these 5000 men?  How far have they traveled?  The average “town” of that day is what we would call a village, of no more than a couple hundred people.  So they’re not all from Bethsaida.  They may have been drawn by the apostles who visited their towns and have come to see for themselves, or else they’re just part of the “crowd” that always collects around him, a breathing body that expands and contracts.  They have to take time off work to follow him this far—most of them must be at least a day’s journey from their homes.  What are they thinking?  They can’t merely be driven by what he can do, but who he is—his very person draws them, not just his healing power.  It’s a spontaneous event, like a little Woodstock, when the numbers swell far beyond anyone’s expectations. But look: He welcomed them, spoke to them about the kingdom of God, and cured those who needed healing.

It takes a long time, and the day is wearing away.  Man does not live by bread alone—but he doesn’t live without bread, either.  They’re hungry.  Jesus is hungry too.  Didn’t anyone have the forethought to bring some food?  I’m guessing a lot of them did, but the few loaves of bread scattered among random robes and bags won’t be near enough.  Looking around him, does Jesus remember the devil’s taunt about commanding stones to be bread?  If so, he rejects it now, as he did then.  Stones are stones.  Bread is bread.  In his fruitful hands, lifted up for blessing to his Father, it becomes lots of bread—good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over.

loaves&fishes

He doesn’t do magic, he does creation.  It’s a throwback to In the beginning: Let the earth produce, let the waters swarm, let the simple necessities of bread and fish be revealed for the marvels they are, and feed this multitude.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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Daughters of Israel

And there came a man named Jairus, who was a ruler of the synagogue.  And falling at Jesus’ feet, he implored him to come to his house, for he had an only daughter, about twelve years of age, and she was dying. Luke 8:41-42

Ask any parent about the worst thing they can imagine, and chances are it will be losing a child.  Especially, perhaps, a young child.  When the weak, unhappy infant emerges from the womb, a mother’s heart is moved with pity as well as love.  Such a helpless creature, so defenseless, so soft and limp in a hard world. A good father has compassion on his children . . . like the father who, forgetting his dignity and standing in the community, pushes through a sweaty crowd and throws himself at Jesus’ feet.

He’s a “ruler of the synagogue”—meaning, probably, a Pharisee who acted as trustee and program director for the local worshipping body.  Though not a teacher of the law, he might be accustomed to being “greeted in the marketplace” and perhaps even “making a show of lengthy prayers.”  But all show is forgotten when his little girl approaches death’s door.

Women had no value in those days, we hear.  And that’s true, generally speaking.  But the individual girl or woman could be priceless.  Strong men collapsed upon losing a beloved wife or daughter. Sure, cynics may say—they missed the sex or the companionship or the profit-making marriage alliance, not the person herself.  I doubt it.  The human heart has always made room for love; it’s not something invented by the present enlightened age.

Anyway, this is one distraught father.  If he had ever been among the skeptical Pharisees questioning the new Messiah’s credentials, that’s all forgotten now—nobody else can preserve the jewel of his heart.  “Please, Master . . . please . . .”

The Master nods.  The crowd, getting wind of another miraculous work in progress, swells and compresses as they travel the short distance to Jairus’ house.  We’re already told that “the crowd welcomed him” after his return from Gentile territory—the excitement returns!  Rumors running everywhere reached the ear of another female, this one not so cherished.

We know so little about her: was she someone’s wife, sister, mother?  All we know is her infirmity, a shameful condition that must have severely weakened her.  A continual “discharge of blood” is not something she can be discrete about, either, because if she is a law-abiding Israelite, everything she sits on and every dish she eats from and the bed she lies upon—and everyone who touches those things—and touches her–is unclean.  If she has a family, they would have to treat her as a virtual prisoner in order to maintain ritual cleanness themselves.

If she lived today, she might be carrying a sign reading ‘Unclean’ is unfair!  It certainly seems that way to us: if God made women’s bodies to bleed (or breed) every month, what’s unclean about that?  Why is He so squeamish about His own supposedly grand design?

I can’t say for sure, except that blood has a peculiar significance for Him, at least since He heard it spilled out and crying to Him from the ground (Gen. 4:10).  For the life of the creature is in the blood, and I have given it for you on the altar to make atonement for your souls, for it is the blood that makes atonement by the life (Lev. 17:11).  But it can’t be one’s own blood, and it can’t be offered one’s own way, even if a poor woman can’t help it.  For twelve years, we might say, she’s been involuntarily “offering” blood, and what is unacceptable is also unclean.

We know the story: she plunges into the crowd, heedless of who may be defiled by touching her, but she’s careful not to defile Jesus.  She can’t throw herself as his feet, as Jairus did, nor speak to him, nor face him.  But if she can only touch . . .

A pious Jews was expected to wear tassels on the corners of his outer garment, as a reminder of The LORD’s commands, so as “not to follow after your own heart and your own eyes” (Num. 15:39).  That’s probably the “fringe on his garment” the woman was aiming for, and the moment she touches it, power flows from him and into her.  Mark says they both could feel it (Mark 5:29-30).

Stop and think about that: he had power to spare.  He could have healed all Israel with a wave of his hand.  Nevertheless, he doesn’t heal en masse, but one at a time: his power is focused and purposeful.  And his ultimate purpose is to do the will of his Father, as any Jewish man was supposed to do, but Jesus actually could do.  The fringe was a symbol of that, and this woman took hold of it by the power that comes not of assertion but of submission. She was instantly healed.

And she was instantly called out: “Who touched me?”  In the crush of arms, legs, hands, voices, anyone could be touching him.  But only one with faith.  She intended to melt away into the crowd and then follow all the purification rules that would restore her to society, but Jesus has a point to make: “Take heart, daughter; your faith has made you well.”  The law still holds, but you can stop shedding your useless blood—other blood will apply for you.

Why does he address her as “daughter,” especially since she’s probably older than he?  This is the only occasion where he uses that term in addressing a woman.  Perhaps because, meanwhile, Jairus’ daughter is dying.  It must be hard for this father to hold his tongue—why does Jesus have to stop and squander precious time talking to a grown woman who should have had the courtesy to wait her turn?  She’s not dying!  She’s waited twelve years—what’s a few minutes more?  We can easily imagine his thoughts because they would be ours.  And when the messenger comes with bad news, while Jesus is still speaking to that woman, we can imagine how the father’s heart drops.

daughter

Both are daughters: the beloved 12-year-old girl and the despised woman with the 12-year affliction.  Both have a place in the great heart of God.  “Don’t be afraid,” Jesus tells this stunned and grieving father.  Don’t be afraid, he tells us: only believe.  By faith we are sons and daughters, and death’s door means nothing to him.  Whether it yawns open for us, or has already closed on us, he will one day walk in and take our hand and say,

“Child, arise.”

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Alien Country

Then they sailed to the country of the Gerasenes, which is opposite Galilee.  When Jesus had stepped out on land, there met him a man from the city who had demons.  For a long time he had worn no clothes, and he had not lived in a house but among the tombs.  Luke 8:26-27

It was his intention, remember, to go to “the other side,” where the Gentiles live—why?  No one appears to ask him.  They may still be a little shaken up after the storm; perhaps in their confusion they imagine themselves to be blown off-course.  But with Jesus one is never off-course.  They have an appointment, and as soon as their boat runs aground the appointment runs to meet them.  Screaming.

You have to feel some sympathy for the disciples (who remain strangely silent throughout this dramatic episode): barely recovered from the worst scare of their lives, they now encounter a human nightmare.  Or rather, an inhuman nightmare.  Demons have been running loose in Palestine, and they’ve seen how Jesus deals with them, but this is a special case.  It’s a whole welcoming party in one body.  For all they know, this is how the Gentiles do demon-possession: in multiples.

Try to see it as the demons do.  For years, they have possessed their host.  We don’t know how these things begin–perhaps he left an opening for evil spirit, and after it had kicked aside his normal affections for family and friends, there was room for more.  By now they’ve driven him from all human company and made him an object of terror and loathing, even to himself.  He lives among the tombs but they won’t let him join the company of the dead; he cuts himself, but is prevented from cutting too deep.  In a twilight world they carouse and brawl and gleefully fight off any attempt to restrain them.  Their host has the strength of ten, because they are Legion.

gerasene-demoniac

Then the Man arrives. They see his boat approaching, and somehow know who is on it.  They raise such an unbearable clamor that their hapless host tries to silence them by slashing at himself with a flint-sharpened rock (which never works).  They hurl him, tripping and stumbling, onto the rocky beach where the boat has scraped ground.

How easy it is to provoke terror in humans!  That’s a primary demonic pleasure, though at the moment pleasure is the last thing on their many manic minds.  He’s standing up, steadying himself with one hand on the mast (like any ordinary man!)—God with us, God against us—how can this be??  His eyes search them out.  He knows them, knows their origin all way back to the moment he threw them out of the Presence, but they never expected to encounter him here.

Come out, he says, with his eyes only.

Don’t torment me! they cry out through the raw vocal chords of their host.  It’s Jesus, they tell themselves—remember, we got the word?—Jesus, the one who—the one that—

“What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God?”

The other men are standing around, slack-jawed, keeping their distance.  It’s the kind of situation the demons crave: men approaching stealthily with chains or ropes, trying to sneak up and capture and restrain them.  The demons would have attacked by now, as so many times before—

But the Lord is climbing out of the boat (as awkwardly as any man; they can’t get over it!) with a depthless assurance beyond their experience of humanity.  They throw their host on the ground.  Stampeding over each other, they spin and thrash, screeching in multiple voices.

“What is your name?” he sternly asks.

Their voices come together long enough to scream, “Legion!”—before tumbling into incoherence again, each voice shrieking its own terror.  The abyss is on their collective mind, the pit that waits for all of them where there will be no human meat to feed on; only themselves and the Wrath, forever and ever and ever—

Not yet! they cry.  Hold off! Not now!  In the clamor, one of them mentions the pigs.  Yes, yes—the pigs.  Send us there!  The chaos of voices gradually comes together: The pigs!  Let us go into the pigs!

Their host has become their prison.  He is standing right in front of them, doing what no man or number of men could do before.  They claw and scratch and strain—Will he let us out? Let us out! Out of this—piece of—this pile of—

“Go,” he says.

They nearly tear their host apart, getting out.  With one final scream they leave him, panting and bloody, on the beach.

The fiery air cools.  One sweet breath, then another.  The horizon comes together for him, a clean line separating water and sky.  Blood pounds in his ears, the sound of his heart.  His own heart.  He wills his fingers to move, and they do—his own will.  Knees, legs, arms respond to his timid desire to sit up.  Above his head, that voice says, “Someone get him some clothes.”

The voice seems to cascade around him like the soft, barely-remembered folds of a worn linen tunic.  It gives him back to himself; piece by piece, it puts him together.

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Take Care How You Listen

Then his mother and his brothers came to him but they could not reach him because of the crowd.  And he was told, “Your mother and your brothers are standing outside, desiring to see you.”  But he answered them, “My mother and my brothers are those who hear the word of God and do it.”  Luke 8:19-21

Everyone hears, but who really listens?  His own family hears selectively.  Mark tells us that they had decided Jesus was mad.  It’s easy to imagine the older brother James calling a family conference, as he is evidently a take-charge kind of guy.  What’s going on with Jesus?  Is this Messiah business starting to get out of hand?  After all, there is a lot of madness going around: plenty of demons freeloading on human hosts, and one of them may even have hitched a ride on big brother.  He was always pretty intense, you know.  We’d better to check it out, because he could get into serious trouble . . .

Whatever the family decided to do was doubtless “for his own good.” Let’s suppose that Mary, James, and Joseph Junior set out to find him.  Perhaps they only wanted to check out the situation first: compare the crowd-sensation Jesus to the everyday-carpenter Jesus they had known in Nazareth, then make an evaluation and determine what to do from there.

Finding him is the easy part—everybody knows where he was last seen, and where he might be headed.  Getting to him is another matter.  He’s like a rock star barricaded by his entourage (though that analogy would not have occurred to them, of course).  The house where he’s staying is not only filled, but packed five or six deep around the doors and windows.  Let us through—we’re family!

Somebody agrees to pass on the message.  After a while, word comes back: the Master says there’s a new definition of “family.”  What I said about hearing?  This applies.  The family has been reorganized, with Jesus at its head.  You become a part of it by first using your ears, then your hands and heart.  Listen and do.  His biological mother brothers never got a chance to speak to him.  Because from now on, he does all the speaking, and eventually they will hear.

the storm

We are called to hear, even (or especially) when the interference is so loud it drowns out everything else.  Like, for instance, we are tossed on the waves or circumstance, with a howling wind in our ears.  Grief is like that, or shock, or unforeseen tragedy.  Master! Master! We cry, barely able to hear our own voices.  “Can you see what we’re going through?  Don’t you care?”  He’s right there.  Though we hear no response, though he may seem to be asleep, he right there.  In the boat.  With us.  When the time is right, he will get up and rebuke the circumstances as he rebuked that storm on the Sea of Galilee:

“PEACE!  Be still.”

Whether the wrath of the storm-tossed sea, or demons or men or whatever it be, no waters can swallow the ship where lies the master of ocean and earth and skies.*  All creation hears him.  Sometimes even before his family and followers do.

*”Master, the Tempest is Raging,” by Mary A. Baker

For the original post in this series, go here.

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