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Saturday, July 20, 2013

JAIRUS AND THE PHYSICIAN

JAIRUS
Matt 9:18-19, 23-26
Mark 5:21-24, 35-43
Luke 9:40-42, 49-56
 

        The account which constitutes our theme in this article is again told by Matthew, Mark, and Luke. We base our consideration principally upon Luke's account, making passing reference to matters revealed by the other writers.
        In this account two individuals are seen in contact with Christ practically at the same time. In a previous article, considering the account of Simon and the woman who was a sinner, we took them together. We change the method now, and look first at Jairus, and in a subsequent article at the woman.
        Here once more we find two persons widely separated socially. The man held a position of honor. He was a ruler of the synagogue. The woman was an outcast in a way that we shall consider more fully next. Moreover they differed in their need, and in the reason that prompted their approach to Jesus. The need of the man was relative: his child. The need of the woman was purely personal.
        The account of Jairus is a very remarkable one in many ways. At first it would seem as though very little explanation is needed. Nevertheless, it is radiant in beauty, in its revelation of our Lord, and of His dealing with this man in this utmost hour of his need.
        Looking at the man, we begin with the things that are unintended. As we have said, he was a ruler of the synagogue, which meant that he held a position of responsibility and power. These rulers were not priests, but to use a word common in our speech today, they were laymen. Nevertheless, they had under their control all the sacred possessions of the synagogue, and the ordering of all matters concerning therewith. The position of such a man was one of responsibility, trust, and power. When we refer to this as being unintended, I mean that all this would certainly have been considered by him both unintended and unimportant in the presence of the need that drove him to Christ. It was for him an hour when he was face to face with life as he had never been before, because he was face to face with death. For the moment every matter faded into the realm of insignificance in the presence of the one, overwhelming and terrifying fact of death, and that coming to him in its most appalling form. When Temple Thurston wrote "The City of Beautiful Nonsense," he said a very illuminative thing when he declared that we are inclined in early days, and in days of prosperity to treat life as though it were a circus. Each one imagines that he or she is master of ceremonies in the circus ring. We come out into the ring in fine woven wool, and buckskin trousers and a silk hat, and cracking a whip. Everything seems to go to our order until one day, a lion breaks out of his cage. Then, said Temple Thurston, "life gets up and looks at us!" This was surely a day when life got up and looked at Jairus.
        Matthew says that his coming to Jesus took place at, or immediately after the feast in his house. Mark and Luke do not refer in this connection to that feast, and yet place it in the same period as Matthew does. Matthew, referring to what Jairus told Jesus, says that he declared her to be "Even now dead," which was a superlative way of referring to the apparently hopeless nature of the case. Mark says she was "at the point of death" Luke says "she lay a-dying." Evidently the child was beyond the reach of human aid.
        Luke tells us that she was "his only daughter." It is a simple statement, but most revealing. A sympathetic imagination will help us to understand what all this meant to Jairus. The child was twelve years of age, which meant that he had had twelve years of sunshine in his home, twelve years of the music of the feet that had pattered, and twelve years of the sweeter music of the lips that had chattered. Now the feet were still, and becoming icy and the lips were silent, soon to utter no further word. The child lay dying. It is evident that nothing mattered to Jairus that day but the terror of the situation. A ruler of the synagogue, he held a position of honor and power, but these things were of no value as his child lay dying. The uttermost gloom had settled upon his life. The lion had broken loose from its cage, and life had got up and looked at him. Tomorrow, and the day beyond, and all other days were to Jairus unthinkable with the child gone.
        It was under such stress of the consciousness of the agony of life that he made his way to Jesus. Evidently also, in spite of the darkness, he came to our Lord in confidence. All ordinary help had failed. He had done everything he could in the matter of physicians and nursing and care, without any doubt. All had been useless. She was "even now dead," "at the point of death," "she lay a-dying."
        It goes without saying that he must have known about Jesus. It may be that he had seen Him work wonders before. Certainly he had heard about Him; and on the basis of what he knew, he made his way to Him, and he did it in confidence. This is shown by his words: "My little daughter is at the point of death; I pray Thee that Thou come and lay Thy hands upon her, that she may be made whole and live."
        He was sure of one thing, that if Jesus came into his house, and touched his child, all would be well. The confidence may have had in it some piece of superstition, but it was confidence. It did not reach the level of that of the Centurion, who with a faith that had called forth words of approbation from Jesus, had declared that there was no need for Him to come into the house, and implored Him to speak the word only, in order to produce the result of healing. But it was the language of assurance. Thus we see this man, coming in a day of deep darkness, and hopeless from the standpoint of ordinary human aid, and desperate; nevertheless feeling sure that he was approaching One Who could help him.
        To us the rest of the account is concerned with what Jesus did. The first thing that impresses us is that of His immediate response to the appeal of Jairus. Each evangelist shows this in differing ways. Matthew says that when the account was told Him at the feast "Jesus arose and followed him." Mark says that when the appeal of Jairus was heard, "He went with him." Luke reveals it in the little phrase, "As He went," used in connection with the coming of the woman. Thus we see that such an appeal from the astonished heart of the father reached the heart of Christ, and He immediately responded.
        The next thing is in some ways an amazing one, that is, it would be amazing if it were not for the Person of our Lord. He had been told, according to these recorders, that the child was so sick she could only be described as "even now dead," or as "at the point of death," as one who "lay a-dying." Under such circumstances there would seem to be the necessity for immediateness of action. We watch our Lord. He rose, He went, and He followed Jairus. He Who was ever calling men to follow Him, now, drawn by the agony of a man's heart, went after him. Then suddenly we see Him pause. Some other needy soul had reached Him, and there was no hurry in His action in the case of Jairus. He stood long enough to raise a question as to who it was that touched Him. He listened to the woman's account, and spoke words of strength and comfort to her. We can only gain the significance of this as imaginatively we look at Jairus. Jairus was waiting. He had come to Jesus with a sense of terrific urgency. He had come knowing that his little girl was beyond all ordinary human help. So far as that was concerned, she had even now crossed over. Nevertheless, he had appealed to Jesus, and believed that if He came, He could put His hand on the child, and she would be made whole. His heart had been gladdened by the immediate response of Jesus. Then suddenly this pause, this waiting, this delay.
        After the delay, Jesus moved on toward the house of Jairus. How far it was we have no means of knowing, but the picture is presented to us of this man walking by the side of the Lord towards the house of darkness.
        Then suddenly there was an interruption. There came from the house messengers saying to Jairus: "Thy daughter is dead; trouble not the Master."
        Here again we need sanctified imagination to understand what that message meant to Jairus. He had left the child as good as dead, at the point of death, dying. He had come to Jesus, and found His response immediate; for He had started with the father directly He heard the account. But He had stopped on the way, just too long apparently; and therefore His coming was just too late.
        With that statement concerning his child, the last gleam of hope probably faded from the sky. It was such a message as would shake the very foundations of his being. His faith was shaken. His love was wounded. His hope was destroyed. All this must have been, inevitably, for the moment at least, the experience of Jairus.
        Then was heard immediately the voice of Jesus: "Fear not, believe only. She shall be made whole."
        No comment in certain ways is needed upon that. It was so simple, so plain. It was the word of Jesus to this man at the moment of his uttermost despair. He had not said this thing to Jairus when he first came to Him with his appeal. He had not said it to him when He started on His journey with him. He had not said it to him to hold him in courage when he waited, as the case of the woman was dealt with. He said this only when the news came that killed hope, "Thy daughter is dead, worry not the Master."
        Now let it be at once recognized that from that moment Jairus had nothing to depend on but the word of Jesus. As we read the account at a distance we recognize that that word was all sufficient. If, however, we can put ourselves into the place of Jairus, into that hour in which the light had come out, and darkness had settled, we shall understand what it meant. It called for an activity of faith far exceeding that which had brought him to the Lord in the hour of his distress.
        And yet had he not something more than the word of Jesus to depend upon? In that very moment of delay, when probably his soul was in revolt against it, he had seen something which must have had its effect upon his thinking. In that hour Jairus would certainly have hastened the footsteps of Jesus if he could, and have left the woman in her need. Then he heard the account which the woman had to tell, and which he, as a ruler of the synagogue, would perfectly understand. She had been twelve years in her infirmity, exactly as long as the period in which he had lived in the sunshine of his child's presence in his home. Yet, she was healed, and in that fact he had evidence of the power of Jesus.
        On the basis then of that word which Jesus spoke to him, "Fear not, believe only," and of what he had seen, he continued his journey with the Lord. The word of Jesus was a call demanding that he banish fear, and that he exercise his faith. This very call was at least a suggestion that there was reason for hope. All the circumstances were against faith, and against hope. The Lord called upon him to take a wider outlook, demanded that he should not measure the present by the apparent. The victory of our Lord is seen in the fact that on the basis of that spoken word reinforced by the thing he had seen on the way, he continued his walk to the house where the child lay dead. As we have said, we cannot tell how far it was, but what we do know is that Jairus walked by the side of Jesus in a faith that may have been with trembling, imperfect, with questioning; but he went, and on the way saw the victory of the Lord.
        So we come to the wondrous ending of the account, with which we need not wait, except to glance at it. They arrived at the house, and as had been affirmed, the child was dead. Mourners had already gathered within the house, and were wailing and beating upon their breasts in the presence of death. Into that house and into the midst of that crowd Jesus entered.
        As He did so, He cast upon the whole scene the light of His own outlook. Those gathered round saw a dead child, and in that the end of life, the passing to dust and nothingness of the sweet and beautiful personality. And then that, there is nothing more terrible in this world. Charles Kingsley in one of his writings declared that the death of a soldier is touched with heroism, the death of an old man is surrounded with the glory of completion; but the death of a child demonstrates something wrong somewhere. Jesus saw the dead child, but revealed what His outlook was upon that fact. He said, "She is not dead, but sleepeth." That sentence illuminates the whole universe. The child was surely dead from the human standpoint, but as Jesus looked He said in effect, that is not the child. We remember that concerning Lazarus He said, "This sickness is not unto death." He also said, "Our friend Lazarus is fallen asleep"; and when those listening to Him were perplexed, He used their language and said, "Lazarus is dead." His outlook, however, was that of the persistence of personality beyond what we call death. On the earth, yes, they are dead. In the whole of the fact of personality they are not dead. So He said to this stricken father, "She is not dead, but sleepeth."
        It is perhaps not to be wondered at that when men heard such words, they felt how absurd they were, and laughed Him to scorn. It was in the presence of that laughter that He rose in quiet majesty, and put the whole company outside. He did not argue with them. He knew perfectly well that no human argument could demonstrate to them the accuracy of His vision. There was only one thing to do, and that was to exclude them.
        Then, when apparently only father and mother were present, and the three disciples who had accompanied Him into the house, He bent over the mattress where the little lifeless child was laying. He put out His hand, and took that cold little hand in His. "He took her by the hand"; that was His act.
        Then He spoke, and said, "Maiden, arise." That may be in some senses, perfectly accurate translation, and yet, as a matter of fact, it has missed something of infinite beauty. Mark tells us that He said, "Talitha cumi." Now that is not Greek; it is not Hebrew, but it is Aramaic. It was the language almost unquestionably of His home, the common language of the common folk, in the common things of life. We render the saying with supposed dignity as "Damsel, arise." Let us look at it a little carefully. The word "Talitha" is a diminutive. It means "Little lamb." It was a word of infinite love and tenderness. We are looking and listening, and we see God manifest in flesh put His hand, the hand that guides and governs the movement of all worlds, upon the dead hand of a little girl, and we hear Him call her "Little lamb." With this address He uttered the word of authoritative command, "Arise."
        Then we are told in beautiful language what happened. "Her spirit returned." Her spirit had never been dead. Her essential personality had passed beyond the earthly sphere, had gone beyond the tenement of clay and dust. Our Lord addressed her in that essential personality, using this tender and endearing term "Little lamb." He knew she could hear Him because His voice apparently confined within the walls of a house, would penetrate beyond, and reach to any place where she might be. She heard that voice. She knew it, and knew it in that spirit world, as she would not have known it in any other; and at once she obeyed, "her spirit returned."
        Then follows the further statement, "She rose up, and walked."
        As she did so, Luke tells us something of infinite beauty and interest. To me it is the more remarkable saying that it was written by Luke, himself a physician He tells us that Jesus commanded that they should give her something to eat. Thus He recognized that she had returned to the earthly level, and needed sustenance of her earthly existence.
        In thus calling her back, He had indeed called her back to the world, and all its circumstances. In this connection we may remind ourselves of that which we know, that it is a matter which gives us cause for thought, that in all the account of His ministry we only have the record of three people He raised to life. Lazarus, the son of the widow of Nain. and this child. Lazarus was an only brother. The boy at the gates of Nain was the only son of his mother. This was the only child. The question may arise as to why He was apparently so reticent in the exercise of this ultimate power. Perhaps we ought hardly to attempt to answer, and yet I cannot think of it without believing that He saw the whole of life, and knew where these were that men called dead. He knew that in calling them back into the earth life, He was calling them back to the place of sorrow. Hence His reticence. However, we have the three illustrations, and all of them show Him in the tenderness and understanding of His heart towards those in such sorrow.
        It is indeed a wonderful account, and it has tremendous value for all of us. I do not hesitate to say that the utmost value is to be found in the word that Jesus uttered to Jairus in the moment of his uttermost extremity, "Fear not, believe only."
        The rest of the saying is not needed. It was local, it was incidental. He said to Jairus, "She shall be made whole." He does not always say that. He does always say "Fear not, believe only."
        Faith cannot triumph unless it has some reason for doing so. Faith that does not start from reason is credulity, superstition. What, then, is the basis of faith in Jesus that brings triumph? The answer is in a word: Himself. He was there, walking with Jairus to his house. That day has not passed. He is still with us, going wherever we are going (Matt 28:19-20 where we are told to go); and forevermore saying to us, in the consciousness of His nearness, "Fear not, believe only." There is only one song that is fitting, and it is the one we all love:
"Be gone, unbelief, for my Savior is near,
And for my relief He will surely appear."

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