Introduction
• Hear now the New Testament story of Jarius, the ruler of the Jewish synagogue. [Read Luke 8:40-56]
• What if that story took place today? Instead of Jarius, let’s visit with a Baptist minister by the name of Wallace. Of utmost importance is for each of us to notice how Jesus reacts to the needs of those in this modern day story.
• Well, here comes Wallace now. Let him tell you about it.
Monologue
Thank you for being so kind to listen to my tale. I attempt to tell it every chance that I get. One afternoon a couple of years ago changed my life.
Where do I begin? – Let me begin with myself. I’ve had a lot of time to reevaluate my life and I’m not too happy about the person I used to be. – I was an important man. I was the kind of man that you would find leading prayer at the football game or serving as president of the Lion’s Club. I am highly respected in our community. I preferred to be addressed as Doctor.
I pastor the largest Baptist church in town. Our services are normally full. I am a fifteen-handicap golfer and the church bought me a membership at the country club to commemorate my twentieth year with our church. My wife and I have been frugal and we’ve bought a place down at the beach which we plan to retire to in another ten years or so.
Yes, I thought I had it made. – But as you know, things can change quickly.
I remember a black day over two years ago. Though I love people, I had told the church secretary that I wasn’t taking any calls or seeing anyone that particular morning. I wanted to be alone. The truth is I had been on the phone all morning. My need for time alone, however, had nothing to do with needing time to study. I needed time to weep.
I just stared at an 8X10 photo on my mahogany credenza behind my desk. Through watery eyes I gazed at my twelve-year-old daughter. Braces. Pigtails. Freckles. She was a reflection of my wife – blue eyes, brown hair, and pug nose. The only thing my daughter got from me was my heart and I had no intention of requesting that she return it. She’s not my only child but she is my baby – my only daughter.
I had built a fence of protection around my little girl. And that fence had crumbled. Six days earlier she had come home early from school feverish and irritable. My wife had put her to bed, thinking it was the flu. During the night the fever rose. The next morning we rushed her to the hospital. The doctors were puzzled. They couldn’t pinpoint the problem. They could only agree on one thing – she was sick and getting sicker.
I had never known such helplessness. I didn’t know how to handle the pain. I was accustomed to being strong and I didn’t know how to be weak. I assured everyone who called that my daughter was fine. I assured everyone that God was a great God and that He was in control. I assured everyone except myself. Inside my emotions were a raging river and the dam was beginning to crack.
It was after the call from the doctor, “She’s in a coma”, that I lost it. I reached for her picture and just held it. Suddenly, I began to speak out loud. No one was there, yet through my tears I spoke audibly. “It’s not fair! It’s not fair! Why a twelve-year-old girl? Why her, for mercy sakes?” Then looking out the window toward the gray sky I screamed, “Why don’t you take me?”
I got up and went over to the coffee table by the couch and picked up the box of tissues I keep handy for counselees. After blowing my nose, I looked back out the window. An old man was sitting on the bench in the courtyard of the church. I could see him throwing bread crumbs on the sidewalk for the pigeons to snatch.
“Don’t you know my daughter is dying? How can you act as if nothing is wrong?” my mind screamed. It was in the springtime that my precious daughter would wait in the courtyard every day after school, waiting for me to walk her home. I would hear her chasing the pigeons below and know it was time to go. I’d drop whatever I was doing and stand at that same window and watch her. I watch as she walked a tightrope on the curb around the garden. I’d watch as she would pick a wildflower out in the grass. I’d watch as she would spin around and around until she would become so dizzy that she’d fall on her back and watch the clouds spin in the sky. “Oh Princess” I would say. Then I would stack my books and headaches on the desk and head on down to meet her.
But it wasn’t springtime and my daughter was not in the courtyard. It was winter and there was an old man sitting on her bench. “Oh, dear Princess”
Suddenly a second man enters the courtyard. He tells something to the other man and the two of them hurry out. “Must be a fight” I thought to myself. Then I remembered – “The teacher. He is here”
I had almost forgotten. As I was leaving the house that morning my neighbor asked if I was going to see the controversial teacher. Inwardly I scoffed at the idea and yelled back, “No, too busy today”. Even on a slow day I wouldn’t go see an itinerant preacher. Especially this one.
The news from our denominational office had branded this guy a maverick. Some even said He was insane. Someone had told me that this teacher had grown up in Mississippi – son of mechanic in Tupelo. Yet the crowds hung around Him like He was God’s gift to humanity.
Personally I thought all faith-healers were con artists – prophets for profit – parasites of the people. Yet many told me personally, “He can heal!”
I turned and picked up my daughter’s picture again. She was about to be taken from me. I weighed my options. “If I go and am recognized, it will mean my job. But if she dies and He could have done something…” A man can reach a point where his desperation is just a notch above his dignity. I had no other choice. And I would be passing by where He was on my way to the hospital.
I circled the bus terminal three times before I found a place to park. The wind was so strong and cold that I buttoned my overcoat up to the knot of my tie, turned into the wind and walked.
I passed two pawn shops, and an adult entertainment establishment. Someone came out of the bar as I walked by. A dozen or so teens leaned against a brick wall. One flipped a cigarette butt at my feet. Three men in leather jackets and jeans warmed their hands over a fire in a ten-gallon drum. One of them chuckled as I walked by. “Looky there, a poodle has found himself in the pound with us mutts”. I didn’t turn around but just quickened my pace. It had been years since I‘d been on that side of the tracks. I guess my expensive jacket and clothes sure stuck out in that part of town.
The bus station was packed. I barely squeezed through the door. Once I got in I couldn’t have gotten out. Heads bobbed and ducked like corks on a lake. Everyone was trying to get across the room to the side where the de-boarded passengers entered the terminal. With great effort, I managed to squeeze ahead of them. They were just curious; I was desperate.
As I reached the window I saw Him. He stood near the bus. He had only been able to advance a couple of strides against the wall of people. He looked so normal. He wore a corduroy jacket, the kind with patches on the elbows. His slacks weren’t new, but they were nice. No tie. His hairline receded a bit before it became a flow of brown curls. I couldn’t hear His voice, but I could see His face. His eyebrows were bushy. He had a gleam in His eyes and a grin on His lips.
He was so different from what I had anticipated. I had to ask a lady next to me if that was Him.
“That’s Him,” she replied. “That’s Jesus”.
He bent over and disappeared for a moment and surfaced holding a toddler a young Latino boy. The lad’s arm was deformed. Jesus smiled…said something…and touched the boy’s shoulder. How can I explain what I saw with my own eyes? That arm, so ugly and twisted – straightened. What had appeared to be lifeless flesh was now a whole arm. The boy excitedly was waving his arm in every direction.
Well, I knew if He entered the terminal, I’d never get Him out. I put my hands flat against the window pane and began edging along the window. People complained but I moved anyway.
When I got to the doorway, so did Jesus. Our eyes met. I froze. I guess I hadn’t considered what I would say to Him. Maybe I thought He would speak first and ask me if there was anything He could do for me. I probably thought I’d say, “Oh, my daughter is sick and I thought you might say a prayer”.
Now that we were face to face, my mind went blank. I felt my eyes water, my chin quiver, and my knees hit the uneven pavement. “It’s my daughter, my little girl…she’s very sick. Could you please touch her so she won’t die?” I regretted the words as soon as I said them. If He’s a man, then I had asked the impossible. If He’s more than a man, what right did I have to make such a request?
I didn’t look up. I was ashamed…I felt His fingers under my chin. He lifted my head. He didn’t have to raise it far. He had knelt down in front of me. I looked into His eyes. The gaze of this young preacher embraced this old pastor like the arms of an old friend.
“Take Me to her”. His hand moved under my arm. He helped me stand. “Where is your car?”
I grabbed His hand and began to fight a path through the crowd. It wasn’t easy. With my free hand I moved people like I was parting stalks of corn in a cornfield. Along the way people were reaching out toward Him. Young mothers wanting a blessing for their children. Old people wanting release from pain.
Suddenly I lost His hand. It slipped out. I stopped and turned and saw Him standing and looking. His abrupt stop surprised the crowd. I noticed His face was pale. He spoke as if speaking to Himself. “Someone touched Me.”
“What?” one of His men inquired?
“Someone touched Me.”
I thought He was telling a joke. He turned slowing, studying each face. For the life of me, I couldn’t tell if He were angry or delighted. He was looking for someone He didn’t know but knew He’d know when He saw her.
“I touched you.” The voice was beside me. Jesus pivoted.
“It was me. I’m sorry.” The crowd parted leaving a girl on center stage. She was thin, almost frail. I could have wrapped my hand around her upper arm and touched my finger to my thumb. Her skin was dark and her hair was in a hundred braids with beads on the end. She was coatless. She hugged her arms to herself.
“Don’t be afraid.” Jesus assured. “What was wrong?”
“I have AIDS.”
Someone behind me gasped. Most of us took a step back.
Jesus stepped towards her. “Tell Me about it.”
She looked at Him, looked around at the throng of people, swallowed and began. “I was out of money. The doctors said it was just a matter of time. I didn’t have anywhere else to go. But now…”
She lowered her eyes and began to smile. I looked back at Jesus. My lands, if He wasn’t smiling too. The two of them stood there and stared at each other, smiling like they were the only kids in class who knew the answer to the teacher’s question.
The gaze on Jesus’ face was the same look I had received from Him only minutes before. I turned and looked at the girl. For a moment she looked at me. I wanted to say something to her. I think she felt the same urge. We were so different, but suddenly we had everything in common. She with her needle tracked arms and midnight lovers; I with my clean fingernails and sermon outlines. I had spent my life telling people not to be like her. She’d spent her life avoiding hypocrites like me. But now we were thrust together against the enemy of death, desperately hoping that this country preacher could tie a knot in the end of our frazzled ropes so we could hang on.
Jesus spoke. “It was your faith that did it. Now go and enjoy life.”
She smiled, leaned in and kissed Jesus on the cheek. Then she turned and skipped away. “Yes! Yes! I have my life back! Yes!”
The crowd cheered, Jesus blushed, and she disappeared.
Through all this excitement I hadn’t noticed that some other men had worked their way into the crowd. They were standing behind me. When I heard them speak, I immediately recognized their voices. They were from my congregation.
One put his hand on my shoulder. “There’s no need to bother this teacher anymore, your daughter is dead.”
The words came at me like darts, but Jesus interrupted: “Don’t be afraid, just trust Me.”
The next few minutes were a blur of activity. We raced through the crowd, jumped into the car of man who brought the news and sped to the hospital. The waiting room was chaotic. Church members, neighbors, and friends were already gathering. Several wept openly. My wife, seated in one of the chairs was pale and speechless. Her eyes were red. Her hand trembled as she brushed away a tear.
As I entered, people came to comfort me. Jesus stepped in front of them. They stopped and stared at the stranger.
“Why are you crying?” He asked. “She isn’t dead, she’s only asleep.”
They were stunned. They were insulted. “Of all the insensitive things to say,” someone shouted. “Who are you anyway?”
“Get that joker out of here!”
But leaving was the last thing Jesus had on His agenda. He turned and within a few seconds He made his way to my daughter’s room. He signaled for Betsy, my wife, and I to follow Him. We did.
There were six of us, including three of His men. My daughter’s face was ashen. I touched her hand and it was cold. Before I could say anything, Jesus’ hand was on mine. And then I saw that wonderful look again. It began to melt away my fears.
“Princess”, He said softly. “Get up!”
Her head turned slightly as if hearing a voice. Jesus stood back. Her upper body leaned forward until she was upright in bed. Her eyes opened. She turned and put her bare feet on the floor and stood.
No one moved as my wife and I watched our girl walk toward us. We held her for an eternity – half believing it couldn’t be true and half not wanting to know it wasn’t. But it was.
“Better get her something to eat,” Jesus teased with a smile, “She’s probably famished.” Then He turned to leave.
I reached out and touched His shoulder. “Let me return the favor. I’ll introduce you to the right people. I’ll get you speaking engagements at the right places.”
“Let’s keep this between us, okay?” and He and three speechless friends left the room.
You look surprised. Well, I wish I could have brought Princess along with me to confirm my tale. But she is a little busy this weekend. She’s into dancing, big time. I guess all that practice in the courtyard paid off. Anyway she has a big competition this week. She dances with an excitement that I do not see in the lives of other dancers. I guess when you face death and are given life back again; you enjoy life so much better.
[Wallace turns away]
Invitation
• Thank Dr. Wallace.
• The Teacher, Jesus is here. He has come to touch your life.
• Christian, He wants to teach you and aid you in being kind as He is kind. Would you come? Would you come dedicating yourself to be His eager student?
• There maybe someone here who needs to come and ask Jesus for His healing. The altar is open.
• Friend, would you hear Him inviting you to join First Baptist today? He wants you to join in our efforts to spread His kindness to our whole community.
• Just maybe friend, Jesus brought you here today so that He could change YOUR LIFE FOREVER. He wants you to give Him – YOU! Would you come forward and let someone share with you how Jesus can become your Savior and Lord?
