“They laughed at him. So, he cast everyone out and took only the child’s father and mother with him as he entered the room. He seized the child’s hand and said to her ‘Talitha koum,’ which is translated ‘I say to you child, rise'” (Mark 5.40-41)!
Jairus is somebody in town. So, the mourners at his house wouldn’t have just been family but also the important people. These are the upper crust of the town: cultured, respected, mature. And I get the sense that they looked down on this country preacher who came into their midst. I’m sure they were polite to him. But when he said something as silly as he did—that the girl wasn’t really dead—well, they just couldn’t hold back anymore.
“Darling, did you hear what he said?”
“He thinks that girl in there isn’t really dead.”
“Oh, isn’t he cute.”
Jesus’ response, Mark tells us, is to cast everyone except the parents out. The word is the same one used when Jesus is relieving people of demonic possession. So, you know, he didn’t ask them politely. None of the language in this verse is polite. Jesus was ticked off.
Jesus’ anger isn’t often easy to encounter. God Incarnate is supposed to be sweet and loving. He’s sitting there with children on his lap or gently laying a hand on a leper by the side of the road.
But this reaction makes me wonder what made him so angry? Something in this scene got to him, deep beneath his skin. Is it that people were laughing and making fun of him? Or was it these people no longer believed in what’s possible?
The innocent country bumpkin actually believed the kid wasn’t dead. I mean, we all know what dead means. There’s no undoing it just because you believe it’s possible for her to be not-dead. The grown-ups in the room know the world isn’t like that, right?
If I had been standing in that room, I’d have laughed along with everyone else. I would have looked at Jesus like I would a little child and smiled saying, “Are you going to go bring her back to life sweetie? Isn’t he cute.”
I know I would have done this; because, like them, there are so many things I no longer dare to believe are possible. Oh, I pray for the miraculous and I tell myself over and over again that the Resurrection stands as a reminder that nothing is beyond God’s ability. But, really, I’m like everyone standing at Jairus’ house—knowing, as an adult, some things aren’t possible.
None of those people got to be present when the girl took a breath, opened her eyes, said “Mama” before being swept up into her parents’ arms. They missed seeing her smiling, singing, playing as if those terrible hours had never happened. Because they were too grown-up to believe in the impossible, they missed the moment when it became possible.
I wonder what impossible moments I’ve missed.
Jesus, your love makes impossible things possible—wine flows from water, sight from blindness, life among the dead. Yet, somehow, I still get stuck believing only in what I think is in the realm of possibilities. Teach me to believe in impossible things so I might be a witness when they come to pass.