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Vicar Shemwell
7/10/21 Homily (Sixth Sunday after Trinity 2021) Sermon Texts: Lam. 3:22-33; 2 Cor. 8:1-9, 13-14; Mark 5:21-43 |
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ON RAISING DAUGHTERS
In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. Dear brothers and sisters in our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, nineteen days ago, on June 21st, at about 8:45 pm, the love of my life gave birth to the love of my life. Freyja Lynn Shemwell entered this world, making her adorable debut just barely a day belated for the best Father’s Day gift a young man could ever hope to receive. And since the very moment I initially laid eyes on that little girl, I’ve been altogether enamored with her, obsessed, infatuated, completely in love. And possessed by a whole different kind of love, at that. Maybe it’s cliché to say, albeit it is undoubtedly true: you never quite know the feeling of this sort until you get the chance to experience it for yourself. The love between a parent and a child, between a father and his daughter. I had nine full months to prepare for such a thing. But all it took was that one brief moment to forever change my life. And for the better. Immeasurably for the better. And so, I now know the feeling. Or I’m beginning to, anyhow. Finally, I know what it’s like, I think, to actually love – in an unqualifiedly authentic way. Or at the very least, I know better at this time than I had ever before.
The thing is, dear faithful, I have tried my hardest over the past thirty-one-odd years to be a good person. A loving person. To be selfless and upright, insofar as I am able. But to be brutally honest with you, I have always failed. Miserably… I don’t invariably confess to being among the undisputed worst of the worst, I suppose. Not publicly, at any rate. Yet deep down, I’m certainly no good. I do recognize this. I’m not good at being good. My heart is corrupt. I’m a sinner, after all. And I understand, you know, just how St. Paul must have felt when he once claimed to be the chief of all sinners, in his first letter to St. Timothy. At the end of the day, I’m no different than him. I’m fallen and wicked, no matter how you look at it. Even if in the eyes of the world I’m a somewhat decent person, who pays his taxes and holds the door open, at the Day of Judgment though, if it were only my own thoughts, words, and deeds speaking on my behalf, then… huh… I’d most assuredly deserve every last moment of an eternity condemned to the blistering fires of hell. It’s true. And I’m not merely saying that. It's not some self-righteous talk or a mortification of the ego for the sake of an audience. I mean it. I am just as much the chief of all sinners. And as such, I am, of my own paltry willpower, totally incapable of really and truly loving anyone – other than myself... Because I am selfish and narcissistic, sick with the Old Adam through and through, and entirely curved in on myself, at all times and in all places. That’s just how it is for a sinner’s lot, this side of heaven. And maybe, being, yourselves, regularly convicted by God’s Law within this Holy Christian Church, you guys can more or less relate here—although to a notably lesser degree, I am sure. However, having said all that, two and half weeks ago, when I first met that precious girl, something in me, something yawning and deeply significant, it was transfigured. Or so it has so very much seemed since.
To be sure, here, I’m still a pitiable sinner. Obviously that hasn’t changed the slightest bit, unfortunately. Yet in that moment when I saw her, two Mondays before last, when I officially became her father, I caught a glimpse of something about which I had hitherto known so very little. I was introduced to the feeling—the visceral experience—of what may well be the closest I shall ever come in this earthly life to what might be rightly regarded as genuinely selfless love. To that kind of love God the Father expects of us. The kind of love shown by the Lord as He hung dying on that Cross for my many failures. Now, please don’t misunderstand me though, friends, the love I felt then and continue to feel for my daughter each and every single moment, it is nothing in comparison to that love God has for us. My love, however deep and profound it may be, it is infinitesimally small and insignificant and shallow with respect to such an awesome thing as God’s love. Yet again, this kind of experience is likely the closest any of us ever will come this side of glory. It is surely the closest I will ever come. To knowing what it means, what it is, to truly love. To understanding His love. To making sense of sacrifice. Through my own fatherly love – or through your motherly love – through our unconditional love. That deepest devotion and sentiment given us in our vocation as parents.
And so, with that transfiguring sentiment still overwhelming me, only a matter of days accustomed to it, standing before you all this morning and preaching on the given readings for this Sunday, it is bittersweet. Incredibly bittersweet. I know over the course of these previous ten months or so I’ve managed to garner something of a reputation for, you might say, verbosity – loquacity, longwindedness, wordiness… (I could provide many more synonyms here, by the way, should that be your desire! … You know I only kid…) Considering that though, maybe this sermon will come across as a tad bit unexpected. Because I don’t have an overly lengthy, or rather, at least, an unnecessarily convoluted, message to deliver to y’all today. And that’s not for lack of preparation, let me reassure you. Admittedly, I haven’t been getting all that much sleep as of late, but I’d never let even any unintended insomnia prevent me from writing a good long sermon, granted the opportunity. No, friends, I’ll keep it on the shorter, simpler side because, really, there’s only so much I can say. So much I can add to what’s already been so plainly revealed to us in our texts. For what did we hear from our Gospel moments ago, brothers and sisters? A miracle, right? And not just any miracle. But the miracle of life worked right out of death. Life ransomed right out of its grimmest grips. We heard once more about that highest and most sublime love our God has for us, incarnated as it was in the Son’s flesh and blood, in His merciful hands and compassionate speech – and we heard of how that love was manifested one day, so long ago, for an utterly distraught father. We heard of how our Lord’s love has the power even to raise daughters from the dead; from a sickly sleep to the fullness of life again. And today, not even three weeks out from my own daughter’s birth, I can hardly contain the tears here. My eyes nearly swell up at the thought of this love. At the consideration of such hope. Such bittersweet hope, as we will note. And therefore, with that in mind, I will try my best to keep it relatively brief, dearest flock. (And for those faithful few who do happen to favor my consistent lack of brevity, I’m awfully sorry to disappoint.)
Beloved, we are all sinners. We confessed as much with one accord at the opening of our service. And know this: we are not solely sinners on account of this or that bad thing we’ve done over the course of our lives (or over the course of this very day, even). No… we are sinners thoroughly and inherently, by our own inborn nature; our original sin. Since our very first breath, we have breathed selfishly, felt uncaringly, thought darkly, and acted recklessly and disobediently. Even as babes, we were fated to sin. That is just the way it is. And as such, we have, since the hour of our birth, been deservedly subject to the innumerable painful consequences of sin on this world and this life of ours. I don’t need to remind y’all about those many agonizing ramifications. For you still encounter them all the time. You know them well. All the hurt we feel, the tragedy we mourn, the loss we grieve, it is all the culmination of sin in our own lives, affecting our own intimate circles. And really friends, as sinners, as much as it may pain us to hear it, we have merited such consequences. We’ve earned our sorrows. We’ve made our bed. Now our worldly affliction is often not the direct result of our individual sins, no – of course not; but it is nevertheless owing to our collective sinfulness as sons and daughters of Adam, birthed into this tangled mess. And though it harrows me to hear that, too, I can, in fact, accept it. I know it’s true because I know well my own iniquitous heart. That hardened heart with which I was born. But… what really and truly shatters that hardened heart of mine into an infinity of minute pieces, like brittle glass, what is so unbearably bitter about this truth, is that it is true all the same for my infant daughter, too. She, as well, is under the heavy weight of sin, at even a few weeks old. Sorrowfully, so very sorrowfully: she will indeed grow up and face hardship and heartache. She will toil and suffer, like all men do. And friends, although I can scarcely muster the courage to speak it before you now, it is no less certain: unless our Lord happens to return first—may God in His goodness Himself will it!—my daughter, too, will someday meet her mortal fate. Like all of us, she will fall asleep. Like all of us, she will be greeted by that most hated repercussion of mankind’s rebellion. I don’t want to think about it, but it remains a reality. As it has for every man and every woman who has ever lived.
And that’s what’s so bitter to realize. That no matter the intensity of my love, I cannot protect her from the burden of our shared fallen nature. There’s nothing I can do about it. And that makes me feel unbelievably helpless. Bitter and helpless. I brought her into a world where, ultimately, I cannot save her… But… it’s not all bitterness, thank God. Thank God in heaven, as we’ve heard in our reading from Lamentations this morning, from the lips of the prophet Jeremiah, we are not cast off by the Lord forever. No, we are not. Listening to the Word of God, that bitterness I taste in the fathomless recesses of my being, it is ever met with a corresponding sweetness, too. A sweetness which, in truth, overpowers and overcomes the sharpness of all woe and misery. And our Gospel lesson today is perhaps the perfect example, the most fitting and timely dose, of that saccharine, sugary goodness which is the Good News itself. Because in it we see, together, that our God, His love is so positively unfailing – something most certainly true. And in it I see that I’m not the first father to ever feel helpless either. Not at all. Jairus, leader of the synagogue, he also felt helpless once, as we’ve learned this day. He was terrified. His daughter lay dying, under the fullest weight of her mortality, at the tender age of twelve. But dear family, while he felt purely helpless in himself, he was not without hope, was he? There was a love which was had that did not fail. We read in our lesson: “Jairus came, and when he saw Jesus, he fell at His feet. He pleaded earnestly with Him, ‘My little daughter is dying. Please come and [just] place Your hands on her so that she will be healed and live.’” Poor Jairus was scared, downcast, presumably in hysterics, but he regardless clenched with anxious fist to Jesus, to this miracle-worker and the Messiah. Thusly did he prostrate himself before the Lord and beg His intercession, His healing, tugging at His garments in sheer and maddening distress. And so, our Lord, being of absolute compassion, He had mercy on the weeping patriarch and went along with him, to reach that dying girl of his, consoling him along the way. But while they were on their way, we are told of yet another necessary healing in our text, and we moreover find out that as our Lord was saving the bleeding lady from her wretched twelve-year-long ordeal, some people came from the house of the synagogue leader to deliver that most-feared news: “Your daughter is dead,” they said. “She lives no more.” Just like that, she was gone. Any hope, seemingly sunk.
I cannot personally imagine how Jairus must have felt in that dreadful moment. Neither do I wish to place myself in his shoes. It hurts far too much for me to think about. I want nothing of it. Yet our Lord, He knew his pain. Our Lord understood. He did not turn away. For our Lord would find Himself weeping at sepulchers on occasion, wouldn’t He? And knowing his suffering though, He comforted the despairing dad, saying: “Be not afraid, Jairus; only believe. [Don’t be afraid, but believe in Me. Don’t lose hope, don’t lose heart, don’t lose that spirit which loves against all odds – but only cling that much harder.]” And Jairus, soaking wet with hot tears and hearing His words, stood up straight, he looked our Lord right in the eyes, and with fear and trembling and a fatherly craving and hope I now understand wholeheartedly, he trusted in Jesus. He trusted; and so they went off, headed for the house. And when they came to it, Jesus and Jairus and Peter, James, and John entered the home. In it, Christ heard all the mournful commotion and spoke, to further comfort the crying eyes: “Grieve not, friends. For you see, this girl, she is not dead, but only sleeping.” Nobody could believe it, of course. We are told by St. Mark that some even laughed at the notion. One assumes here that the laughter came from onlookers though, not the family themselves, not from those who were amid the severity of such sadness. Jairus would hardly have scoffed at the prospect of a miracle. For he was a father in love with his daughter. All he could feel, all he could think, all he could speak, was hope – however incomprehensible and ostensibly foolish to those looking on in an indecorous dismay. And so he followed our Lord to the side of the bed. And our reading continues: “Jesus took her by the hand and said to her, ‘Talitha koum!’ (which means, in Aramaic: “Little girl, I say unto you, arise!).” And friends, arise she did. At the command of God made Man, she awoke from her death. She was roused from the casket of her childhood bed, from the darkness of the grave, unto life, again. She was restored to her father’s arms. And our Lord then instructed the family to fetch her something to eat. Here endeth the Gospel lesson. Right here, with this tender vision to be held in mind and cherished, of a dad and a daughter reunited, with all the many tears of joy and a feast to be prepared.
Jesus, He indeed raises daughters from the dead. And sons. And friends. We hear quite a few examples of this in Holy Scripture, do we not? And what greater miracle is there than that of undoing death itself? What more profound testament to our Lord’s authority and purpose? But dear faithful, you and I know, this side of things, that there was, even then, a greater miracle yet to be worked, a mightier wonder to be had, a more meaningful testament. For you see, Jairus’ daughter, the son of the widow of Nain, Lazarus, all these people, risen from death to life by the fleshly hands of the Christ, their mortality had not yet then been fully overcome. Woefully so, they would all have to die again; as they all did, in time. They were each raised, but thereafter—however long after—they would eventually meet their fate a second time. And Jesus knew as much when He miraculously brought them back to life. He knew the days of their existence were still numbered. For as He then realized perfectly, while retaining all dominion over the grave, to raise for a time, in order to eternally shackle the hands and feet of Death himself, so as to take away the sting of our all-too human finality for good, to lift us above and beyond the threat of a subsequent demise, our Lord Himself, He, too, would have to die. And be buried below.
He understood that, though entirely God, He would have to face a lowly man’s death, to rescue us. And therefore, He did. Just that… The very worst of a man’s dying. He faced it. He suffered the mockery and the bloody cat-o-nine tails, which ravaged his poor flesh to bits. He suffered betrayal and rejection and abandonment. And then He suffered the Cross – that Cross which He willingly mounted for our sake, that by giving up the ghost upon it, He might win for us forgiveness and life eternal and an enduring triumph over the tomb. Our Lord died for us, for you and for me, and for little Freyja. And He was raised again on the third day, forever vanquishing the perishability of the children of God… Jesus raised Jairus’ daughter once – true enough – and He returned her to a desperate father’s embrace. And one hopes they shared a long life together on the other side of that miracle, in peace and joy, a father and his sweetest-heart, caring and happy. But regrettably, that princess of his, she had to fall asleep again. They both did. That, too, was fated. It was only a matter a time. A bitter actuality. Notwithstanding that tragic truth though, our Lord, by the work of His crucified hands and feet, His crucified life and death, He will raise her once more someday. That is a fact. She is presently at rest in His Heavenly Bosom, but one of these days, or rather, on that very Last Day, He will say again to the daughter of Jairus: “Talitha koum! – Oh, little girl, arise again, and enter body and soul into the Paradise My Father and I have prepared for you. Your daddy, he is there as well, awaiting you. Arise, greet him, find his love in My love, find him in Me: and littlest one, live to never die again.” Wow. The mere thought of it is enough to soften the hardest of hearts.
Brothers and sisters, I cannot protect my daughter from sin. Because I, too, am but a poor miserable sinner. Be that as it may though, our Lord, He can. Her Lord can. He can save her—body and soul—her heart, her mind, her spirit, her blood and bone. He can make sure that our love is never torn asunder, that we will not be cast off forever, that we won’t be kept apart for good. Our Lord, Christ Jesus, by spilling His own Blood over the menacing gaze of the grave, thereby drenching even the memory of its bite and sting with an unfading crimson hope, by this extraordinary might, He has overcome it all, for us. He has won for us, for her, eternity. All six feet of dirt swallowed up in victory, the worms to be neverendingly hungred and humiliated. And while it is bitter to contemplate the anguish and adversity with which my daughter may well be confronted in this earthly life, it is nonetheless so remarkably sweet to hear the Good News of the grace of God had just for her. That she, too, will be risen, when it is all said and done. That the sharpness of death is now dull and no more; that, for her, its sting is altogether nothing. Nothing! “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?” … And tomorrow morning, at Redeemer Evangelical Lutheran Church, that salvation, that eternal salve for the wounds of her humanity, that promise of a life which never dies, it will be poured out over her in the salvific Sacrament of Holy Baptism. She will be cleansed in the waters thereof, as in the Blood of Jesus. And then she will join with us, as the Church Militant, to anticipate her Lord, to await her portion—as the prophet Jeremiah says—and the glory of God to be had in the life to come.
But even now, today, she hears the Good News. She hears the Word of God – it reverberates in her cutest little ears, so much like her mother’s. And in one short day, at her Baptism, at the climax of that godly Divine Service, she will further be carried up to the altar of the Most High, by my wife, where all us redeemed creatures, in the company of all the angels and saints, will partake together of our Lord’s very own presence. Little Freyja may not taste of Him just yet, but she can still, with her bluest eyes, bear witness to His sacramental dwelling among us – and within us. She can still behold her Lord in Body and Blood, uplifted for her. And I can’t help but believe that that itself should be enough to satisfy a young girl’s heart. We are not cast off forever, beloved. Far from it. Rather, as St. Paul tells us this morning, through our Lord’s poverty, through His Passion, we have been made rich. And we are richer still, each and every time we eat and drink of His own Flesh and Blood. Of that vivifying sweat of the brow of His most clement labor for us. We are strengthened by it for the long haul. Our God’s love is unfailing, and by it, we escape the consumption of death, of nothingness, of hell. We are rescued, delivered from the pit of despair. And what a miracle this is. What a joyous reality to reflect upon – to participate in. And so, I invite you, all of you, full-throatedly and with every rejoicing: friends, whenever the Blessed Sacrament of the Altar is celebrated here, at Our Savior/Grace Lutheran, with Pastors Lange and Patterson, do come cheerfully, and taste of your God. Come and taste of such honeyed life, of a life which never truly dies, nor loses its sweetly flavor. Taste of the Body risen for you, that you, in the fullness of time, might be risen, too. Come kneel shoulder to shoulder with every feasting Christian at every confessional congregation across the globe and with the whole host of heaven and even with my own infant daughter, eager as she ever is to be blessed, and commune from the sanguine fountain of life, from that fountain of crimson flood which washes you clean and by its colossal waves, lifts you far beyond the fear of death. Be not afraid; only believe. Believe. And come and taste. Come and live…
Now, faithful flock, I reckon I had a smidgen more to say today than I’d priorly suggested. You’ll have to forgive me that, it is just so easy to become completely taken up by the Gospel, you see, into an exuberance and awe difficult to articulate or even contain. An exuberance and awe at our Gospel reading today, for instance – never more appropriate and meaningful for me than now, being a new father to a dearest daughter. And likewise at the realization that however bitter this life may indeed be, beneath that bitterness, underneath it, there is a sweetness that is so much more to savor. And how exactly do you even put all that into words? And succinctly, at that? Well, I surely don’t know. But I do hope somehow, someday, my Lord grants me the privilege of hearing a few words of His own – of hearing the sweetness of His kindly voice, especially when He reaches for my child’s gentle hand, to lift her up from her deepest slumber, and says to her: “Daughter of My servant, Vincent: arise! Little girl, arise and live to life everlasting.” How terribly sweet those words shall be for the ear. For us all to hear, and for all whom we love. Including you, my darling girl. Thanks be to God for this salvation. Thank you. In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. Dear brothers and sisters in our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, nineteen days ago, on June 21st, at about 8:45 pm, the love of my life gave birth to the love of my life. Freyja Lynn Shemwell entered this world, making her adorable debut just barely a day belated for the best Father’s Day gift a young man could ever hope to receive. And since the very moment I initially laid eyes on that little girl, I’ve been altogether enamored with her, obsessed, infatuated, completely in love. And possessed by a whole different kind of love, at that. Maybe it’s cliché to say, albeit it is undoubtedly true: you never quite know the feeling of this sort until you get the chance to experience it for yourself. The love between a parent and a child, between a father and his daughter. I had nine full months to prepare for such a thing. But all it took was that one brief moment to forever change my life. And for the better. Immeasurably for the better. And so, I now know the feeling. Or I’m beginning to, anyhow. Finally, I know what it’s like, I think, to actually love – in an unqualifiedly authentic way. Or at the very least, I know better at this time than I had ever before.
The thing is, dear faithful, I have tried my hardest over the past thirty-one-odd years to be a good person. A loving person. To be selfless and upright, insofar as I am able. But to be brutally honest with you, I have always failed. Miserably… I don’t invariably confess to being among the undisputed worst of the worst, I suppose. Not publicly, at any rate. Yet deep down, I’m certainly no good. I do recognize this. I’m not good at being good. My heart is corrupt. I’m a sinner, after all. And I understand, you know, just how St. Paul must have felt when he once claimed to be the chief of all sinners, in his first letter to St. Timothy. At the end of the day, I’m no different than him. I’m fallen and wicked, no matter how you look at it. Even if in the eyes of the world I’m a somewhat decent person, who pays his taxes and holds the door open, at the Day of Judgment though, if it were only my own thoughts, words, and deeds speaking on my behalf, then… huh… I’d most assuredly deserve every last moment of an eternity condemned to the blistering fires of hell. It’s true. And I’m not merely saying that. It's not some self-righteous talk or a mortification of the ego for the sake of an audience. I mean it. I am just as much the chief of all sinners. And as such, I am, of my own paltry willpower, totally incapable of really and truly loving anyone – other than myself... Because I am selfish and narcissistic, sick with the Old Adam through and through, and entirely curved in on myself, at all times and in all places. That’s just how it is for a sinner’s lot, this side of heaven. And maybe, being, yourselves, regularly convicted by God’s Law within this Holy Christian Church, you guys can more or less relate here—although to a notably lesser degree, I am sure. However, having said all that, two and half weeks ago, when I first met that precious girl, something in me, something yawning and deeply significant, it was transfigured. Or so it has so very much seemed since.
To be sure, here, I’m still a pitiable sinner. Obviously that hasn’t changed the slightest bit, unfortunately. Yet in that moment when I saw her, two Mondays before last, when I officially became her father, I caught a glimpse of something about which I had hitherto known so very little. I was introduced to the feeling—the visceral experience—of what may well be the closest I shall ever come in this earthly life to what might be rightly regarded as genuinely selfless love. To that kind of love God the Father expects of us. The kind of love shown by the Lord as He hung dying on that Cross for my many failures. Now, please don’t misunderstand me though, friends, the love I felt then and continue to feel for my daughter each and every single moment, it is nothing in comparison to that love God has for us. My love, however deep and profound it may be, it is infinitesimally small and insignificant and shallow with respect to such an awesome thing as God’s love. Yet again, this kind of experience is likely the closest any of us ever will come this side of glory. It is surely the closest I will ever come. To knowing what it means, what it is, to truly love. To understanding His love. To making sense of sacrifice. Through my own fatherly love – or through your motherly love – through our unconditional love. That deepest devotion and sentiment given us in our vocation as parents.
And so, with that transfiguring sentiment still overwhelming me, only a matter of days accustomed to it, standing before you all this morning and preaching on the given readings for this Sunday, it is bittersweet. Incredibly bittersweet. I know over the course of these previous ten months or so I’ve managed to garner something of a reputation for, you might say, verbosity – loquacity, longwindedness, wordiness… (I could provide many more synonyms here, by the way, should that be your desire! … You know I only kid…) Considering that though, maybe this sermon will come across as a tad bit unexpected. Because I don’t have an overly lengthy, or rather, at least, an unnecessarily convoluted, message to deliver to y’all today. And that’s not for lack of preparation, let me reassure you. Admittedly, I haven’t been getting all that much sleep as of late, but I’d never let even any unintended insomnia prevent me from writing a good long sermon, granted the opportunity. No, friends, I’ll keep it on the shorter, simpler side because, really, there’s only so much I can say. So much I can add to what’s already been so plainly revealed to us in our texts. For what did we hear from our Gospel moments ago, brothers and sisters? A miracle, right? And not just any miracle. But the miracle of life worked right out of death. Life ransomed right out of its grimmest grips. We heard once more about that highest and most sublime love our God has for us, incarnated as it was in the Son’s flesh and blood, in His merciful hands and compassionate speech – and we heard of how that love was manifested one day, so long ago, for an utterly distraught father. We heard of how our Lord’s love has the power even to raise daughters from the dead; from a sickly sleep to the fullness of life again. And today, not even three weeks out from my own daughter’s birth, I can hardly contain the tears here. My eyes nearly swell up at the thought of this love. At the consideration of such hope. Such bittersweet hope, as we will note. And therefore, with that in mind, I will try my best to keep it relatively brief, dearest flock. (And for those faithful few who do happen to favor my consistent lack of brevity, I’m awfully sorry to disappoint.)
Beloved, we are all sinners. We confessed as much with one accord at the opening of our service. And know this: we are not solely sinners on account of this or that bad thing we’ve done over the course of our lives (or over the course of this very day, even). No… we are sinners thoroughly and inherently, by our own inborn nature; our original sin. Since our very first breath, we have breathed selfishly, felt uncaringly, thought darkly, and acted recklessly and disobediently. Even as babes, we were fated to sin. That is just the way it is. And as such, we have, since the hour of our birth, been deservedly subject to the innumerable painful consequences of sin on this world and this life of ours. I don’t need to remind y’all about those many agonizing ramifications. For you still encounter them all the time. You know them well. All the hurt we feel, the tragedy we mourn, the loss we grieve, it is all the culmination of sin in our own lives, affecting our own intimate circles. And really friends, as sinners, as much as it may pain us to hear it, we have merited such consequences. We’ve earned our sorrows. We’ve made our bed. Now our worldly affliction is often not the direct result of our individual sins, no – of course not; but it is nevertheless owing to our collective sinfulness as sons and daughters of Adam, birthed into this tangled mess. And though it harrows me to hear that, too, I can, in fact, accept it. I know it’s true because I know well my own iniquitous heart. That hardened heart with which I was born. But… what really and truly shatters that hardened heart of mine into an infinity of minute pieces, like brittle glass, what is so unbearably bitter about this truth, is that it is true all the same for my infant daughter, too. She, as well, is under the heavy weight of sin, at even a few weeks old. Sorrowfully, so very sorrowfully: she will indeed grow up and face hardship and heartache. She will toil and suffer, like all men do. And friends, although I can scarcely muster the courage to speak it before you now, it is no less certain: unless our Lord happens to return first—may God in His goodness Himself will it!—my daughter, too, will someday meet her mortal fate. Like all of us, she will fall asleep. Like all of us, she will be greeted by that most hated repercussion of mankind’s rebellion. I don’t want to think about it, but it remains a reality. As it has for every man and every woman who has ever lived.
And that’s what’s so bitter to realize. That no matter the intensity of my love, I cannot protect her from the burden of our shared fallen nature. There’s nothing I can do about it. And that makes me feel unbelievably helpless. Bitter and helpless. I brought her into a world where, ultimately, I cannot save her… But… it’s not all bitterness, thank God. Thank God in heaven, as we’ve heard in our reading from Lamentations this morning, from the lips of the prophet Jeremiah, we are not cast off by the Lord forever. No, we are not. Listening to the Word of God, that bitterness I taste in the fathomless recesses of my being, it is ever met with a corresponding sweetness, too. A sweetness which, in truth, overpowers and overcomes the sharpness of all woe and misery. And our Gospel lesson today is perhaps the perfect example, the most fitting and timely dose, of that saccharine, sugary goodness which is the Good News itself. Because in it we see, together, that our God, His love is so positively unfailing – something most certainly true. And in it I see that I’m not the first father to ever feel helpless either. Not at all. Jairus, leader of the synagogue, he also felt helpless once, as we’ve learned this day. He was terrified. His daughter lay dying, under the fullest weight of her mortality, at the tender age of twelve. But dear family, while he felt purely helpless in himself, he was not without hope, was he? There was a love which was had that did not fail. We read in our lesson: “Jairus came, and when he saw Jesus, he fell at His feet. He pleaded earnestly with Him, ‘My little daughter is dying. Please come and [just] place Your hands on her so that she will be healed and live.’” Poor Jairus was scared, downcast, presumably in hysterics, but he regardless clenched with anxious fist to Jesus, to this miracle-worker and the Messiah. Thusly did he prostrate himself before the Lord and beg His intercession, His healing, tugging at His garments in sheer and maddening distress. And so, our Lord, being of absolute compassion, He had mercy on the weeping patriarch and went along with him, to reach that dying girl of his, consoling him along the way. But while they were on their way, we are told of yet another necessary healing in our text, and we moreover find out that as our Lord was saving the bleeding lady from her wretched twelve-year-long ordeal, some people came from the house of the synagogue leader to deliver that most-feared news: “Your daughter is dead,” they said. “She lives no more.” Just like that, she was gone. Any hope, seemingly sunk.
I cannot personally imagine how Jairus must have felt in that dreadful moment. Neither do I wish to place myself in his shoes. It hurts far too much for me to think about. I want nothing of it. Yet our Lord, He knew his pain. Our Lord understood. He did not turn away. For our Lord would find Himself weeping at sepulchers on occasion, wouldn’t He? And knowing his suffering though, He comforted the despairing dad, saying: “Be not afraid, Jairus; only believe. [Don’t be afraid, but believe in Me. Don’t lose hope, don’t lose heart, don’t lose that spirit which loves against all odds – but only cling that much harder.]” And Jairus, soaking wet with hot tears and hearing His words, stood up straight, he looked our Lord right in the eyes, and with fear and trembling and a fatherly craving and hope I now understand wholeheartedly, he trusted in Jesus. He trusted; and so they went off, headed for the house. And when they came to it, Jesus and Jairus and Peter, James, and John entered the home. In it, Christ heard all the mournful commotion and spoke, to further comfort the crying eyes: “Grieve not, friends. For you see, this girl, she is not dead, but only sleeping.” Nobody could believe it, of course. We are told by St. Mark that some even laughed at the notion. One assumes here that the laughter came from onlookers though, not the family themselves, not from those who were amid the severity of such sadness. Jairus would hardly have scoffed at the prospect of a miracle. For he was a father in love with his daughter. All he could feel, all he could think, all he could speak, was hope – however incomprehensible and ostensibly foolish to those looking on in an indecorous dismay. And so he followed our Lord to the side of the bed. And our reading continues: “Jesus took her by the hand and said to her, ‘Talitha koum!’ (which means, in Aramaic: “Little girl, I say unto you, arise!).” And friends, arise she did. At the command of God made Man, she awoke from her death. She was roused from the casket of her childhood bed, from the darkness of the grave, unto life, again. She was restored to her father’s arms. And our Lord then instructed the family to fetch her something to eat. Here endeth the Gospel lesson. Right here, with this tender vision to be held in mind and cherished, of a dad and a daughter reunited, with all the many tears of joy and a feast to be prepared.
Jesus, He indeed raises daughters from the dead. And sons. And friends. We hear quite a few examples of this in Holy Scripture, do we not? And what greater miracle is there than that of undoing death itself? What more profound testament to our Lord’s authority and purpose? But dear faithful, you and I know, this side of things, that there was, even then, a greater miracle yet to be worked, a mightier wonder to be had, a more meaningful testament. For you see, Jairus’ daughter, the son of the widow of Nain, Lazarus, all these people, risen from death to life by the fleshly hands of the Christ, their mortality had not yet then been fully overcome. Woefully so, they would all have to die again; as they all did, in time. They were each raised, but thereafter—however long after—they would eventually meet their fate a second time. And Jesus knew as much when He miraculously brought them back to life. He knew the days of their existence were still numbered. For as He then realized perfectly, while retaining all dominion over the grave, to raise for a time, in order to eternally shackle the hands and feet of Death himself, so as to take away the sting of our all-too human finality for good, to lift us above and beyond the threat of a subsequent demise, our Lord Himself, He, too, would have to die. And be buried below.
He understood that, though entirely God, He would have to face a lowly man’s death, to rescue us. And therefore, He did. Just that… The very worst of a man’s dying. He faced it. He suffered the mockery and the bloody cat-o-nine tails, which ravaged his poor flesh to bits. He suffered betrayal and rejection and abandonment. And then He suffered the Cross – that Cross which He willingly mounted for our sake, that by giving up the ghost upon it, He might win for us forgiveness and life eternal and an enduring triumph over the tomb. Our Lord died for us, for you and for me, and for little Freyja. And He was raised again on the third day, forever vanquishing the perishability of the children of God… Jesus raised Jairus’ daughter once – true enough – and He returned her to a desperate father’s embrace. And one hopes they shared a long life together on the other side of that miracle, in peace and joy, a father and his sweetest-heart, caring and happy. But regrettably, that princess of his, she had to fall asleep again. They both did. That, too, was fated. It was only a matter a time. A bitter actuality. Notwithstanding that tragic truth though, our Lord, by the work of His crucified hands and feet, His crucified life and death, He will raise her once more someday. That is a fact. She is presently at rest in His Heavenly Bosom, but one of these days, or rather, on that very Last Day, He will say again to the daughter of Jairus: “Talitha koum! – Oh, little girl, arise again, and enter body and soul into the Paradise My Father and I have prepared for you. Your daddy, he is there as well, awaiting you. Arise, greet him, find his love in My love, find him in Me: and littlest one, live to never die again.” Wow. The mere thought of it is enough to soften the hardest of hearts.
Brothers and sisters, I cannot protect my daughter from sin. Because I, too, am but a poor miserable sinner. Be that as it may though, our Lord, He can. Her Lord can. He can save her—body and soul—her heart, her mind, her spirit, her blood and bone. He can make sure that our love is never torn asunder, that we will not be cast off forever, that we won’t be kept apart for good. Our Lord, Christ Jesus, by spilling His own Blood over the menacing gaze of the grave, thereby drenching even the memory of its bite and sting with an unfading crimson hope, by this extraordinary might, He has overcome it all, for us. He has won for us, for her, eternity. All six feet of dirt swallowed up in victory, the worms to be neverendingly hungred and humiliated. And while it is bitter to contemplate the anguish and adversity with which my daughter may well be confronted in this earthly life, it is nonetheless so remarkably sweet to hear the Good News of the grace of God had just for her. That she, too, will be risen, when it is all said and done. That the sharpness of death is now dull and no more; that, for her, its sting is altogether nothing. Nothing! “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?” … And tomorrow morning, at Redeemer Evangelical Lutheran Church, that salvation, that eternal salve for the wounds of her humanity, that promise of a life which never dies, it will be poured out over her in the salvific Sacrament of Holy Baptism. She will be cleansed in the waters thereof, as in the Blood of Jesus. And then she will join with us, as the Church Militant, to anticipate her Lord, to await her portion—as the prophet Jeremiah says—and the glory of God to be had in the life to come.
But even now, today, she hears the Good News. She hears the Word of God – it reverberates in her cutest little ears, so much like her mother’s. And in one short day, at her Baptism, at the climax of that godly Divine Service, she will further be carried up to the altar of the Most High, by my wife, where all us redeemed creatures, in the company of all the angels and saints, will partake together of our Lord’s very own presence. Little Freyja may not taste of Him just yet, but she can still, with her bluest eyes, bear witness to His sacramental dwelling among us – and within us. She can still behold her Lord in Body and Blood, uplifted for her. And I can’t help but believe that that itself should be enough to satisfy a young girl’s heart. We are not cast off forever, beloved. Far from it. Rather, as St. Paul tells us this morning, through our Lord’s poverty, through His Passion, we have been made rich. And we are richer still, each and every time we eat and drink of His own Flesh and Blood. Of that vivifying sweat of the brow of His most clement labor for us. We are strengthened by it for the long haul. Our God’s love is unfailing, and by it, we escape the consumption of death, of nothingness, of hell. We are rescued, delivered from the pit of despair. And what a miracle this is. What a joyous reality to reflect upon – to participate in. And so, I invite you, all of you, full-throatedly and with every rejoicing: friends, whenever the Blessed Sacrament of the Altar is celebrated here, at Our Savior/Grace Lutheran, with Pastors Lange and Patterson, do come cheerfully, and taste of your God. Come and taste of such honeyed life, of a life which never truly dies, nor loses its sweetly flavor. Taste of the Body risen for you, that you, in the fullness of time, might be risen, too. Come kneel shoulder to shoulder with every feasting Christian at every confessional congregation across the globe and with the whole host of heaven and even with my own infant daughter, eager as she ever is to be blessed, and commune from the sanguine fountain of life, from that fountain of crimson flood which washes you clean and by its colossal waves, lifts you far beyond the fear of death. Be not afraid; only believe. Believe. And come and taste. Come and live…
Now, faithful flock, I reckon I had a smidgen more to say today than I’d priorly suggested. You’ll have to forgive me that, it is just so easy to become completely taken up by the Gospel, you see, into an exuberance and awe difficult to articulate or even contain. An exuberance and awe at our Gospel reading today, for instance – never more appropriate and meaningful for me than now, being a new father to a dearest daughter. And likewise at the realization that however bitter this life may indeed be, beneath that bitterness, underneath it, there is a sweetness that is so much more to savor. And how exactly do you even put all that into words? And succinctly, at that? Well, I surely don’t know. But I do hope somehow, someday, my Lord grants me the privilege of hearing a few words of His own – of hearing the sweetness of His kindly voice, especially when He reaches for my child’s gentle hand, to lift her up from her deepest slumber, and says to her: “Daughter of My servant, Vincent: arise! Little girl, arise and live to life everlasting.” How terribly sweet those words shall be for the ear. For us all to hear, and for all whom we love. Including you, my darling girl. Thanks be to God for this salvation. Thank you. In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
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