Let the Needy not be Forgotten

By Ignacio Gama, senior student at Nashotah House

He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering.” Mark 5:34

I hope I’m not alone in thinking that scriptural passages on suffering, like suffering itself, are difficult to approach. Quite possibly because pain, illness, sorrow, and death, while common to every man and woman, almost always have a way of surprising us. Perhaps suffering is mystifying because it is a strange thing, which even on an intuitive level we perceive was not meant for us. 

Pain is alien to God, in that it is foreign to his nature and intentions. At the same time, suffering is all around us and very often within ourselves, an intrinsic part of the human experience. And because we have a God who through Christ’s incarnation has known and lived the reality of human misery, no suffering has or will ever be alien to him. 

Suffering is consistently present throughout the Old and New Testaments, and in virtually every page of history. Indeed, suffering is inseparable from God’s project of salvation because suffering is a consequence of the fall. Salvation history is a story of suffering because the need for Christ’s redemptive work is palpable in creation, in our societies, our families, and in each of our lives. 

It is not uncommon to talk about suffering when we talk about God, since human pain and death are mysteries. And, by a similar token, it is common to speak of suffering when we talk to God. 

Our passage from Mark’s gospel presents us with a scene in which a man and a woman approach the Lord Jesus in their suffering. The passage is also an episode about faith and the healing of two women. But it might be good to recognize that faith, like healing, has an important connection to sorrow. Desperation moves people towards the Lord’s presence.

When Jairus, the synagogue leader, falls at Jesus’ feet to plead for a miracle, he has no time, let alone the intellectual or spiritual clarity, to declare that the Lord is the Messiah and Son of God. His recognition of Christ’s power is directly related to his distress:  “My little daughter is dying. Please come and put your hands on her so that she will be healed and live.” 

When the unnamed hemorrhaging woman struggles to make her way towards the Lord, her suffering too is crucial in her persistence. By touching the hem of his garment, the woman believes that the very nearness of the Savior will put to an end a dehumanizing illness of many years:  “If I just touch his clothes, I will be healed.” 

And as Mark tells us, she is right: Jesus realizes that power has gone out from him. This episode shows that the Lord is not indifferent to the afflictions of each individual. His power, like his grace, is given in a personal way. But it also presents a truth of the Christian life: our need for faith begins in darkness, in the recognition that we require healing. Our suffering drives us desperately into the presence of God.

I have vivid memories from a few visits to a beautiful historic parish in New York City. Regardless of the time of day or season of the year, I remember seeing many homeless and sick brothers and sisters taking refuge inside the church. Many would lie down to sleep on the pews, others would be walking with no apparent direction, and yet others would be kneeling in deep prayer. I couldn’t help but think of the words of Jacob in Genesis, “this is none other than the house of God; this is the gate of heaven.” At the heart of one of the most important cities in the world, it was the frailest of the frail that most intensely moved my heart towards reverence of God. I cannot speak for them, but I wonder if they, like the woman in our story, were seeking the power of the nearness of Christ in the most urgent of ways. 

This riveting image also made me wonder whether in my own life I was guilty of a double deprival. Whether in my efforts to seek the company of “like-minded people,” “solid believers,” and “Christian families,” I was shutting down my heart to those that suffer the most–depriving them of the love and fellowship of a community of faith. But also depriving myself of the beauty and witness of hearts that look to the Lord for healing. 

Avoiding their company, I was avoiding discomfort, responsibility, and the opportunity to suffer with them, and together, to suffer as the Body of Christ. In those afternoons at that majestic Manhattan church, purity didn’t seem to be a requisite for entry. The suffering of those that society would deem impure drove them into the temple of God. I was reminded from this scene that true purity comes after an encounter with Christ, not before.

In the gospel, the woman’s illness rendered her impure. Not only was she banned from temple festivals and sacrifices for years. She was likely also shunned by her community. Her suffering and her motivation to come to Jesus also have a significant emotional component; she is lonely and afraid. 

Trembling with fear, she falls at Christ’s feet, she reveals the “whole truth” to him, and the Lord responds by addressing her as he does no one else in the Gospel: “Daughter.” In the eyes of Jesus, she is precious and loved. 

His rhetorical question, “Who touched me?” displays a knowledge of her presence, but he wants her to feel known. It is after this exchange that the Lord declares that the woman’s faith has saved her. It is the closeness of a God that loves intimately that produces purity and solidifies faith.

Jairus’ plea is more urgent, but it might be easy to overlook the fact that he is with the Lord during the first miracle, as they press through the crowds on the way to see his daughter. Jesus has not left his side, even as his attention is directed elsewhere. 

Before Jairus can react to the news of the child’s death, the Lord turns to him and says, “Do not be afraid; just believe.” The Lord’s call for faith comes at a desperate time, but he is present and ready to dispel fear. “Why this commotion and weeping?” Jesus says. “The child is not dead, but asleep.” The Lord could have performed a miracle on the spot, without ever going to Jairus’ home or even seeing the little girl. 

But I believe he does these things because he wants those who suffer to see and to hear him and feel the touch of his hand. In other words, he is also teaching an important lesson in hospitality. This is perhaps most apparent in those otherwise insignificant details of the passage. Like the fact that Jesus takes his closest disciples with him to see the girl, or the fact that he asks that she be given some food after he brings her back to life.

In two unique ways, the story shows us that with Jesus, we can expect much more than we ask for. For a woman considered a nobody, the status of daughter. For the respected man who asked for a healing miracle, a resurrection. 

For us who see in this Markan pericope two awesome manifestations of the power of Christ, also an example to follow when the desperate knock on our doors. Announcing Christ’s triumph over sin and death must be accompanied by warmth and radical generosity. 

I am no stranger to suffering. Since my childhood and early adulthood, I have known that violence, disease, inequality, and abuse are never too far to be found. And yet, I often find myself making excuses to avoid the work of mercy: to feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, clothe the naked, shelter the homeless, visit those in prison, and comfort the sick. I hesitate because I am uncomfortable with suffering. 

But the Lord is quite explicit when he says that we see him in the persons of those in the most extreme of circumstances. The gifts of healing and faith are ultimately his to give, but the Christian calling at its most basic includes extending a loving arm and reaching out to the loveless and unwanted. 

“Although you feel tepid, approach with confidence, for the greater your infirmity the more you stand in need of a physician,” declared St. Bonaventure. 

And yet, how do I welcome those most in need of the Great Physician? How can a home, a church, or even my own person, provide a space that the Lord can use, so that they don’t feel impure and unworthy to approach his throne of grace with confidence and receive mercy? 

When the afflictions of the societally unclean come seeking Christ, how can we as his Body receive them? 

What measure of love is needed to include them in our Christian family? In ministering to their deepest wounds of body, mind, and spirit, perhaps our service can mirror the healing hands of a Lord and Savior in whom they can place their trust, their love, and their faith. 

Perhaps the nourishment of our own faith and purity is also found in accompanying those that most urgently need Christ. Because by embracing them we encounter Christ who is present in them.

Perhaps our common prayer requires common suffering.

Let not the needy, O Lord, be forgotten. Nor the hope of the poor be taken away.

Ignacio Gama is a senior student at Nashotah House. Born and raised in Mexico City, he was trained as an international lawyer. Prior to entering seminary, Ignacio lived in Boston and New York City for a number of years pursuing professional studies and work in opera. He loves the outdoors, a good book, theater, live music, and new food experiences. Upon ordination, Ignacio will serve as curate to the Episcopal Church of the Epiphany in Richardson, Texas. The preceding is Ignacio’s senior sermon delivered at the Chapel of St. Mary the Virgin, Nashotah House.