In the days Jesus walked throughout Israel, crowds of people pressed around Him. After all, if someone needed a miracle, there were plenty to go around. Not that it always happened in a way they expected. Like this time.
Jairus was a leader in the local synagogue. Falling to his knees, he’d begged the Master to come and heal his daughter, dying at the age of twelve. He had Jesus’ attention and they headed, together, toward his home.
Until they were interrupted. Hidden in the crowd was a woman who’d been bleeding for twelve years. Jewish law prevented her from contact with other people.
Without warning, Jesus stopped. What? Didn’t He know death moved forward with each delay? But He stopped and asked who touched Him.
Who touched Him? The crowds pressed all around Him. Lord, I told You my daughter is dying.
Jairus didn’t pull a status card. He didn’t remind Jesus he was a synagogue leader and that He’d just stopped to heal a woman who defied Jewish law.
A moment moved into minutes, then longer, as sickness consumed his daughter’s body. At the conclusion of one miracle, the woman’s healing, a messenger appeared to Jairus with these words.
You’re daughter is dead. Don’t bother the Master anymore.
This blog is for those who’ve waited their turn. We’ve been polite, even in crisis. And waited. As we waited, something died. Maybe a dream or desire. In some measure we heard, Don’t bother the Master. It’s too late.
Fear, fueled by the crisis, raged, Now! It has to be now! And when the messenger came whispering, Too late, we cried and agreed. Not enough. Too little, too late.
We tried, we pressed into the Master. We had His attention. But He was interrupted. Maybe His supply ran out? We don’t say that out loud. Still the words taunt, It’s over. Don’t bother the Master. Such devastation in so few words.
So this is for us, who’ve heard that evil phrase whispered as we’ve watched something precious die.
God has a word for us.
Stop. Stop the fear. Stop the freight train of not enough and too late. Stop and believe the Author of life extends sozo over what is precious to us.
Sozo is unreasonable, irrational, unexplainable life. It’s life that can not be conquered, life that consumes death. It trumps every interruption, every detour and every roadblock.
Life, like the tree that grows outside a church we attended for many years. It was dead. We painted it, used it as a baby shower decoration and stuffed it in a closet. Months later, someone found it. With buds on its branches.
Now, nineteen years later, it’s a mature oak tree, planted on the north grounds of the church.
Have you been stuffed in a closet, your dreams presumed dead?
Life is coming. Yes, it is. Don’t be afraid. Only believe.
Shalom in the River,