Holy and Whole

Sermon

If we were sitting down to a study on the Gospel of Mark, a theme that we’d be returning to, over and over, is that of holiness. In first-century Judaism, the definition of “holiness” was to be set apart. The emphasis was upon the “otherness” of God. To be right with God, there was a complex set of rules denoting what was “clean” and “unclean.” The core of religious identity was to be set apart and righteous. But Jesus’ teaching and healing was continually crossing those lines, redefining what holiness means. His work was to restore people to wholeness.

As we heard today, the woman with the twelve-year hemorrhage was set apart. Not only did she need healing physically, she was an outcast. For the religious community around her, living under the purity laws from Leviticus, her bleeding meant that she and everything she touched was contaminated. To touch her was to become “unclean.” In the era of pandemic, maybe we know something about isolation and fear of contamination.

Exactly one year ago tomorrow is the day I preached my first sermon in an empty sanctuary. Last week, some were recalling what their last “normal” day looked like before we shut down for the pandemic. We are looking back at the past year, and we are looking (cautiously) forward. Soon, most Portland elementary-school children will be meeting in person at school. I have been reminded of my own experiences as a child and the ambivalence of return to school after long absences.

In those elementary-school years, my family lived in lush, green East Tennessee. Unfortunately, molds grow there that triggered my allergies and bronchitis, so every year, I was very ill and missed multiple weeks of school. In the sixth grade, I was home for several months. My feelings about all this were complicated. First there was: Yay! I get out of going to school! But then I was sad because I was missing my peers and stressed about falling behind academically. The physical ailments affected my emotions. But there were good things, too. I had long stretches of time at home with my mom, who made me delicious soups and brought home stacks of books from the library. I loved the world of books: biographies of famous composers and dancers, thrilling fantasy novels, and absorbing historical fiction.

I remember being cocooned in a quilt, basking in the spring sunshine on a day when all the other kids were in school (including my younger brother), and being entertained by watching our graceful cat, Sasha, chase butterflies. Most difficult was the phase in which I was recovering from illness and getting ready to go back to school. My feelings included excitement and dread. And shame. I liked school, but after so much separation, I was set apart from others. It was awkward and confusing. Getting back into the social groove took emotional and physical energy. This makes me wonder about our feelings today.

Are you feeling ambiguous right now about things opening up and returning to “normal”? There’s a reason that we are cautious right now. We’ve lost loved ones; we’ve lost much that is dear. Maybe we are waiting for the other shoe to drop. Dread is mixed in with our hope.

Change, even good change, can be scary. How do we navigate back into community when we have been separated for so long and gotten used to a new pattern? In the past months, having unstructured, less busy lives, more time with loved ones—well, it’s not been completely negative, has it? Where is God in this, anyway?

Writer Donald Hostetter said, “Holiness comes at the very time you are uncomfortable with things as they are, when you are thinking of new ways to approach old issues, or when you are functioning outside your normal range of activity…” 

Holiness. I bristle a bit at the word. I feel like the seven-year-old who was standing in front of the mirror on Sunday morning, trying to smooth down the cowlick at the back of her head. “Mom, why have I gotta go to Sunday School anyhow?” Her mother called back, “To teach you how to be a good girl.” To which the girl answered, “But I already know how to be a better girl than I want to be.” 

Holiness comes when we are uncomfortable with things as they are. This breaks open possibilities for healing. In the reading from our scripture this morning, we have two stories of healing and the movement from separation back into community.

For the woman with the twelve years of bleeding, suffering and isolated, she trusted that Jesus could heal her. She reached out and touched Jesus’ cloak, an action that made him unclean by the purity laws. But Jesus wasn’t concerned about being contaminated. He responded with compassion: “Daughter, your faith has healed you—go in peace—and be free of this affliction.” Jesus healed the woman’s ailment, and he restored her to the community. She was outcast no longer. Jesus brought about new life for the woman who was sick and untouchable. Then he went to Jairus’ daughter, who appeared to be dead. He disregarded purity rules prohibiting touching a corpse, took the girl’s hand, and said, “Talitha cum!” (Little girl, I say to you, arise!)

Many were in need of God’s healing: the woman, the girl, and the culture so bent on separating the pure from the impure. Jesus repeatedly crossed those lines of separation to restore people to health and the community to wholeness. Illness, financial peril, injury, divorce, alienation from a loved one, job loss, grief, depression, political differences: there are so many ways we get cut off from one another. The good news for us is God’s desire is for a whole people, bound together in healed community, in peace. “Talitha cum!” Arise! 

Jesus’ holiness wasn’t concerned with physical purity and outward forms. Jesus embodied the holy ideal called for by the prophet Micah (6:8): “And what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God?” 

God’s healing comes in all kinds of ways. God wants to restore our broken world and heal us as individuals and as a people, to live in peace, justice, and holiness. Right now, in this transition time, as we cautiously tip-toe into vaccinated, mask-wearing activity, as we waltz into the unknown, the Love that God has for us gives us the confidence to trust that we can reach out, touch the cloak, and know restored life, new life. “Talitha cum!” 

Yesterday, I learned that a good friend of mine (who I’ve known for years from our mornings together at the swimming pool) had passed away suddenly. She is one of several people I had not seen in many months, and I didn’t know I’d never see her again to talk and hug and laugh. I know that each of us has lost something or someone dear to us in this time. It’s difficult to imagine reaching for the hem of the cloak that brings us wholeness. But it’s time to reach.

I am closing with a poem I wrote a year ago, the first Sunday that our sanctuary was closed. The title is Empty Sanctuary:

Empty Sanctuary

Over one hundred years each Sunday,
the community has gathered here,
greeting in peace, singing, preaching,
praying, teaching. Children and elders,
singles, families, teens, we laugh,
share hugs, cry, listen and find God
as we share our stories
seeking with mind and heart open.
Serving this church for sixteen years,
during the week I
sometimes sit in the sanctuary,
empty room, bathed in purple light
filtered through the
gem-stone stained glass,
remembering loved ones
whose deaths still leave
aching gaps in the wooden pews.
So often, in this lofting room
that rings with the quiet of earnest
prayers, l feel the presence of love that lingers.
“Here’s the church, here’s the steeple, Open the doors and see all the people.”
Today, we won’t be together in this room.
Hours after the first reported virus-death in our city, this Sunday morning dawns we will share music, preaching
and prayer from isolation, our laptops and phones glowing.
How long till we gather again?
How will we be changed?
“Fear not!” but, we can’t help
but wonder if there will soon be more empty gaps in the pew, and who is missing?
I pray that our extreme caution wasn’t needed and that if not,
we always remember that Love
resides not in the glorious space
but in each of us.
Now is the time
to let that be. Let this be the Holy time.