Today is the Sixth Sunday after Pentecost.
Once again, the reading from the Gospel of Mark dazzles us with miracles performed by Jesus.
And yet, this story also quietly insists that the real miracle we need is the courage to go to the “other side” and see every person as fully human and deserving of respect and dignity.
Mark 5:21-43
When Jesus had crossed again in the boat to the other side, a great crowd gathered around him; and he was by the sea. Then one of the leaders of the synagogue named Jairus came and, when he saw him, fell at his feet and begged him repeatedly, “My little daughter is at the point of death. Come and lay your hands on her, so that she may be made well, and live.” So he went with him.
And a large crowd followed him and pressed in on him. Now there was a woman who had been suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years. She had endured much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had; and she was no better, but rather grew worse. She had heard about Jesus, and came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak, for she said, “If I but touch his clothes, I will be made well.” Immediately her hemorrhage stopped; and she felt in her body that she was healed of her disease. Immediately aware that power had gone forth from him, Jesus turned about in the crowd and said, “Who touched my clothes?” And his disciples said to him, “You see the crowd pressing in on you; how can you say, ‘Who touched me?’” He looked all around to see who had done it. But the woman, knowing what had happened to her, came in fear and trembling, fell down before him, and told him the whole truth. He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.”
While he was still speaking, some people came from the leader’s house to say, “Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the teacher any further?” But overhearing what they said, Jesus said to the leader of the synagogue, “Do not fear, only believe.” He allowed no one to follow him except Peter, James, and John, the brother of James. When they came to the house of the leader of the synagogue, he saw a commotion, people weeping and wailing loudly. When he had entered, he said to them, “Why do you make a commotion and weep? The child is not dead but sleeping.” And they laughed at him. Then he put them all outside, and took the child’s father and mother and those who were with him, and went in where the child was. He took her by the hand and said to her, “Talitha cum,” which means, “Little girl, get up!” And immediately the girl got up and began to walk about (she was twelve years of age). At this they were overcome with amazement. He strictly ordered them that no one should know this, and told them to give her something to eat.
Since Thursday night, the main topic of conversation in the United States has been about the first presidential debate — and public levels of anger, vitriol, depression, and anxiety seem to have risen exponentially. There have been myriad “takes” on what happened and what the fallout will be.
But no one knows the future. “Takes” are ultimately guesses, hunches, and intuitions. Most are, I suspect, ill-informed. The future is neither set in stone nor under our control — but it unfolds in a strange interweaving of circumstances and human actions. We can be neither resigned to some predestined fate nor assured that our choices will guarantee a peculiar outcome. Time and events are genuinely mysterious to us who live within them; we are neither gods nor oracles. When it comes to politics, I think I’ve become a sort of chastened realist. We must seek to understand our own times, commit to making justice and practicing mercy, and do our best.
I surely never would have guessed that this week’s gospel reading would have so much import in relation to the news. But this is a surprisingly relevant — and challenging — story.
Today’s passage is part of a longer narrative. Last Sunday, we read the first part of the tale. Jesus gets in a boat to go to “the other side” of the Sea of Galilee. That’s the side of the lake that wasn’t Jewish. It was Gentile territory. The journey was, in a word, rough. And it wasn’t much better after they landed:
They came to the other side of the lake, to the country of the Gerasenes. And when he had stepped out of the boat, immediately a man out of the tombs with an unclean spirit met him. He lived among the tombs; and no one could restrain him any more, even with a chain; for he had often been restrained with shackles and chains, but the chains he wrenched apart, and the shackles he broke in pieces; and no one had the strength to subdue him.
It probably wasn’t what the disciples thought would happen after the stilling of the storm! The lectionary skips over that section this year, but it is a great story about how Jesus exorcised the man and sent the demons into a herd of pigs. (I wrote a piece on this passage in 2022.)
When this morning’s gospel opens, Jesus and the disciples are going back over to the other side — their home side, with their own people. A big crowd is waiting for them, not a lone demoniac. But it isn’t exactly a welcome home party. They want Jesus to do things for them.
Two dramatic healings follow — the stemming of a woman’s decade long hemorrhage and the raising of a child from the dead. Although dramatic, they were also shocking. In both cases, Jesus touched someone deemed impure — a young woman with an uncontrollable menstrual flow and a newly dead girl.
It is striking that on both sides of the lake, there are people who are outcast and suffering. On the “unclean” side, with the Gentiles, it would be expected that Jesus and the disciples would encounter people who were completely different, those considered unworthy and untouchable — whom respectable people held in contempt.
But, when Jesus went home to the big, cheering crowd, there were also those suffering disdain, rejection, and loss. Jesus crossed to the other side and when he crossed back to his own side, he also saw the pain of those held in contempt. You can’t help but notice that when Jesus didn’t heal Jarius’ daughter in a timely manner (as the crowd wanted), they turned on him with contempt — “and they laughed at him.”
On both sides of the lake, there were people suffering. On both sides of the lake, there were those in need of healing.
And getting from one side of the lake to the other wasn’t easy. It was an exhausting journey, one filled with uncertainty.
Yet, Jesus went from one side to the other side; from the other side to the home side. And discovered that on both sides, we are all human beings.
Now, I know that some readers are probably thinking, “Oh! She’s turning the Bible into ‘both-side-ism.’” But both sides aren’t equal! They aren’t the same! That side is dangerous! They aren’t us! (If you’ve read my work, you know I don’t think “both sides” are the same, and I’m not easily fooled by false equivalences.)
This story does, however, break down sides. In this narrative, we, like Jesus, encounter people on both sides of the lake who are in desperate need of healing, compassion, and inclusion in community. We root for them. We want their lives to be better.
But, on both sides of the lake, we also see new “sides” as it were. There are those willing to risk on behalf of mercy; there are those wanting to maintain their own safety and purity. There are those who treat outsiders with dignity; there are those who treat others with contempt.
And that takes us back to this week’s headlines. The “sides” weren’t us versus them. Not blue versus red. The sides in this passage are those of contempt and dignity. It was sadly, painfully obvious that Mr. Trump intended to treat his opponent, the truth, and even the viewing public with calculated contempt in order to maintain and increase his own power — a power over others. He did not demonstrate the capacity to use power on behalf of those who are marginalized, outcast, or suffering. He does not seem to see those who are different from himself.
To say this is not to treat Mr. Trump with contempt. It is an observation of his unwillingness or inability to cross over to the other side — and crossing over is the first step of empathy and compassion. The record is clear in this regard. Mr. Trump’s political vision is to build walls between the “right” people and the “wrong” people. And those on the right side get all the benefits of society; while those on the wrong side receive whatever punishment they deserve.
He can’t — or won’t — understand that we are all human beings. That on both sides of the lake, we hurt, suffer, feel disrespected and unwanted. We get sick, we are inflicted by demons of all sorts, we die. Ideally, politics should recognize that — the fundamental dignity of every human being, no matter on which side of the lake one lives.
All of this isn’t an invitation to find some sort of political equivalence: “Well, President Biden is old” or “Biden doesn’t treat Trump well either” or “neither is a good choice.” All of those things are — or might be — true. Joe Biden is old (we’re all getting old); he doesn’t always treat his opponent with grace (do you? do I?); and perhaps we’d like other choices.
No matter Biden’s age or how unsteady he was, however, the assault on his dignity, the dignity of truth, and the dignity of the presidency surely made everything worse that night. Contempt is a powerful weapon. And it was wielded with skill by Mr. Trump in that debate.
Jesus understood about both sides. And on both sides, he embraced those who were cast out. It didn’t matter about sides when it came to healing. He saw the humanity of all those he encountered; he touched their wounds and made them whole. And yet, he would also speak powerfully against the actions of those who purposefully and with malice built walls between human beings to forward their own empires.
Maybe the politics we most need is a politics of dignity. We could treat one another with respect. We could respect truth. We could respect democracy. And, when facing those who insist on contempt, we refuse to engage in the same (I actually think that’s one of the things that threw Joe Biden — I don’t think he was prepared for quite the flood of contempt) and work to heal the situation. We touch what is wounded and seek to make it whole. We can be discerning, honest, and truthful without descending into disrespect. We can call a spade a spade without insult.
We don’t — or shouldn’t — establish an alternative community of contempt.
A politics of dignity sure would have helped on Thursday night.
And there goes my realism out the door — I guess I’m always a Jesus optimist at heart.
What challenges you in today’s post? Is there an “other side” to which you refuse to go? How do you practice dignity AND engage in political life at the same time?
Celebrant: Will you strive for justice and peace among all people,
and respect the dignity of every human being?
People: I will, with God’s help.
— from the Baptism vows, The Episcopal Church
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TIM SHRIVER on DIGNITY
On June 20, I hosted a paid subscriber conversation with Timothy Shriver, president of Special Olympics. His insights on dignity are important, insightful, and challenging. And relevant.
I can’t get our discussion out of my head. And neither can the paid subscribers who heard the original conversation. They asked me to open this one up for the entire Cottage community.
The central concern of his work on this subject is stated at his website:
“Our disagreements aren’t causing the divisions in our country; it’s what we do when we disagree. Do we treat the other side with dignity, or do we treat them with contempt? The first brings us together; the second drives us apart.”
Tim’s team has created a tool — The Dignity Index — to help us discern how we engage with others. It is an eight level scale that scores our attitudes and speech on a continuum from contempt to dignity.
The conversation was enlightening and convicting. Listen in. And be stretched spiritually — I know I was. Especially when Tim scored a recent column of mine!
Spoiler alert: Dignity is hard. It’s been made harder by technology and politics.
Yet, Tim Shriver remains hopeful. Even optimistic about real change. And that’s something I need to hear.
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INSPIRATION
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.
— Naomi Shihab Nye, “Kindness”
I'm a social historian....and where we are is really scary to me: it's the kind of historical inflection point that lead to the American Revolution and Civil War...imo, anyway.
The world need to know about Gish Gallop/gaslighting. IMO, anyway.