Around this time of year, our church calendar prescribes
a Scripture reading from the Gospel of St. Luke, chapter 8, which concerns a
tragedy in the household of a man named Jairus. It seems that Jairus and his
wife had a daughter, and this girl—only twelve years old—had fallen sick and
lay dying at the family home.
The response of parents to the prospect of a child’s
death is the same now as it has always been: no sacrifice is too great, no
probability of cure too remote to shake the parents’ hope that the child might
be returned to health. In Jairus’s case, though he was an important man in his
community (St. Luke calls him a “ruler of the synagogue”) he did not feel it
beneath his dignity to go before a complete stranger who was rumored to have
performed some miraculous cures.
That stranger was Jesus Christ. Moved by the desperate
father’s plea, he accompanied Jairus home, to attend to the dying girl.
However, as they approached the house, there came news
that Jairus’s daughter had succumbed, and that Christ need not trouble himself
any longer. Jesus’s response to this grim news is strange, considering the
circumstances. He made a promise to the heartbroken father. “Do not be afraid,”
he said; “only believe, and she shall be well.”
We are not told Jairus’s reaction to these words; but in
his heart of hearts, could he have felt anything other than doubt? “Do not
fear,” this stranger says; but how could Jairus not be afraid—how could any of
us not be afraid to hear news of our child’s death? As they approached the
girl’s deathbed, Jesus made an even more puzzling remark: he insisted that, far
from being dead, the girl was merely sleeping. At this, the Scriptures tell us,
even his closest disciples—Peter, John and James—could not help but laugh, “for
they knew the girl was dead.”
Reading this passage two thousand years after the events
it describes, it’s difficult to grasp the significance of the disciples’
laughter. We are so accustomed to hearing the stories of Christ’s miracles that
they have become—paradoxically—mundane. We “know” that the story will end
happily, and so the impact of the preceding episodes is reduced.
But if we can for a moment put ourselves in Jairus’s
place, then Christ’s promise to a grieving father that he need not be afraid
must seem like an insensitive joke: empty words and empty consolation.
To illustrate the point, consider something closer at
hand. Next week, across America, our country will observe Veterans Day. This
day has come to represent a tribute to the courage and sacrifice of soldiers
during times of war. We have witnessed such courage and sacrifice in recent
years, and so perhaps this day should speak more powerfully to us today than it
has before. But Veterans Day first began as a commemoration of the end of the
First World War. The leaders of that time consoled a war-weary population by
assuring everyone that they had fought “the war to end all wars.” “Do not be
afraid,” they promised; “all will be well.”
It was a promise they could not keep. War, it seems, is a
perpetual symptom of the human condition. Even the most peace-loving people
cannot hide from it, for violence will seek them out, and they will be
compelled to take up arms in defense of their lives and liberty. Our
generation, like every generation, has been reminded of this, all too well.
Even so, the powers of the world around us—political
bodies, diplomats, scientists, educators, business leaders—all continue to
offer us promises, in an attempt to dismiss our worst fears. To our fears of
poverty they offer a new economics. To our fears of enslavement they offer a
new politics. To our fears of mortality they offer a new medical technology.
Each time the expectation is bigger; and of course, each time the promise
remains unfulfilled.
People have grown cynical as a result of these broken promises.
Who today believes anyone when they say: “Don’t be afraid”? Why should they?
With this in mind, return now to the Gospel story. When
Jairus heard the awful news about his only child, perhaps he, too, was cynical.
To his ears, the promise of Jesus must have seemed outlandish.
But Christ took that child’s hand in his own, and before
Jairus’s amazed eyes—amid the laughter of the disciples themselves—he restored
Jairus’ daughter to life.
Christ’s promises are not like the promises of the world.
Where the world can offer only excuses, Christ delivers truth—and hope. Every
day he says to us: “Do not be afraid; only believe.” This assurance comes not
from an ivory-tower philosopher, who has no knowledge of the real world, but
from one who experienced at first hand how truly frightening the world can be.
From a man who lived his entire life in the shadow of humiliation, suffering,
and death; who bore these things with unshakable faith in the truth of his
heavenly Father.
Such faith requires great courage. But for Christians,
that courage is not an idle, romantic longing. It is a promise offered by
someone who always delivered on his promises—even to the point of returning
from death.
This is not to say that we will all be miraculously
delivered from our worst nightmares, as Jairus was. God will perform His
miracles to suit His purposes, and sometimes His purposes require that we
endure terrible sufferings. As Armenians, we can never forget that—especially
during this centennial year of the Genocide.
But as Christian Armenians, we must also believe that
this life is not the ultimate reality, and death is not the ultimate end. That,
too, is a lesson we should take from the past year.
Above all, we may believe this with confidence, for we
have the promise of one who has never yet let us down.
Christ made many promises during his ministry. Before he
ascended to his Father, he promised that he would one day come again. On that
day, he will take the hands of each of his faithful children in his own—from
the first martyr to the last baptized soul—and demonstrate once and for all
that they were merely sleeping after all.
May all of us be worthy to feel our Lord’s tender touch
on that day.
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