The fourth and fifth chapters of Mark’s Gospel depict a set of Jesus’ encounters with some desperate people. After describing his travels from city to city in Judea and Galilee, the text devotes several verses to his teaching and elaborating on the Parable of the Sower before setting him on his course once more to deliver and to heal.
But this apparent pause in the action to teach isn’t a failure of storytelling. When Jesus tells the crowds, “A sower went out to sow …” (4:3), he is talking about himself. Everywhere he goes he is scattering the Word (v. 14) that brings forth life. What becomes of that life depends on reception of that Word, he explains (vv. 15-20). He elaborates on this further by imploring us to take care how we hear (vv. 23-24), illustrated by the familiar image of a lamp not being covered or hidden away, but being allowed to shine unhindered (vv. 21-22).
As relevant as his words concerning the visibility of the lamp are for us, in the immediate context of this chapter they apply also to Jesus himself: “For nothing is hidden except to be made manifest; nor is anything secret except to come to light” (8:17). These words are true for us because they are first true of him, and they provide an important interpretative backdrop to what follows.
After teaching the parable, Jesus then calms a storm to rescue his frightened disciples (4:35-41), delivers a demonically-oppressed Gentile (5:1-20), heals a woman suffering with a years long malady (5:25-34), and revives a young girl who was dying (5:21-24, 35-42). This narrative sequence depicts Jesus as inexorably surging towards men and women in desperate need, as though he presses on from appointment to appointment to meet the highly particular needs of these individuals. And in the sense that matters most, he is doing just that, as he is going to harvest the growth of the seed he has scattered. Mark portrays Jesus in action, a lamp burning to illuminate a dark world in whom there is no secret layer hidden behind his kindness: he is as he does, and is so without reserve.
This intertwined set of miracles begins with a storm as Jesus and his disciples are crossing the Sea of Galilee. A storm has swept over them and the disciples are afraid for their lives while Jesus is asleep below deck. There is little room for doubt that you or I would have frantically tried to keep the boat from sinking and then, having failed, manically awoke Jesus in terror, and cried, “Teacher, don’t you care that we’re dying?” (4:38).
The implicit issue in this passage seems to be, “What ought they have done?” The danger was very real, the text notes (4:37), so it isn’t that they should’ve remained calm and Stoic in face of the storm that was erupting around them, denying the gravity of the situation and carrying on as if all was well. We must be on guard against overconfidence, as being a Christian doesn’t automatically nullify the dangers of this world; faith isn’t a license for recklessness.
Rather, Jesus’ question to them, “Have you still no faith?” (4:40), is an indictment of what they think of him. They go on to wonder among themselves, “Who then is this?,” but it seems to me that this question points up more than their mere ignorance of Jesus’ divine identity. It isn’t that they ought to have penetrated the mystery of this uncanny individual so as to recognize nature’s master; rather, they ought to have known by this time beyond a shadow of a doubt his identity as lover and protector. Jesus’ napping on the boat wasn’t a dereliction proving his indifference to the disciples’ plight. Their wild, terrified call to Jesus shows that they doubted his love for them and his intention to keep them safe.
But forget how others may have used this passage as a yardstick by which to quantify your worthiness as a disciple. Forget how it’s been put to use as a club to batter upon your frailty. Jesus doesn’t ask, “Where is your faith?” to cut you down to size for the pitifully little faith by which you cling to him. For even the greatest, godliest saint has the faith of a mustard seed. We are each of us only smoldering wicks. The impossible magnificence of the gospel is that it discloses God not as an omnipotent despot but as one who will not extinguish such a wick. Jesus shares the risk with his disciples and does not content himself to let the boat sink and walk away on the water unscathed.
His question to them (and to us) isn’t anger, vitriol, or spite for being frightened or confused or unsure of what they ought to do next. He’s asking, “Is that what you think of me? You think at heart, beneath the showy displays of power, that I’m actually indifferent? After everything we’ve shared, you think I’m going to one day drop all the pretenses and let out the truth that actually you don’t mean anything to me? Don’t you know who I am? I’m not like the people who have let you down that way in the past. Put your faith in me, not in your fears.”
The Gerasene demoniac knows this love and ardently reciprocates, for after Jesus comes ashore and heals him he begs to leave with Jesus (5:18). Jesus has been sent away by this man’s countrymen who have seen the effects of Jesus’ power and fear it. This man who had lived among the dead, alienated from the living, wanted nothing more than to be with the lover of his soul. But Jesus loved him and entrusted him with the mission of scattering the seed of the Word to draw others to the One who had rescued him (5:19-20). Jesus must depart because he has other appointments to keep.
After he returns from across the sea he is greeted by a large crowd enthusiastic to see him. A ruler of a local synagogue named Jairus implores him to come heal his dying daughter and Jesus consents to do so. But they are interrupted as they are making their way to Jairus’ home. For the woman who had spent everything futilely seeking a cure for her bleeding presses her way to Jesus in order to find what she needs.
She touches Jesus knowing somehow that contact with him will solve her unsolvable dilemma. But does she do this on the sly because she’s afraid of importuning him? His attempts at haste must have been evident to the crowds, even if many of them hadn’t heard Jesus agree to go to heal Jairus’ daughter. Or was the woman afraid of presenting herself before him and the crowd given her ritually unclean condition?
Whatever the reason, when the miracle was recognized as having been performed, she came to Jesus trembling. She must have been afraid she would be rebuked for bypassing the normal channels by which a person accessed Jesus’ benefits. Perhaps she feared the healing would be taken away from her as a punishment for having surreptitiously secured the object of her need. In spite of her fear, however, when Jesus insists on knowing who drew upon his power, she tells him of her affliction and of how one touch had instantly made her well.
But Jesus didn’t rebuke her. Instead, he spoke to her in affectionate, fatherly terms: “Daughter,” he said to her, “your faith has made you well” (5:34). In no way was he angry, as he wasn’t disadvantaged by her need or irritated to be held up. Jesus has time for this woman, for her need was just as real as Jairus’ daughter’s need. Her coming to Jesus wasn’t a waste of his time as though he had something more pressing, more significant to do than fritter away his time with her superficial needs. This time was her time, just as much as it was Jairus’ daughter’s, who is healed in turn.
You and your needs are not a waste of God’s time, nor are they an impediment to his serving others. Don’t try to help God out by not calling on him for aid when you are in trouble. God isn’t limited the way you or anyone you know is, nor is his goodwill and desire to help prone to run out the way yours is. Come to the Lord whenever you are in need — which is always.
Come to him with your fears but present them to him — don’t halt, tripping over yourself with implicit accusations that he doesn’t care. You don’t doubt that Jesus can fix whatever is wrong; you doubt that he cares enough to do it. Entrust your troubles with him, for he is vastly more capable of bearing their burden than you are, but just as importantly, he wants to do so. You will never find that behind his promises God is irritated by your need or disappointed that you are seeking his aid.
For too many of us our fears have been more substantial than the God who loves us to death and beyond. God doesn’t honor his promises because he’s obligated by his word: he gives his word because he loves keeping his promises to frail, needy creatures like us. We were created to need, and Jesus demonstrates that God desires to satisfy those needs. Not for lack of anything better to do, but because he truly loves to.
