Where Do You Hurt?

Rev. Debbie Cato
1 Samuel 1:1-18/Mark 5:21-43
Fairfield Community Church
June 18, 2023 

Holy God,  Today we will read stories of those who have known hurt — people who have carried shame,  who have lived with grief and chronic illness, who have felt alone and ignored, who have seen the depths of suffering.  As we listen, we will be reminded of  the hurt we have carried during these fragile days — memories and regrets co-mingling in our chests.  And as we listen, we will be reminded that our neighbors, our siblings in faith,  also come to this space carrying burdens. So dust off our ears and stretch open the canvases of our hearts so that in our pain, we might lean into one another as we lean into you. Pull us close. We are listening. Amen.

 

Where Do You Hurt?

 

Today is the 2nd week in our sermon series “I’ve Been Meaning to Ask …”  Last week we asked, “Where are you from?” Today our question is:  “Where Do You Hurt?”  Where do you hurt?

Both of our scripture passages today are about people  in pain.  Hannah is in deep emotional and mental pain, the bleeding woman (who doesn’t even have a name) is in physical pain, and Jairus is in emotional distress, his daughter is dying.

This week’s question implies that all of us have known pain and suffering. I would suggest that we have all known both physical pain and suffering and emotional and mental pain and suffering.  We have been hurt, disappointed, misunderstood, scared, grieved, and faced the unknown.  In order to encourage connection, in order to deepen our relationships with one another, we must get curious about the pain others carry and the pain we ourselves carry. Bearing witness to each other’s pain helps us foster compassion.[1]

In Hannah, I see a woman who has been mocked, shamed, diminished, and ignored. It’s important that we acknowledge and recognize that Hannah is whole just as she is. Her pain is rooted in not being seen. She refuses to be silenced. In the presence of her pain, she grits her teeth, pours her heart out before God, and insists that we see her. She cries out to God, “Just look at my pain and remember me!”[2]  Just look at my pain and remember me.  What courage that took for her to bear herself.  What strength. It is in the moment her pain is acknowledged and blessed that she finds peace.

We need to ask ourselves, whose pain have I mocked? Whose pain have I questioned? Whose pain have I dismissed?  We need to remember when we were Hannah and look for who is screaming in our midst. Where does it hurt? When we ask this question, we must remember to also say: “I see you.”[3]  “I hear you.”

 Every time I read the story of the bleeding woman it makes me angry.  It infuriates me that she is considered unclean because of her medical condition.  It makes me angry – and it makes me sad, that she felt so low, so beneath everyone because of a medical condition that was beyond her control, that she had to “sneak” a touch of the bottom of Jesus’ robe.

 Yet, I am so inspired by her bravery. Think of the courage it took this woman to join the crowd; to get close enough to Jesus to touch his robe.  God calls her to demand the care she needs and the dignity she deserves. The power of her presence is palpable. The physical placement of the woman’s hand among the feet of the crowd exhibits her power—the power of her presence. Can you imagine her stretching out her hand?  Just catching the edge of his robe?  Jesus knew immediately that she had touched him. God’s call, her demand for this miracle, and her belief in it, made it possible.[4] She is healed, Jesus says, by her faith.

Who, by their presence, is demanding us to act on our call from God? What is our role as a disciple in this time of global pain? Are we stepping into our role with gusto? Who needs you to ask, “Where does it hurt?”[5]

 How many of us are hurting in silence, hiding our pain because we believe it to be shameful? Maybe we have been taught that certain problems are not for polite company, and we have learned the painful, practiced art of smiling through everything. Maybe our pain has been invalidated or ignored so many times that we begin to believe there truly is something wrong about our feelings or experiences. Maybe we’ve been told to “get over it.”  Maybe it feels easier to bury our emotions for fear of how they will be perceived.

In the book of Samuel, Hannah has been belittled, patronized, and provoked for her infertility—a bodily condition over which she has no control. Some of us, like Hannah, may be all too familiar with the particular grief of infertility. Others of us carry the secret sufferings of child loss, postpartum depression, sickness, job loss, economic insecurity, or addiction. What would we say if someone stopped to ask us, “Where does it hurt?” and then acknowledged the validity of our honest answers? Would we, like Hannah, be able to share our pain with a humble and dignified honesty that trusts that there is no “right” or “proper” way to feel? Would such honesty with our own hurts and disappointments allow us to be more present to others’ problems?[6] Would it bring us peace?

In Mark, we find Jesus in the midst of human life—and all its hurting. He is in the swarm of the crowd with sweaty human bodies and the scent of a woman’s blood. Jesus stops and listens to this long-hurting woman—as if pain were not so shameful but something we all experience. Jesus’ healing disrupts the injustice of a woman who has been rejected and labeled impure for her condition.[7]   He returns her dignity and self-respect to her.

Then, Jesus enters a stagnant, grief-filled room at Jairus’s house, no doubt smelling of sickness and death. He reaches out and touches the body of a girl already thought dead. With the girl, Jesus disrupts death itself.[8]

How might we allow Jesus to disrupt us—enabling us to acknowledge others’ pain so that we may seek life together? First, we must be willing to acknowledge and share our own pain – whatever it might be.  This is the beginning of healing.  Then, we must put ourselves in the uncomfortable places where human beings live, breathe, and hurt—because those are the places where we will also find Jesus.  We must be willing to ask and to listen and to say, “I see you.”  “I hear you.” “I care.” 

 I’d like to close with a poem by Rev. Sarah Speed, one of the pastors who is a part of Sanctified Art.

 

On my hardest days,
I believe that God is there - 
standing in the rain with me,
holding me up and sharing in my grief.

No matter where I go – in joy or loss, in pain or in love,
in heartaches or in gratitude – I believe that God is there,
leaning in,  noticing where it hurts, and carrying me through it.

 And so, I believe we are called to care for each other as God cares for us.

 On your best days in the sun
and on your worst days in the rain,
I will do my best to be there for you too.
Amen.

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[1] SANCTIFIED ART I'VE BEEN MEANING TO ASK SERMON PLANNING GUIDE
[2] Rev. Lisle Gwynn Garrity.  Sanctified Art.  “I’ve Been Meaning to Ask … Where Does It Hurt?”
[3] Rev. Lisle Gwynn Garrity.  Sanctified Art.  “I’ve Been Meaning to Ask … Where Does It Hurt?”
[4] Hannah Garrity.  Sanctified Art.  “I’ve Been Meaning to Ask … Where Does It Hurt?”
[5] Hannah Garrity.  Sanctified Art.  “I’ve Been Meaning to Ask … Where Does It Hurt?”
[6] Rev. Brittany Fiscus-van Rossum.   Sanctified Art. Commentary.  1 Samuel 1:1-18.  “Where Does It Hurt?”
[7] Rev. Brittany Fiscus-van Rossum.   Sanctified Art. Commentary.  Mark 5:21-43.  “Where Does It Hurt?”
[8] Rev. Brittany Fiscus-van Rossum.   Sanctified Art. Commentary.  Mark 5:21-43.  “Where Does It Hurt?”