One of the most important things we can do when reading the Gospels is slow down and watch Jesus. Not just listen to what he teaches, but notice how he moves through the world. How he responds to people. How he uses the authority he clearly possesses.
Mark 5:21–43 gives us two stories woven together. A desperate father. A suffering woman. One episode unfolding inside another. And as we watch Jesus in these scenes, something both beautiful and unsettling begins to take shape.
The story opens with urgency.
Jairus, a ruler of the synagogue, approaches Jesus publicly and falls at his feet. His daughter is dying. Jairus is a respected man, a community leader, someone accustomed to being listened to. But he does not come asserting his importance or his worthiness. He comes desperate.
Jesus agrees to go with him. But what stands out is not simply that Jesus goes. It is how he goes.
Jesus does not rush. He does not seize control of the situation. He does not appear anxious or frantic. He simply starts walking.
That detail is easy to miss, but it matters. Throughout the Gospels, Jesus never hurries. Even when the situation seems to call for urgency, Jesus remains calm. A child is dying, and Jesus walks. He is not anxious.
On the way, everything is interrupted.
A woman who has been suffering a bloody discharge for twelve years makes her way through the crowd. She is unnamed in the story. She has spent all her money on physicians. She has endured years of disappointment and isolation. And she does not even dare to speak to Jesus.
Culturally, she would not approach a rabbi in public. Ritually, her condition made her unclean. She has learned to stay invisible. So she does the only thing she feels able to do. She reaches out and touches the hem of Jesus’ garment.
And power goes out from him.
That alone is remarkable. But what Jesus does next is just as important.
Jesus stops.
In a crowd where everyone is pressing in on him, Jesus notices one touch. Not because it was louder or stronger, but because it was different. He stops and asks, “Who touched me?”
The disciples are understandably confused. People are bumping into him constantly. But Jesus knows something has happened. And he does not move on until the woman comes forward.
It might sound like Jesus is demanding an explanation. But what he is really doing is caring for her more deeply. Healing without certainty would leave her anxious. Sneaking away would leave her wondering if the healing would last, if she had done something wrong, if she had somehow taken what did not belong to her.
So Jesus brings her into the open. Not to shame her, but to free her.
When she finally comes forward, trembling, Jesus speaks with tenderness. “Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace. Be healed of your disease.”
He does not just heal her body. He gives her peace. He locks the healing in with his word of blessing. He restores her dignity publicly. He takes care of the whole person.
Then the story returns to Jairus.
While Jesus was stopped, the worst news arrived. “Your daughter has died. Do not trouble the teacher any longer.”
Jesus overhears this and responds immediately, but again without urgency. “Do not fear. Only believe.”
They continue walking.
When they arrive at the house, the scene is full of noise and grief. Wailing. Mourning. Chaos. Jesus sends everyone out.
Jesus is not interested in spectacle. He does not gather a crowd to witness what he is about to do. He creates quiet. He limits the audience. He removes the noise.
Then he does something a Jewish rabbi would normally avoid. He touches the dead child.
This is the second time in the story Jesus crosses boundaries of ritual uncleanness. First with the woman’s touch. Now with death itself. But Jesus does not seem concerned about contamination. His holiness is not fragile.
He takes the girl by the hand and speaks. Simply. “Little girl, get up.”
And she does.
No performance. No dramatic display. Just a word. And life returns.
Then Jesus gives a practical instruction. “Give her something to eat.” Not because the miracle needs proof, but because the parents do. They need to know their daughter is truly, bodily alive again. He takes care of the parents, too. He attends to their shock, their doubt, their need to know this is real.
As we watch all of this unfold, a pattern emerges.
With Jairus, Jesus walks.
With the woman, Jesus stops.
With the child, Jesus speaks.
Different people. Different needs. Different approaches. The same calm authority every time.
There is another episode that even more vividly puts Jesus’ power on display. A Roman Centurion asks Jesus to heal his beloved servant. Jesus is prepared to go but the Centurion tells Jesus that he knows how authority works. Jesus doesn’t have to go, he just has to say the word and his servant will be healed. Jesus commends his faith and heals his servant without ever visiting his home.
The more we watch Jesus, the clearer it becomes that Jesus’ power does not depend on proximity. Or touch. Or ritual. He uses different means not because he must, but because he is serving the people in front of him in the way they need.
What we begin to see is a man of immense power who consistently uses that power to serve.
He does not perform. He does not rush. His power is restrained, directed, purposeful. This is meekness. It is not weakness. It is strength under control.
And if we are paying attention, it should unsettle us.
Because if Jesus is this calm in the presence of sickness and death, if he speaks and life obeys, if he carries authority without urgency or display, then the question naturally arises.
Who is this man?
The Gospel does not answer that question here. It sharpens it. And that is enough for now.
About the Series
This reflection is part of a sermon series called Revealing the Real Jesus. Week by week, the goal is not to analyze Jesus from a distance, but to watch him closely in the Gospel stories and notice what is revealed through his actions. As the series unfolds, these glimpses begin to build toward a fuller unveiling of who Jesus truly is.
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