Jesus has just fed five thousand, and when the boat lands back on the other side of the Sea of Galilee, not far from Capernaum, in Gennesaret, another five thousand converge to be healed.  I recently watched the 1965 film The Greatest Story Ever Told.  The scene of Jesus being crowded resembles the same scene in many Jesus movies.  In Jesus Christ, Superstar, as all the crippled, unclean people crawl out from under every rock and out of every crevice, pushing and piling, Jesus finally says there are too many of them.  From a strictly human perspective we get it: we may feel the agoraphobia as all those people press in on Jesus.  It feels almost suffocating, crushing, overwhelming, terrifying.  He’ll be trampled!  He’s one man; he can only do so much.

But this is Jesus we’re talking about.  Unlimited.  True, but also limited.  Unlimited yet limited.  Voluntarily limited.  Jesus can do things no other human being can do—he just walked on water; he fed five thousand.  It also seems, by virtue of the true, full humanity of Jesus, that there are certain things he cannot do.  He cannot stay awake indefinitely—he gets tired!  He cannot go indefinitely without food or water—he gets hungry, thirsty!  Perhaps there are things he does not do, chooses not to do, for reasons known to him alone.  He chooses not to snap his fingers and heal everybody of everything.  That would be wonderful, truly, but would it accomplish his purpose on earth?  What is the purpose of Jesus’ mission on earth?  To heal every physical illness?  To bring material prosperity to everyone?  To give everyone an abundance of meat, bread, and drink?  Is his purpose to make sure nothing sad or scary ever happens to anybody, or at least not to anybody who truly loves him?

These seem to be the hopes and desires of the people in those crushing crowds; we also can feel that hope sometimes, maybe even lose sight of the true purpose, the true mission of Jesus, because of this other hope for this life, this world, this moment.  We come here wanting something—some of you today maybe needing something, badly, from God!  Those crowds want a physical, material transformation of their lives, here: Utopia.  Oh, well, I don’t want utopia!  But I do, beloved, we all do, only, as we slog and heft ourselves to maturity, we realize the truth of the wordplay.  Utopia is a word from Greek with two meanings: the Good Place and Noplace.  We long for a better country.  Jesus tells and shows us, as we’re paying attention, that he is the way to that better country, that kingdom not of this world.  Any expectation that this kingdom will be realized in this world is a hope that will be dashed, brutally.  Read history; know human nature; look around.  What keeps this impossibility from becoming unbearably bitter in our souls is Jesus.  The limitations he accepted for our sake open for us the unlimited grace of God, drawing us through this life, through Jesus Christ, to Himself.

What do people want from Jesus?  Think about that question.  Something is wrong with it.  What do people want from Jesus?  We can answer, of course: clearly, they want healing, restoration.  They don’t want to be afflicted anymore.  Jesus can take away the pain; he can restore the crippled limb, the blind eyes, the deaf ears; he can even raise the dead to life.  All those people crowding, practically crushing Jesus—Mark tells us they “recognized him” (6:54): they heard what he could do; they knew what they wanted him to do, what they wanted out of Jesus.

But they didn’t know him and most didn’t want to.  They knew what they wanted from Jesus, what they wanted him to do for them.  Asking what people want from Jesus misses the point of Jesus.  When people want what Jesus can do for them, they don’t really want Jesus.  They want something else.

Consider those whom Mark tells us wanted Jesus: Martha’s and Lazarus’ sister Mary, sitting at the feet of Jesus just to listen and be with him; the apostles, off and on, very imperfectly; Mary Magdalene, following along, asking for nothing, only grateful for Jesus.  He healed her, yes, cast out seven demons—you can take that literally or figuratively as a biblical way of saying she was as messed up as messed up could be—perfectly messed up.  Then Jesus found her.  She wasn’t looking for him.  She wasn’t the one who wanted him in her life, until she did, until he spoke, and she suddenly heard him; until he spoke, and she suddenly saw him; until he spoke, and she, too, became able to speak: the Word came to her.  She hadn’t known him, didn’t know how to know him, didn’t know how to love him, because she had been dead, inside, but then he found her and spoke and raised her to life.  What did Mary Magdalene or any of those others want from Jesus?  Nothing!  What they wanted was Jesus, more Jesus, always Jesus, only Jesus.  I think we could call that love, deep, pure, true love.  We find many substitutes for love, but there’s no substitute for Jesus.

Wherever Jesus goes, there they are, the wretched of the earth: “the poor you will always have with you [. . . .] But you will not always have me” (Mk 14:7).  Strange, isn’t it, how we can lose sight of Jesus as we focus on the poor and the wretched, as our hearts fill with aching concern to fill them, supplying their lack: as though we could, just by making some material rearrangement of resources—utopia.  The wretched of the earth are sort of out of sight, here, although if you drive around town, in parts where you don’t ordinarily drive, because that’s not the sort of place you drive, you’ll see the local version; I don’t mention outside of town, down obscure roads, or all over Houston, or any city of a certain size.  If you travel to poor nations, oh, you’ll see them, and it will turn your stomach and break your heart all at once.  That people should live this way, that they have to.  And we say they don’t have to.  We want to do something about it, want to do some Jesus—you know, give them food, clothing, medical care, water wells, build schools, hospitals, latrines, and then move on.  Just like Jesus.

People are begging for Jesus, well, begging for him to touch them, or even just to let them touch him, like a talisman, some statue being carried through the crowded streets on some flower-loaded platform on the shoulders of strong young men.  Just to touch; to touch was to be healed.  Just let me touch you, Jesus; I’ll be good to go, then.  Stop, though, and allow Jesus to touch you, won’t you?  Turn your eyes upon Jesus; he’s come to see you.

Mark tells us, in his usual simple and direct way, that, as Jesus walked along, “all who touched” even the hem of his garment “were healed” (6:56).  Power!  Just the hem of his garment, like one thread!  Wonderful, holy, miraculous.  And then what, after?

The version we like goes something like this: a woman reached out as Jesus was passing by.  She knew this was her chance; she was suddenly brave and bold enough to take it.  In her desperation, she reached out to Jesus.  She was healed.  She could feel his power in her, and she cried out in joy and praised God, and decided in that moment to leave everything she had known before and follow Jesus.  Hallelujah.  Amen.  We like that version, and I don’t say it never happened.

I’ve been called cynical; a theology professor in seminary called me that.  I’ve never thought of myself as cynical.  I regard myself as a Calvinist; Presbyterians used to be.  Of all the philosophies, theologies, ways of understanding this life and why things happen or why things don’t happen, I’ve found Calvinism to be the most candid, unvarnished.  Calvin, by the grace of God, shows us the human heart in the light of God.

Another woman, desperate, hurting, in great need, also reached out as Jesus passed among the crushing crowd—she was nearly crushed herself; she barely lived to tell the tale.  It was so traumatic!  She was weeping and moaning, afraid—her hurt was so deep and so real, everyone could see, could just tell by looking at her, by listening to her, and all she wanted, as she’d tell anybody, was just for the pain to go away.  She, too, touched the hem of his garment, grabbed and tore a little of it away.  Jesus felt the power go out from him.  He didn’t mention it every time it happened.  The woman was healed.  Jesus knew it, even if he didn’t stop.  Or maybe he did.  She could hardly believe it.  It didn’t seem real.  She was so happy.  She didn’t know what to do about it.  She hurried and told all her friends that she was cured.  They were doubtful but happy for her.  They would ask her how, but she was already hurrying on to tell other people down the street.

When she finally got home, she made a special meal for herself: all the things she liked best.  She ate and ate—she was starving!  She decided to drink a little wine.  Why not?  It was a day to celebrate: the day when she was healed!  She decided to pamper herself and take a long, hot bath: she deserved it, after the day she had had.  Then, after her long hot soak, with a little additional wine because why not, she went to bed and slept very well.  Terrific.  Better than she had in days.  She was so glad she got what she wanted.  She was very happy with herself.  Hallelujah.  Amen.  I’m not sure we like that version as well, but I don’t say it never happened.