The Young Girl Who Stood Up
"Talitha, Koum"
I grew up Ethiopian Pente (it’s theologically similar to some streams of American Pentecostalism but has unrelated origins). Our church services welcomed the liveliest of tongues speakers, hosted the most gifted of musicians, and trained the boldest of young leaders.
I started leading worship for the high-school ministry at 11 years old and witnessed God’s love making its way into the hearts of Friday Youth Night attendants. During the music portion of worship, we would run ‘round the sanctuary, jump, and bang our chests with gratitude for God’s presence and acknowledge the many ways God had shown up for us. We would also stand up and shout affirmations to the preacher when he or she was talkin’ good.
Once I moved to more Baptist spaces, I learned to look at my upbringing with extreme suspicion. It came to my attention that standing and hollering were expressions of self-absorption1 instead of true humility and acceptance of a prophetic word. And I took the bait. I, wholesale, internalized the messaging that labeled “indecency” over these “outlandish behaviors.” Signs of life in God on the inside could only be verified if we looked dead on the outside (quiet and timid). So, I stayed quiet and sat.
I embraced a Christianity that primarily encouraged boldness for tract-based evangelism and discouraged it when others stood up to speak on the miracles God was working in their life2 and to passionately probe us to remember the poor and forgotten. People who saw God this way, as One drawn toward the disheartened, would be looked at (by my friends and me) as those who misunderstood the gospel. We assumed they were not hoping for the ultimate justice that awaits us in the eschaton.
Listen, I learned to avert justice young and still shrink back from its call at times, but I can’t detach its centrality when considering a life of apprenticeship to Jesus anymore. And you—young friend—who will face many countering opinions on how to decipher the meaning of biblical texts and the ethics to which they call us, I believe you can navigate them with care and shine forth the abundant life Jesus extends to those of us who would have it.
I love the story of Jairus earnestly approaching Jesus, seeking the salvation of his dying daughter. He believed Jesus could turn things around, and, thankfully, the Lord went home with him. But, after an important interruption that resulted in the miraculous healing of a woman who bled for twelve years, Jairus was made aware that his daughter had reached her final breath... Ooof… I can imagine the immediate disappointment in Jairus’ heart and the sorrow on his face.
I now understand some who have told me not to put all of my eggs in the basket of justice because, eventually, I would find out how cold the world is and how powerless God seems. I see how people can gather in a church building and say, “Don’t sing so loud. Just receive the word. Dip your bread in that wine and relinquish your political aspirations of forming a better world (and dreams to truly live) to the finished work of Christ.” Yes, it’s true that some who say this are just committed to a religion that is entirely metaphysical and thrives off of maintaining racist, misogynist, and ableist positions that allow for their indifference and silence. But, I’m realizing some say this because they want to protect the younger generations from the pain of “hope deferred.”
This is the group of people that tried to lobby against dehumanizing policies and practices and went to jail for peacefully protesting. But, somewhere along the way, their ambitions were cooled by the confusing waters of “friendly exhortation.”
Kind of like when some of Jairus’ friends said to him: “Your daughter is dead… why bother the teacher anymore?” Essentially, he was told, your dream of life for your daughter has died, you can leave Jesus alone, now. Sometimes our friends who are despondent are not so because they want to be; the vulnerability to revive hope is just a lil too scary. And I get that. Civil Rights Activists got it. Jairus got it.
When Jesus said, “Don’t be afraid, just believe,” I doubt Jairus felt an unshakeable confidence that his daughter would live again just because Jesus was still going to his house. That was the very moment he could’ve bent to his friends’ counsel and said, “Nahh, don’t bother coming Jesus. It’s all good. We tried, but there’s no point now; we’re too late.” But, however irresolute, Jairus still trekked home with Jesus. And, that which was dead (or more truthfully “just asleep”) was disrupted by life.
After clearing the wailers out of the dead girl’s room, the text says, “[Jesus] took her by the hand and said to her, “Talitha koum!” (which means “Little girl, I say to you, get up!”).3 As one of my favorite Twitter follows, Robert Monson, says, "Phew." This act not only subversively responds to the knocked-down belief of Jairus' friends but also reframes the messages younger generations receive about hope, and how it helps us to stand.
Jesus, the embodiment of hope, revives that young girl’s life, and, yes, she stands, but the passage goes on to say that she “began walking around.” I can’t help but wonder what kind of perspective this new chance at life gave her when she would “walk around” outside of that evacuated room. It’s hard to imagine that she saw the world the same once she was welcomed back from death by the One holding her hand.
As a Christian who longs to “walk around” in a world where healing is the common experience for the trampled, repentance and relinquishing are the immediate impulses of the powerful, and hope is revived for the disappointed, one of my greatest frustrations is that it doesn’t really feel like Jesus is with me. When my concerns about American greed are responded to with generalities about appreciating the “stewardship” God has chosen to give some of us, I start to question whether my pursuits are aligned with Jesus’ vision for my life, perhaps I should leave the discourse on equity to the professionals. When I’m knocked down on account of advocating for righteousness, will I look upon Jesus’ tender gaze and outstretched, helping hand, or will there only be wind?
Encouraging others, as a young dude, to hold onto hope—even though it’s failed them many a time—feels like a disservice. A cruel crutch. A vessel of cute generalities with no existential relevance. Maybe acknowledging dread and not needing to climb our way out of it ought to be the way forward. Seriously. So many know the blows of trauma, the crushing weight of their hopes being exploited, the death of a loved one, the end of an important relationship, or the disintegration of a dream. The hope to stand up to speak about what was stolen from us and what needs to be restored is scary, but two things have kept me curious enough to keep hope alive: Jesus’ companionship and the stories of survivors who boldly stand and share their stories of abuse and death, and still, afterward, “walk around” with word-altering hope and a message of liberating love for younger folk like me who have been conditioned to run from it and avoid standing and crying out for justice in the land of the dying, where we should be living.
For a long time, I believed keeping hope alive meant waiting for another world to make things better; now, it means much more than that to me. Hope means resisting and protesting the hate that surrounds us and the harm that stalks us, in whatever way possible, creating conditions for people to live whole. As hinted at above, the companionship of Jesus is what I believe makes this possible. It shatters the neatly-packaged theologies that solely connect our suffering to a generic, sinful nature within all of us and meets us with compassion. It whispers to our fractured souls, and our wounded bodies, “Koum,” not expecting us to be heroes but, rather, recipients of a story of divine, resurrecting love.
What I love about this young girl and the testimonies of those around me who stand is that the courage they’ve encountered is one that has been given. They didn’t raise themselves, but they were empowered. When I read of abuse survivors (of all kinds) who didn’t shrink back from the lies designed to discredit their stories, yet they still spoke the truth, I weep because the work of a hope that stands is often met with ferocious opposition. Yet, what I’ve heard many of these brave survivors share is that they’ve met a Jesus who gently holds their hand and sneers at the gospel of distorted forgiveness they’ve been told to acquire, who promises them (and us) presence when our hope is deferred, who does not make excuses for when we are tormented. It is to the broken of us to whom he speaks, (and not with a pressure to stand on our own) “Koum.”
Christ’s “Get up” is not a command to pretend that we have no fears, or that we have not been dead. It is, rather, a way of supplying our eyes with new lenses to see where our help comes from. This is what gives me hope about the word hope. It is no longer an effort to make ourselves feel better about the wrong that has happened. No. It is that there is something greater at work among us and Someone greater within who doesn’t chastise us for standing up for the oppressed or shouting because the Spirit was giving us the chills during a worship service. We can know that someone cares, and is with us, when we, no matter how timidly, stand up.
Of course, not all external demonstrations are genuine.
This is more of a cultural assessment than it is a declaration that everyone I ran into in Baptist circles is like this.
Mark 5:41, NIV