HOMILY: "The Hem of His Robe"

Sunday, November 2, 2025
Community Church of Durham
Mark 13 and Mark 5 (The 1st Sunday of Early Advent)

1.

Our story says that a swarm of people were following Jesus that day, dozens, maybe hundreds of them, and they were crowding around him, to get a glimpse perhaps, to see what he might do or say next. And our story says that within that swarm of people, within that surge of fascination and desire, was one woman in particular who had been suffering for a long, long time. One woman who had been cast aside by a health care system that dismissed her as unimportant; impoverished and without any kind of safety net; and in all likelihood isolated for years by illness and suspicion. Her misfortune embarrassed them all.

And yet, within that tangled crowd, this same woman somehow negotiated anxious bodies and frenzied limbs, keenly aware of who was passing through that day, and what Jesus was really all about, and how Love kept its promise in his every step, with his every breath. (You’ll find this story, by the way, in Mark, Chapter 5.) No doubt she was invisible to many that day, or maybe simply ignored by most; irrelevant to the drama in the street.

But still she kept watch—this remarkable woman—still she kept watch in the hubbub of the hundreds. Still she kept watch—this resilient spirit—because hope stirred without reason in her heart. Still she kept watch. And when the time was just right, when she got just close enough, she reached out, she extended her achy wrist and frail fingers, and she touched the hem of his robe. And that simple moment in a swarming crowd, her watchful reach, her faithful touch—it changed her life. Not only hers, it turns out; but his too.

“Take heed, then, and watch,” Jesus says toward the end of Mark’s story, “for you do not know when the time will come.” It’s an Advent theme, to be sure; but not just seasonal. It’s also a profoundly Christian practice. Perhaps now as much as ever before. Watchfulness and humility. Trust and discernment. “Of that day or that hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor even the Son, but only God...” You and I are called to faith that is deep and resilient, but also unafraid of the unknown: unafraid of the unknown, undaunted by grief and despair, and alert to divine possibilities in the push and pull of everyday life. You see, we don’t have to have all the answers to all the questions to “touch the hem of his robe.” And we don’t have to be the boldest prophet, or the wisest saint, or even the kindest or sweetest one, to “touch the hem of his robe.”

But we do have to keep watch. And we do have to stay alert. Even and perhaps especially when powers and principalities overwhelm us with bad news. Even and especially when it seems they may be planning to burn the whole place down. Disciples of Jesus remain vigilant: for Love’s footprints in the paths we walk; for moments worthy of praise and delight; and, yes, for the hem of his robe before us. Within our grasp. Einstein once said that “there are two ways to live our lives. One is as if nothing is a miracle; the other is as if everything is a miracle.” And that’s us. That has to be our faith. Staying awake to the mystery that cannot be bought and sold on the market. Keeping watch for the beauty that shimmers on bright sunny days, but also the dark, gray and brooding ones. Alert for the grace that moves in every heart, in every people, in every moment.

“Take heed, then, and watch,” Jesus says, “for you do not know when the time will come.” And I think that means protecting a resilient and robust tenderness within our hearts, though it’s tempting to default toward cynicism and even rage. And I think it means committing to prayerfulness in the daily round, a consistent practice of attentiveness in flesh and spirit, anchored in breath and body. And I think it means trusting that God’s Love is not a prize to be earned or a bet to be wagered, but an unearned, unmerited, unrestricted, unhindered gift. For every single one of us. For you and for me. And the whole wide world around. Without exception. We call that divine gift, that once-and-for-all blessing GRACE. And so we take heed, then, and we watch. We remain vigilant. We keep our hearts tender, open, available to the Spirit’s need and direction.

2.

And isn’t it possible, then, that the very watchfulness Jesus encourages in Mark 13 is embodied in the courage and faith of this woman who touches the hem of his robe in Mark 5? How she resists the negativity, even the cruelty, that marginalizes her existence and embraces instead the glory promised to every single human life? How she defies powers and principalities and asserts her own dignity and worthiness? And how she scans the crowd that day and sees not a frenzied, anxious community competing for love, but instead a kindhearted healer open to conversation, confident in grace, and eager for connection?

Because this is what happens. When she touches the hem of his robe. In our story. Jesus stops suddenly, even abruptly, turning 360 degrees in the tangled crowd that now screeches to a halt around him. And Jesus knows, in his heart and in his flesh, that some kind of power has been activated in him and released into the crowd. And it’s such an intimate thing, a holy thing, this power that’s awakened in him, this experience of human touch, even connection. So he wants to know. “Who touched the hem of my robe? Who touched me just now?”

And it’s interesting, right, because the story doesn’t suggest that Jesus owns or possesses this power, that it’s his alone or his to give away. This kind of grace—the power of Love—is activated in the distance between them, in the sacred space where she reaches out to touch the hem of his robe. And it flows, then, from him to her, and from her to him, and (in all likelihood) back and forth between the two of them. She is transformed, no doubt, and so too is Jesus. That’s what love is; that’s how empowerment works; that’s the kind of healing, the kind of wholeness available to every one of us and all of us. If we take heed. If we keep watch. Grace awakens among us new possibilities for wonder, delight, service and communion. The power of Love, aroused in a moment of courage and hopefulness, flows from one to another, from one to another, and back again. Doing its good work. Inspiring hope between us and sustaining us, in beloved community, for wild mercy and generous service and heartfelt praise.

And we do know that Love works this way: as it does between Caden and Gwyneth, as it does between Diane and Henry, as it does between David and his choir, as it does between Antony and every lucky soul who sits in his hallway day by day by day. Grace awakens among us new possibilities for wonder and delight. It sustains us, in and out of season. If only, if only, if only—we keep watch.

3.

Last summer, as my Palestinian hosts were arranging for my hastier-than-planned departure, my good friend Zoughbi Zoughbi ran out to a Bethlehem gift shop. He returned, just as the taxi driver was loading my bags, with this icon. Iconography is big in Bethlehem, an art form to be sure, but just as importantly a spiritual practice. A way of telling the story with images, encouraging reflection and curiosity, and even wonder. And Zoughbi placed this small icon in my hand as the wary driver bounced from one foot to the other. And he said to me: “Keep this story close. Let her show you the way.” Ten words, our farewell. Keep this story close. Let her show you the way.

The icon depicts Mary and Jesus, as so many do in Bethlehem. But it’s Mary’s hands that draw my attention now, and will for years to come. In one, of course, she cradles the Christ child, whose cheek is pressed to her own. She looks upon the child with care and gladness, his life a sign of peace promised, shalom, salaam. The other hand, however: Mary’s other hand is empty. The Christ child in her right hand, the other empty—like this.

And yet, as my driver left Bethlehem behind and turned for checkpoints at the Jordanian border, I turned this gift, this icon, in my hand and wondered. Maybe Mary’s second hand isn’t empty at all, but alert, and attentive, and waiting for the unknown to reveal itself. Maybe the story told by this particular icon is a story of deep faith wedded to profound humility, a story of Christian devotion joined to radical openness. (By the way, I’ll leave this precious piece on the table here, so you can take a look after the service.)

As we step out into this elongated Advent season, I wonder if this isn’t the opportunity and the challenge before us, and before the church. To hold Jesus in one hand: delighting in Jesus’ teaching, walking in his steps, risking with Jesus the ways of love, inclusion and nonviolence. To hold Jesus in one hand, and keep the other open. To understand discipleship as radical openness: openness to unknown traditions, respect for wildly different understandings, and even more importantly watchfulness in spirit. Christianity doesn’t require certainty or moral purity, you see; this faith invites humility and fearlessness. Humility because we never know where or how God will reveal herself in our lives. And fearlessness—because the unknown isn’t the enemy, but the possibility, the potential, the promise of new wisdom and deeper connection.

You see, if we truly treasure the traditions around Jesus of Nazareth, the teachings of Jesus, the life and resurrection of Jesus, we will also keep watch, keep our hearts open to opportunities for witness and celebration, keep our hearts available to the needs of siblings who bear God’s light and God’s pain in the world. Cradling the Christ child in one arm, and reaching out with the other to meet the unknown, to welcome the stranger, to bless a future we can only anticipate with humility and love. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the hem of his robe.

Amen and Ashe.