Homily 31 — Matthew 9, verses 18 to 26

“While he was saying these things to them, look, a ruler came in and worshiped him, saying, ‘My daughter has just died; but come and lay your hand on her, and she will live.’” [a]

The deed came hard on the heels of the words, so that the mouths of the Pharisees were stopped all the more. For the man who came was a ruler of the synagogue, and his grief was terrible. The girl was his only child, and twelve years old, the very flower of her youth. That, above all, is why Christ raised her up again, and at once.

Luke says that men came and said, “Do not trouble the Teacher, for she is dead.” To this we will say that the words “she has just died” were the father’s guess, reckoning from the time he had spent on the road, or else he was making his grief sound greater than it was. For people in need commonly make their troubles sound heavier in the telling and say a little more than is really true, so as to win over all the more the ones they are pleading with.

But notice how slow he is. He asks two things of Christ: that he come in person, and that he lay his hand on her. And this, by the way, is a sign that he had left her still breathing. Naaman the Syrian asked the same of the prophet: “I thought,” he says, “he will surely come out and lay on his hand.” For the truth is that people who are more or less slow of mind need to see, and need things their senses can take hold of.

Mark says that he took the three disciples with him, and so does Luke; our evangelist says only “the disciples.” Why, then, did he not take Matthew with him, though Matthew had only just come to him? To make him long for it all the more earnestly, and because he was still rather immature. For this is the very reason he honors those others: so that these may grow to be like them. For Matthew it was enough for the present to see what happened to the woman with the flow of blood, and to be honored by Christ at his table and by Christ’s sharing his salt.

When Christ had risen, many followed him, as if to a great miracle. This was partly because of who it was that had come to him, and partly because most of them, being of a coarser turn of mind, were looking not so much for the care of the soul as for the healing of the body. They streamed together, some driven by their own troubles, some hurrying to watch other people’s troubles being cured. As yet only a few were in the habit of coming chiefly for the sake of his words and his teaching. Even so, he did not let them come into the house, but only his disciples — and not even all of these — teaching us everywhere to turn away the applause of the crowd.

“And look,” it says, “a woman who had suffered from a flow of blood for twelve years came up behind him and touched the fringe of his garment. For she said to herself, If I only touch his garment, I will be made well.” Why did she not come up to him openly? She was ashamed of her illness and thought herself unclean. For if a woman in her monthly period was judged unclean, much more would a woman suffering from such a disease think the same of herself, since under the law that complaint counted as a serious uncleanness. So she keeps out of sight and hides herself. For she did not yet have the right and proper opinion about him; otherwise she would not have thought she could stay hidden. And this is the first woman who came to him in public. She had heard, of course, that he heals women too, and that he was on his way to the little girl who had died. [d]

She did not dare to invite him to her house, though she was wealthy. No, she did not even come up to him in public, but secretly, with faith, she touched his garments. For she did not doubt, or say to herself, “Will I really be freed from this disease? Or will I fail to be freed?” She came to him confident of being healed. “For she said to herself,” we read, “If I only touch his garment, I will be made well.” Yes, for she saw what sort of house he had just come from — the house of tax collectors — and who they were that followed him — sinners and tax collectors — and all this made her hopeful.

What, then, does Christ do? He does not let her stay hidden. He brings her into the middle and makes her known, for many reasons.

It is true that some of the senseless say: “He does this out of love of glory. Otherwise, why did he not let her stay hidden?” What are you saying, you unholy — yes, utterly unholy — man? He who orders silence, he who passes over countless miracles, is he in love with glory?

Why, then, does he bring her forward? First, he puts an end to the woman’s fear, so that she would not go on in agony, stung by her conscience as though she had stolen the gift. Second, he corrects her for thinking she could stay hidden. Third, he shows her faith to everyone, to stir the rest to imitate it; and in making plain that he knows all things he gives a sign no smaller than his stopping of the springs of her blood.

Besides this, through the woman he sets right the ruler of the synagogue, who was on the point of complete unbelief, and so of utter ruin. For the people who came said, “Do not trouble the Teacher, for the girl is dead”; and those in the house laughed at him when he said, “She is asleep”; and it was likely that the father too had felt something of the kind. So, to correct this weakness beforehand, he brings the simple woman forward. For that this ruler was altogether of the coarser sort, hear what Christ says to him: “Do not be afraid; only believe, and she will be made well.”

That is also why he waited on purpose for death to come on, and only then arrived, so that the proof of the resurrection might be unmistakable. With this in view he walks more slowly and talks longer with the woman, to give time for the girl to die and for the messengers to come who reported it and said, “Do not trouble the Teacher.” This is what the evangelist hints at when he says, “While he was still speaking, some people came from the house and said, Your daughter is dead; do not trouble the Teacher.” For he wanted her death to be believed, so that her resurrection would not be suspected. And he does this in every case. So too with Lazarus, he waited a first, a second, and a third day.

For all these reasons, then, he brings her forward and says, “Daughter, take heart,” just as he had said to the paralyzed man, “Son, take heart.” Since the woman was badly frightened, he says, “Take heart”; and he calls her “daughter,” for her faith had made her a daughter. Then comes her praise as well: “Your faith has made you well.”

Luke tells us still more about the woman. When she had come up and been healed, he says, Christ did not call her at once, but first said, “Who touched me?” Then Peter and those with him said, “Master, the crowds are pressing around you and crowding you, and you ask, Who touched me?” — which was a very sure sign both that he was clothed in real flesh and that he trampled on all empty glory, for they were not following him at a distance, but crowding him on every side. He, for his part, went on saying, “Someone touched me, for I perceive that power has gone out from me.” He answered in a more down-to-earth way, suited to what his hearers imagined.

But he said these things to bring her to confess of her own accord. That is why he did not expose her immediately: having shown that he knows everything clearly, he wanted to lead her to tell it all herself, and move her to announce what had been done, so that he would not fall under suspicion by saying it himself.

Do you see the woman surpassing the ruler of the synagogue? She did not hold him back or take hold of him; she only touched him with the tips of her fingers. And though she came later, she went away healed first. He was bringing the Physician all the way to his house; for her a mere touch was enough. For though she was held down by her illness, her faith had given her wings. And notice how he comforts her, saying, “Your faith has saved you.” Surely, if he had drawn her forward for show, he would not have added this. But he says it partly to teach the ruler of the synagogue to believe, partly to proclaim the woman’s praise, and by these words he gives her a joy and a benefit equal to her bodily health.

That he did this to honor her and to correct others, and not to make himself look glorious, is plain from this. He would have been admired just as much without it — for the miracles were pouring around him thicker than snowflakes, and he had done, and was going to do, far greater things than these — but the woman, had this not happened, would have gone away hidden, deprived of that great praise. That is why he brought her forward, proclaimed her praise, and drove out her fear (for “she came,” it says, “trembling”). He gave her courage, and along with health of body he gave her further supplies for her journey too, when he said, “Go in peace.”

“And when he came into the ruler’s house and saw the flute players and the crowd making an uproar, he said to them, Go away, for the girl is not dead, but asleep. And they laughed at him.” [h]

Fine marks these are, to be sure, of rulers of synagogues: at the very moment of her death, pipes and cymbals raising a dirge! What, then, does Christ do? He threw out all the rest, but brought the parents in, to leave no room for saying that he healed her in some other way. And even before her resurrection he raises her with his word, saying, “The girl is not dead, but asleep.” He does this in many other cases too.

So, as he did at sea, he drives the turmoil out of the minds of those standing by. At the same time he shows that it is easy for him to raise the dead — he did the same with Lazarus, saying, “Our friend Lazarus is asleep” — and he teaches us not to fear death, since it is no longer death, but has from now on become sleep. For since he himself was going to die, he was preparing his disciples beforehand, in the persons of others, to take courage and to bear the end calmly. For truly, once he had come, death was from then on a sleep.

Still, they laughed at him. Yet he was not indignant at being disbelieved by people for whom he was about to work a miracle a little later. Nor did he rebuke their laughter, so that it too, along with the pipes and the cymbals and everything else, might be a sure proof of her death. For since people usually disbelieve after miracles have been done, he catches them beforehand by their own answers. This was done in the case of Lazarus and of Moses as well. To Moses he first says, “What is that in your hand?” so that when Moses saw it turned into a serpent, he would not forget that it had been a rod before, but, reminded of his own words, would be amazed at what was done. And with Lazarus he says, “Where have you laid him?” so that those who had said, “Come and see,” and, “He stinks, for he has been dead four days,” could no longer disbelieve that he had raised a dead man.

So, seeing the cymbals and the crowd, he put them all out and worked the miracle in the presence of the parents. He did not bring in another soul, but called back the same one that had gone out, and woke her as if out of sleep.

He takes her by the hand to reassure those watching, so that by this sight he might prepare the way for belief in her resurrection. For the father had said, “Lay your hand on her,” but he does something more: he does not lay his hand on her, but takes hold of her and raises her up, showing that for him everything is ready at hand. And he not only raises her, but also orders that she be given something to eat, so that the event would not seem to be an illusion. He does not give it himself, but orders them to; just as with Lazarus he said, “Unbind him and let him go,” and afterward had him share his table. For this is always his way: to establish both points, making the proof of the death and of the resurrection alike complete in every respect.

But I beg you, notice not only her resurrection but also his order “to tell no one,” and learn from all of it this above everything: his freedom from pride and empty glory. And along with that, learn this too: he threw those who were beating themselves out of the house and declared them unworthy of such a sight. So do not you go out with the flute players, but stay with Peter and John and James.

For if he threw them out then, much more now. Then it was not yet plain that death had become a sleep, but now this is clearer than the sun itself. But has he not raised your daughter now? Surely he will raise her, and with far greater glory. For that girl, when she had risen, died again; but your child, if she rises again, stays from then on in a life that cannot die.

So let no one beat himself any more, or wail, or belittle Christ’s achievement. For he did overcome death. Why, then, do you wail for nothing? The thing has become a sleep. Why lament and weep? Why, even if the Greeks did this, they would deserve to be laughed at. But when a believer disgraces himself in these matters, what defense does he have? What excuse will there be for those who are guilty of such folly — and this after so long a time, and such clear proof of the resurrection? [j]

But you, as if you were working to add to the charges against you, even bring pagan women in among us to sing dirges, to inflame your feelings and stoke the furnace to the full. And you do not listen to Paul, who says, “What harmony does Christ have with Belial? Or what share does a believer have with an unbeliever?”

Pagans, who know nothing of a resurrection, still find words of comfort and say, “Bear it bravely, for what has happened cannot be undone, or put right by lamenting.” And you, who hear words wiser and better than these, are you not ashamed to behave more disgracefully than they do? For we do not say at all, “Bear it bravely, because what has happened cannot be undone,” but, “Bear it bravely, because he will surely rise again.” The child is asleep and not dead; he is at rest and has not perished. For resurrection will be his final lot, and eternal life, and immortality, and the portion of the angels. Do you not hear the psalm that says, “Return to your rest, my soul, for the Lord has dealt bountifully with you”? God calls it “dealing bountifully,” and you make lamentation?

What more could you have done if you were a foe and an enemy of the dead? Why, if there must be mourning, it is the devil who ought to mourn. Let him beat himself, let him wail, because we are journeying on to greater blessings. This lamentation suits his wickedness, not you, who are going to be crowned and to rest. Yes, death is a fine harbor.

Think, at any rate, how many evils fill our present life; remember how often you yourself have cursed this present life. For things keep going from bad to worse, and from the very beginning you were caught up in no small condemnation. For he says, “In pain you will bear children,” and, “By the sweat of your face you will eat your bread,” and, “In the world you will have trouble.”

But of our state there, no such word at all is spoken, but the very opposite: that “grief and sorrow and sighing have fled away”; that “people will come from the east and from the west and will recline in the bosoms of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob”; and that the place there is a spiritual bridal chamber, and bright lamps, and a passage into heaven.

Why, then, disgrace the one who has departed? Why make the rest fear and tremble at death? Why lead many to accuse God, as though he had done something terrible? Or rather, why, after all this, do you invite the poor and beg priests to pray? You answer: “So that the dead may depart into rest, so that he may find the Judge merciful.” Is this, then, what you are mourning and wailing over? Then you are fighting and warring with yourself, stirring up a storm against yourself because he has come into harbor. [m]

“But what can I do? That is how nature is.” The fault is not nature’s, nor does it come from what has happened as a necessary consequence. It is we who turn everything upside down, who are overcome by softness, who give up the nobility that is properly ours, and who make the unbelievers worse. For how will we reason with anyone else about immortality? How will we persuade the pagan, when we fear death and shudder at it more than he does? Many among the Greeks, for instance, though of course they knew nothing about immortality, put garlands on their heads at their children’s deaths and appeared in white clothes, to win glory here and now. But you, not even for the sake of the glory to come, will stop your womanish behavior and your wailing.

But do you have no heirs, no one to succeed to your property? Which would you rather have, that he were heir of your possessions or of heaven? Which did you want for him: to succeed to things that perish, which he would have had to let go soon after, or to things that last and cannot be moved? You did not have him as your heir, but God had him instead of you. He did not become a joint heir with his own brothers, but he became a “joint heir with Christ.”

“But to whom are we to leave our clothes, our houses, our slaves, and our lands?” To him again, and more securely than if he were alive, for nothing stands in the way. For if barbarians burn the goods of the dead along with them, how much more right it would be for you to send with the dead man the things that are his — not to be turned to ashes, like theirs, but to clothe him in more glory: if he departed a sinner, to wipe away his sins; if righteous, to become an increase of his reward and recompense.

Do you long to see him? Then live the same life he lived, and you will soon win that sacred sight.

And consider this too: even if you will not listen to us, you will certainly give way to time. But then there will be no reward for you, for the comfort will have come from the number of the days. Whereas if you are willing to master yourself now, you will gain two very great things: first, you will free yourself from the miseries in between; second, you will be crowned by God with the brighter crown. For truly, neither almsgiving nor anything else is anywhere near as great as bearing affliction calmly.

Remember that even the Son of God died — and he died for you, but you die for yourself. And when he said, “If it is possible, let this cup pass from me,” and felt pain and was in agony, even so he did not run from the end, but underwent it, and that through its whole course of overwhelming suffering. For he did not simply endure death, but the most shameful death; and before his death, the lash; and before the lash, taunts and jeers and abuse — teaching you to bear everything bravely. And though he died and laid aside his body, he took it up again in greater glory, holding out good hopes to you in this too. If these things are not a fable, do not lament. If you count them certain, do not weep. But if you do weep, how will you be able to persuade the Greek that you believe?

But even so, does what has happened still seem unbearable to you? Well then, for this very reason you should not lament for him, since he has been set free from many such calamities. So do not begrudge him, and do not envy him. For to pray for death for yourself because his end came too early, and to lament that he did not live on to endure many such things, is more the part of someone who begrudges and envies. [p]

And do not dwell on this, that he will never come home again, but on this, that you yourself will go to him a little later. Do not look at the fact that he will not return here, but at this: that the things we see do not stay as they are either, but they too are being transformed. Yes, heaven and earth and sea and everything are being refashioned, and then you will get your child back in greater glory.

And if he departed a sinner, his wickedness has been cut short; for surely, if God had known he would turn around, he would not have snatched him away before his repentance. But if he ended his life righteous, he now holds every good thing in safety. From this it is plain that your tears come not from loving affection but from unreasoning passion. For if you loved the one who has departed, you should rejoice and be glad that he has been set free from the waves of the present.

For what more is there here, I ask you? What is fresh and new? Do we not see the same things going around every day? Day and night, night and day, winter and summer, summer and winter, and nothing more. These things are always the same, but our evils are fresh, and ever newer. Would you have him, then, drawing up more of these things every day, staying here, falling sick and mourning, afraid and trembling, enduring some of life’s evils and dreading others in case he should have to endure them someday? For you certainly cannot say that someone sailing across this great sea could possibly be free from dejection and worry and everything of the kind.

Take this into account as well: you did not give birth to him immortal, and if he had not died now, he would have had to undergo it soon after. But is it that you never had your fill of him? Then you will certainly enjoy him there. But do you long to see him here too? What is stopping you? You are allowed to, even here, if you are watchful; for the hope of the things to come is clearer than sight. If he were at some king’s court, you would not keep trying to see him, as long as you heard good reports of him. And now that you see him departed to things far better, do you lose heart over a little time — and that, when you have one to live with you in his place?

But you have no husband? Still you have a consolation: the Father of orphans and the Judge of widows. Listen to Paul too, calling this widowhood blessed and saying, “She who is truly a widow, and left all alone, trusts in the Lord.” For such a woman will appear more approved, since she shows greater patience. So do not mourn over what is your crown, the very thing for which you are claiming a reward. For you have given back what God deposited with you, if you have handed over the very thing that was entrusted to you. Do not be anxious any more, since you have stored your possession in a treasury no one can break into.

If only you would truly learn what our present existence is and what our life to come is — that the one is a spider’s web and a shadow, while everything there is unshakable and immortal — you would need no further arguments. For now your child is set free from all change; but if he were here, perhaps he would stay good, perhaps not. Do you not see how many people openly disown their own children? How many are forced to keep them at home, though they are worse than those openly disowned?

Let us take all this into account and practice self-control. For in this way we will at the same time show honor to the dead, win much praise from people, receive from God the great rewards of patience, and attain the eternal good things. May we all attain them, by the grace and love for humankind of our Lord Jesus Christ, to whom be glory and power forever and ever. Amen.