“I can’t believe this is happening to me,” Jairus muttered, his fingers worrying the rich wool of his robe—each thread a reminder of position, of privilege, of a life where order prevailed and prayers received their due. The fabric caught the light, its deep indigo dye worth a month’s wages for most who parted before him. The crowd recognized him immediately, their bodies shifting like water around stone, their whispers trailing in his wake.
His sandaled feet struck the packed earth with purpose, each step a battle between desperation and dignity. The dust clung to his ankles, an unwelcome embrace that, on any other day, would have offended his sense of propriety. But today, with his daughter’s breath growing shallow in a room that smelled of death, such concerns had dissolved into the thin air of irrelevance.
“I kept all the commandments,” he frowned, his mouth a tight line of bewilderment and rage, skin stretched taut over the bones of his face. “So why is this happening to me?” He shook his head, prayer turning to accusation, his voice a rasp of betrayal. “Why are you doing this to me, God? In return for all my service to you?”
The whispers of the crowd pulled Jairus back to the moment, their voices like insects buzzing at his ears, a symphony of need and expectation. Everyone gossiping, everyone hungry for miracles. His heart quickened beneath his ribs as he listened to stories of healings performed by the Master—tales that strained belief yet kindled desperate hope. The heat of bodies pressed close, the smell of sweat and oil and bread rising around him like incense.
“I’ll tell him to come to my house,” Jairus rehearsed the speech he’d prepared, tasting the words, testing their authority on his tongue. Each syllable a small stone of command he’d grown accustomed to wielding. “The Master will surely listen to me.”
He pushed through the last human barrier and spotted Jesus immediately. Sudden grief tore at Jairus’ chest like talons, unexpected and raw. All his carefully constructed dignity crumbled like dust between his fingers as he realized that the man before him—this controversial teacher with calloused hands and peasant’s garb—was his only hope. He fell at Jesus’ feet, the ground hard against his knees, the dust of the street against his lips, the world reduced to this single, humbling moment.
He wanted to command God, but he only ruled over a synagogue.
Spiritual Exercise:
Place yourself in Jairus’ position, feeling the weight of authority dissolve into desperation. Notice where tension gathers in your body—perhaps your jaw clenches, your shoulders harden into armor, your stomach knots like tangled rope. When have you approached God with demands rather than surrender? Recall a time when your status or achievements crumbled like sand between your fingers, insufficient against the tide of real crisis. Feel again that moment when control slipped away, the trembling in your hands, the tightness in your throat, the terrible hollowness behind your ribs. How did your perception of God change in that moment? Let your body remember this transformation—the way your knees softened before you knew you would fall, the way your breath changed rhythm, the way your skin became a boundary between what you could and couldn’t control. Rest in this posture of surrender, feeling the earth solid beneath you.
Prayer:
Lord Jesus, strip away my pretense of control.
When I come to you with demands rather than surrender,
remind me gently who is Master.
Like Jairus, I fall at your feet—not in the dignity of my position
but in the honesty of my need.
Meet me in my desperation,
not my demands.
Amen.