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From Jesus’ Touch to Our Hello: Building Relationships That Heal
Jesus taught us to love one another as we are loved and as we wish to be loved. When Jesus wasn’t praying by himself in the pre-dawn morning or asleep on the cushion, he was constantly forming relationships with the people he met.

When the woman touched the hem of his robe and was healed, he could have kept walking. Instead, he stopped and said, “Who touched me?” His disciples were incredulous. How could he say such a thing when people surrounded them? But he wasn’t asking to find out who it was, because of course he knew who touched him – he’s Jesus. It was an invitation to conversation – to a relationship – to communion.

For Jesus, it was a 30-second encounter, but for the woman he cured it was a pivotal moment in her life, one she remembered and spoke about forever. I imagine her family grew tired of her saying, “Did I ever tell you about the time I touched the master’s robe?” And her family replying, “Yes, Aunt Rebecca, a bazillion times!”

I’ve often preached and written about striking up conversations with people at the Costco gas pumps, but it is hard for me to take my own advice. I genuinely want to do this, and I eventually will. Over time, it will become second nature, and I’ll embarrass my kids because I’m the weirdo saying hello to strangers wherever I go (among the other multiple ways I’ll embarrass them).

We are taught to be in relationship with one another – to be in communion with each other, in a community. The first step to this is making a simple connection and acknowledging that another person exists. Why is this so difficult for me? There are two things: one, the possibility that I will be ignored or rebuffed, and on the opposite side, that someone will try to pull me into their messy life, when I have more than enough mess of my own.

But do I like it when strangers say hello to me? Absolutely! So, in loving my neighbor as myself, saying hello to a person I don’t know is a very small thing I can do to help my brethren in Christ feel seen. Which I believe is what we all want: to feel seen, wanted, and loved.

As a society, we acknowledge that the lack of connection in our lives is making us depressed, anxious, and angry, but we won’t make even the smallest move to change it. When we say hello to a person, we aren’t creating a life-long friendship; we’re simply establishing that they exist and that we acknowledge their existence.

My default mode is to have my guard up, so that when a stranger says hello, I immediately think to myself, “Great, what do they want?” So even though I like it when strangers say hello, I’m also wary of what may follow. It’s ok to be wary – and when I’m wary, I do well to remember to ask Jesus for help.

We are meant to be connected—none of us is an island unto ourselves. And while there is only one Jesus, we never know when 30 seconds of our life could change another’s life for the better, forever.

—Fr. Jason

I have an Iron Man watch made by Timex. I have no plans to become an Iron Man, but I do like the watch. It shows me not only the time but the date as well, and there’s a button in the top right corner that my son loves to push—it lights up the watch face, allowing us to see what time it is in the dark. It does some other things, and there are other buttons, but I don’t know what they do or how to use them, so I leave them alone. I just need the time and the date, and from time to time to amuse my four-year-old.

People are enamored with their smart watches, phones, and tablets, and talk about how they have more computing power in their hands than all of NASA did for the moon landing. We love to congratulate ourselves on our technological advancements. But the reality is that our smart watches, phones, and computers are powered by the same technology that powered the room-sized computers at M.I.T. in the fifties, player pianos in the 1800s, and music boxes in the Middle Ages: it’s all based on zeroes and ones, bumps/no bumps, hole/no hole. We’ve been using the same basic technology for well over five hundred years, though the same principle has been in place for all of human existence. Yes or no, good or bad, black or white, zero or one, dead or alive.

In today’s world, everything is measured. We measure ourselves against one another, constantly comparing ourselves and working to get ahead of our neighbors. How many degrees do you have? How many homes do you own, what kind of home do you own, how many hours do you work in a week, what kind of car do you drive, clothes do you wear, and where do you vacation? How many trophies has your child won, and did she get into the right school? What kind of grades did your grandson get—and they had better be A’s because anything less is unacceptable. Everything is zeroes and ones; if you’re not number one, you’re a zero. If you’re not the best, you’re the worst. As the bumper stickers say, “If you’re not first, you’re last,” and “Second place is first loser.” We live in a world where we are judging and being judged as zeroes or ones, haves/have-nots, good/bad…dead or alive.

When Jesus sent out His disciples to heal and spread the good news, he didn’t give them a quota to fulfill. He didn’t say to Peter, “Peter, I want you to heal at least 40 people and cast out 7 demons. On second thought, make that 7 x 77.” When Jesus moved from town to town, He was never on a timetable or schedule; when He and the disciples were discovered by the crowds, Jesus didn’t yell, “You crowds! Leave us alone, we’re on break!” He tended to them, healed, taught, and loved them. And he continued to move among them. Jesus went right down the middle of our earthly binary pattern, and didn’t measure progress by the number of people He saw or healed. He loved all those who came to Him, and moved at a pace that allowed Him to spend time with people in a real and meaningful way.

St. Paul writes in several of his epistles that we are no longer divided into two people, Gentile and Jew, or into several groups of people, but that we are all now called to be one in Christ. When Jesus died on the cross, He died for all people. It was to be the last sacrifice, the last death…one death for all of humanity, for all time. God does not love us for what we do or own; God, the creator of the universe, Lord of all, does not base our worth on our accomplishments. God loves us because we are. Because we exist, God loves us. There’s nothing we can do to make God love us more or less; God loves us more than we will ever know this side of the veil. None of us is a zero in the eyes of God. We are all ones, called to be One, called to One God, One Faith, One baptism. Imagine the freedom that comes from realizing that we need no longer measure ourselves against one another; that competition doesn’t matter, that there is no better or worse because we all are. Our math is broken; a simple glance at any point in history shows it clearly. We need to embrace the code God has given us, to live, laugh, and love as One people, to view one another through the eyes of God, never seeing zeroes, but only seeing one, one child of God, loved by God, called to be loved by us.

—Fr. Jason

It seems counterintuitive, foolish even, to write about vulnerability on September 11. We saw where being vulnerable gets us. Today, twenty-four years later, it can still feel as though we are overly vulnerable and susceptible to danger and disease. In last week’s Bellringer, I wrote about Jesus as a model of vulnerability. He made himself physically and emotionally vulnerable, but his Spirit was always strong. He rebuffed the devil three separate times in the desert, and though he asked his Father to take the cup from him, he didn’t flee the garden or the soldiers when they came to arrest him. But when Lazarus died, Jesus wept; he prayed so hard in the garden of Gethsemane the night before he died that he sweat blood, and before he breathed his last, he called to his Father, quoting Psalm 22: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

But we’re not Jesus—as if we need reminding—and it seems we’re ages away from emotional vulnerability. What’s the point of being emotionally vulnerable? It often leads to heartache and hurt feelings, and there’s plenty of that without letting our guard down. But it can also lead to understanding, compassion, and empathy.

Living an emotionally vulnerable life lays the groundwork for honest communication, something that is incredibly hard to live into. I was well into adulthood before I realized just how dishonest I was; every time someone asked me how I was, regardless of how I felt, I answered that I was fine, or some variation of that.

It seems like such a small thing. There’s nothing wrong with white lies, right? Though we are not bound by the commandments anymore (see grace vs. the law, Romans 6:14), they are a good roadmap by which to live into loving God and our neighbor. Thou shalt not bear false witness, unless it’s a little false, then it’s ok…

When we are dishonest in small things, it becomes easy to be dishonest in big things. If we aren’t fine, when someone asks us how we are doing, we can say, “I’m not doing well, but I don’t want to talk about it.” That’s a reasonable response. When someone asks us to do something we don’t want to do, we can say, “No.” There’s no need for equivocation. Or, we can say, “Yes,” and leave it at that. Being emotionally vulnerable doesn’t mean we treat the world as our therapist; it means being honest with ourselves and the people in our lives. It could be that the path to emotional vulnerability begins in silence.

One of my favorite lines in scripture is from Psalm 62, “For God alone my soul in silence waits.” There’s so much noise in the world – so much clamoring for attention, views, and influence, that being alone with our souls can feel daunting. If we want to love as we are called to love, as we were made to love, we must learn to be honest with ourselves and each other, which means making ourselves vulnerable to those around us, and trusting that God will guide and protect us.

—Fr. Jason

“Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and activity. It is the source of hope, empathy, accountability, and authenticity. If we want greater clarity in our purpose or deeper and more meaningful spiritual lives, vulnerability is the path.”
—Brene Brown, Daring Greatly.

I would love to have greater clarity in my purpose AND a deeper, more meaningful spiritual life. But what does it mean to be vulnerable? The dictionary definition is to be open to attack or damage, capable of being physically or emotionally wounded. The Latin root of our word vulnerable means to wound. So why would we willingly go down a path that will leave us open to physical and/or emotional wounds?

What does Jesus say about being vulnerable? A lot. His whole life was an experience in vulnerability, from birth to death. God made manifest made himself completely vulnerable to the world and all that was in it. According to the Gospel of Luke, Jesus was born in a stable and placed in a hay trough – a detail important enough to be included for the last two thousand years. Nobody in the ancient world put their baby in a hay trough, for most of the same reasons we wouldn’t do it now. Aside from the germs, it’s degrading to put a baby in such a lowly place. But maybe that’s the point. Even baby Moses was placed in a bassinet sealed with pitch before he was strategically placed in the water. From the beginning, Jesus was placed in a literal position of humility and vulnerability. It’s no wonder that one of the first things the angel said to Mary was, “Don’t be afraid.” Unfortunately, there was much to fear. When Jesus was presented in the Temple, Simeon said to Mary, “This child is destined for the rising and falling of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed – and a sword will pierce your own soul too,” (Luke 2:34b-35, NRSV).

In Matthew’s account, Jesus’ family was forced to flee from the mad king Herod to a land historically hostile to the Hebrews – again, placing not only Jesus but his whole family in a position of humility and vulnerability. People listening to the Gospel in the first century were sure to have made the connection between Jesus fleeing Herod and the Hebrews fleeing Pharaoh, though this time it was in reverse. Herod was so threatened by the idea of a king that he ordered the death of every male child born in the past two years. Some thirty-three years later, his namesake would feel just as threatened and ordered Jesus put to death. Is this where vulnerability leads us? Perhaps. But that’s a hard pill to swallow, and a terrible way to win people over. So how do we encourage being vulnerable as a way to deeper spirituality and clarity of purpose?

To be continued.

—Fr. Jason

How much of what Jesus says do we believe?

How much of what He says do we incorporate in our lives?

And to whom do we listen more closely, Jesus, or our financial planner, lawyer, or personal trainer?

If we say that we love Jesus, could anyone tell that this is so by looking closely at our lives?

That is, if we were accused of being Christians, would we be convicted?

What would be the standard of evidence?

Would it be church attendance, how closely we follow His instructions in the Bible, or how much we give to a church or other charitable organization?

Do we go to church because it’s what we’ve always done, or because we love Jesus and we can’t help ourselves?

Does loving Jesus mean we will go to church, or does it mean something else?

Can we love Jesus and hate other humans?

Are we following Jesus for the afterlife insurance?

Would we follow Jesus if He told us that when we die, there is nothing else to the world, just an eternal Spirit hovering over the deep of creation?

Have we ever tried to live as He commanded?

What would it take for us to love as we are called to love?

Do we call ourselves good when Jesus Himself didn’t call Himself Good?

Are we honest with ourselves about our hopes, fears, and questions?

Do we know how to be vulnerable to each other?

Do we want to be vulnerable to each other?

Is anybody reading this?

Would it matter if they did?

I heard the following story in church when I was in high school. I have preached it several times over the course of my own ministry, and think it is especially pertinent now, August 22, 2025 – though it applies to all ages of human history.
—Fr. Jason

There once was a wretched old woman who lived in a small village in Iowa. It was bitterly cold in the winter and horribly humid in the summer. She’d been a wretched old woman for as long as anyone there could remember, and no one there knew her name. Most just called her the old woman. She kept a garden and small orchard and would tend it daily. No matter the time of year, she wore a long, soiled cardigan and faded, flowered scarf over her hair. The cardigan had always been brown and only got browner; the scarf might have been red at one point, but was now brownish gray. Anyone who made the mistake of walking onto her property was met first with loud shouts and insults, and if that didn’t work, she would begin throwing rocks. One day, there was an ambulance in front of her house, and the next month, there was a for-sale sign in the yard. There was no obituary, funeral, or mention that she’d died, save for the record of her death at the county morgue.

She remembered seeing that brat with the yellow hat trying to grab a pear from her best tree; she’d stood up too fast, eager to yell and scare him off, got dizzy, and when she awoke, she was in a dark place that smelled of sulfur, sweat, and rotting meat. She was hot, hotter than she’d ever been, and she tried pulling her cardigan off her shoulders, but it wouldn’t move. She was afraid, more afraid than she’d ever been, and said silently to herself, “Good Lord.” A quiet, sharp voice answered right next to her ear: “Not here, old woman.” The old woman screamed and tried to run, but her feet were stuck fast to the floor. She was able to fall to her knees and, in desperation, began to pray.

She’d not prayed in years, decades – scores of decades, and she didn’t know what to say. She began to say, “Lord Jesus help me,” over and over, her face buried in the ground, her words muffled, but still intelligible. She prayed for what seemed like hours, days, years…she did not sleep, eat, or do anything else – she didn’t think those things were possible. She cried for herself, and then for all the people she’d hurt – she began to pray, “Lord Jesus forgive me,” over and over, for days, years, centuries…

One day, there was a small beam of light miles above her, but it reached her eyes – a hole in the ceiling. The hole widened, and from the hole there descended a pear, hanging from what looked like a spider web. She prayed all the more, and the more she prayed, the faster the pear descended. It stopped just in front of her face. She licked her lips…it had been so long since she ate. She reached for the pear, holding it with both hands, and when she held it, it tugged her upwards. Soon it pulled her up from the floor; it wasn’t for eating, it was pulling her out of hell, towards the light!

Other souls nearby saw her rising and quickly grabbed her ankles. The pear slowed slightly but still rose into the air. Soon, there was a long line of people holding onto one another, being pulled up ever so slowly by the pear; each soul that was added slowed the pear slightly, but still it ascended. The old woman grew fearful; she felt the weight of all the people holding on to her. Looking down, she saw the whole of hell being pulled upwards by the pear. As they went up, the hole in the ceiling grew larger, until the old woman could see the choir of angels singing, Christ sitting at the right hand of God, and her parents with their arms outstretched, tears streaming down their faces.

The closer she got, the slower the pear pulled her up, and the more her fear grew. Looking down, she grew angry – the people holding on to her were slowing her down and keeping her away from heaven. She was the one who had been praying unceasingly, and this was her pear. They didn’t earn it or deserve it, not like she did. She began to kick her legs, doing her best to dislodge the freeloaders holding on to her. She gladly watched them tumble back to hell, and as they fell, the pear gained speed.

She looked back to her parents, eager to greet them, but they were gone – the hole quickly closed, and the pear grew rotten and fetid in her hands. She was holding on so tightly she smashed it between her hands, the pulp squelching through her fingers. It was her pear. She’d prayed for it. Those were her thoughts as she fell back into hell, into the arms of her tormentors, into the eternal darkness, where there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth.