Daughters, Desperation, Dread & Deliverance

By Dr. Jonathan Pennington

Our Scripture this morning comes from Luke 8:40–56. If you’re able, would you please stand for the reading of God’s Word?

Now when Jesus returned, a crowd welcomed him, for they were all expecting him. Then a man named Jairus, a synagogue leader, came and fell at Jesus’ feet, pleading with him to come to his house because his only daughter, a girl of about twelve, was dying.

As Jesus was on his way, the crowds almost crushed him. And a woman was there who had been subject to bleeding for twelve years, but no one could heal her. She came up behind him and touched the edge of his cloak, and immediately her bleeding stopped.

“Who touched me?” Jesus asked.

When they all denied it, Peter said, “Master, the people are crowding and pressing against you.”

But Jesus said, “Someone touched me; I know that power has gone out from me.”

Then the woman, seeing that she could not go unnoticed, came trembling and fell at his feet. In the presence of all the people, she told why she had touched him and how she had been instantly healed.

Then he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.”

While Jesus was still speaking, someone came from the house of Jairus, the synagogue leader. “Your daughter is dead,” he said. “Don’t bother the teacher anymore.”

Hearing this, Jesus said to Jairus, “Don’t be afraid; just believe, and she will be healed.”

When he arrived at the house of Jairus, he did not let anyone go in with him except Peter, John, James, and the child’s father and mother. Meanwhile, all the people were wailing and mourning for her.

“Stop wailing,” Jesus said. “She is not dead but asleep.”

They laughed at him, knowing that she was dead. But he took her by the hand and said, “My child, get up!” Her spirit returned, and at once she stood up. Then Jesus told them to give her something to eat.

Her parents were astonished, but he ordered them not to tell anyone what had happened.

This is the Word of the Lord.

Well—wow. That is a powerful story. A well known story. Really, two stories woven together. And part of the reason it’s so famous is that Matthew, Mark, and Luke all record it in the same way: one story begins, a second interrupts it, and then the first concludes. It’s what scholars call intercalation, but since it’s Greek, I like to think of it as a gyro—one layer, then the filling, then the final layer.

And Luke places this “gyro story” at the end of a whole sequence of scenes showing Jesus’ power in doing good. Back in chapter 7, he heals the centurion’s servant from afar. He raises a widow’s son. He forgives sins. He calms the storm. Just before this, he shows authority over the spiritual realm by casting out a legion of demons. And now, to conclude this series of portraits of Jesus’ authority, we get this double story.

But there’s more going on here than simply two stories mashed together. These stories intentionally mirror each other. You could call it the tale of two daughters. Jairus’ daughter in the first story, and then this woman—whom Jesus calls “Daughter” at the most crucial moment.

Both daughters are also, according to Jewish law, ritually unclean—one through chronic bleeding, the other through death. We’ll come back to that.

And then there’s the striking connection of twelve. A twelve year old girl. A woman suffering for twelve years. The year this girl was born was the year this woman’s suffering began. Invisible threads tie their lives together, and now—though they likely never knew each other—they intersect on this day, in this moment, when both meet Jesus and are completely transformed.

Traditionally, a girl becomes a woman at twelve. So here we have two daughters, two women, whose stories are bound together. And by seeing them together, I think God has something profound to say to us.

The sequence of their stories is the same: desperation, dread, and deliverance. That’s the movement we’re going to follow.

So if you have a Bible—or can pull one up—turn to Luke 8, starting in verse 40. I want to slow down, pay attention, and walk through what happens so we can hear what God has for us.

The first stage is desperation.

Jesus has returned from that strange field trip with his disciples, where he met and healed the demoniac. Now he’s back in a populated area, and everyone is looking for him. They’ve heard him teach. They’ve seen him heal. They know something of God’s presence rests on him. So the crowds press in.

But in the midst of that pressing crowd, a way opens. A VIP arrives: Jairus, the synagogue leader. A respected, dignified man. And how does he approach Jesus?

He falls at Jesus’ feet and pleads with him.

Luke uses this image again and again—falling at Jesus’ feet—as a bodily expression of desperation. It’s involuntary. It’s what happens when the bottom drops out.

I had never experienced that myself until a couple of moments in the last decade—one during a season of deep anxiety and injustice, when I literally collapsed to the ground. And then, this past year, after my wife’s brain tumor surgery, about eighteen hours afterward, when she was in excruciating pain and we thought the end had come—I could not not fall down beside her bed. Some of you have been there. Some of you haven’t. But it is a universal human expression of desperation.

And why is Jairus desperate? Because his only daughter—his precious twelve year old—is dying. Not just sick. Not just worrying her parents the way children often do. She is dying.

And so he is undone.

And if you just look at those first couple of verses—verses 41 and 42—so much anguish, so much pain, so much fear is packed into them that it’s easy to read right past the emotional weight of what this man is experiencing. Jesus, who we constantly see overflowing with compassion, says yes. He goes with Jairus. And the end of verse 42 reminds us again that the crowds are crushing him. Everyone wants to be near him.

Then verse 43 introduces the interruption:

A woman was there who had been subject to bleeding for twelve years, but no one could heal her.

Mark adds that she had spent everything she had on doctors, and instead of getting better, she only grew worse.

So with Jairus, we see acute desperation—a sudden crisis. With this woman, we see chronic desperation—twelve long years of suffering. And according to Leviticus 15, whatever her medical condition was, it placed her in the category of being ritually unclean. Not sinful. Not guilty. But separated. Cut off.

And because her condition never ended, the separation never ended. Anything she touched could become unclean. Anyone she brushed against. She couldn’t worship at the temple. She likely couldn’t even enter Jerusalem. She was isolated. Alone. Poor. An outcast.

Try to imagine it: twelve years without being touched. Twelve years without being welcomed into someone’s home. Twelve years without community.

And now—here—she sees her chance. The crowd is huge. Everyone is jostling. No one can see anything clearly. The disciples are trying to manage the chaos. And she thinks, If I can just get close enough… no one will notice me. No one will recognize me. If I can just touch the edge of his cloak… I believe I’ll be healed.

So she slips through the crowd, probably with her scarf pulled low, and reaches out. She touches the hem of his garment.

And instantly—she knows. Her body tells her. Like a joint popping back into place. Or like that moment when a psychological burden you didn’t even fully understand suddenly lifts and you realize how heavy it had been. She knows she’s healed.

I imagine she could hardly believe it—joy mixed with disbelief, mixed with fear to hope again.

The story could have ended there. Many stories do. People meet Jesus, receive healing, and go on their way. And with Jairus, Jesus could have simply healed his daughter from afar, as he did in chapter 7.

But something unexpected happens. There’s another step. Not just desperation and deliverance—but dread.

Look at verse 45:

“Who touched me?” Jesus asked.

Everyone denies it. Peter says what any of us would say: Master, everyone is touching you. But Jesus knows something else has happened. He knows power has gone out from him.

And this is strange. It’s the only miracle like this—someone touching Jesus’ garment and being healed. It almost feels magical, like a staff of healing or a crystal in a fantasy story. But that’s not what’s happening. This is personal. This is faith. That’s why Jesus knows.

After all, plenty of people were bumping into him. Only one received healing.

And now the woman’s desperation turns to dread. She had hoped to remain anonymous. She had succeeded. She had her healing. She could have slipped away. But Jesus stops the whole crowd and asks, Who touched me?

Her momentary joy collapses into fear. Twelve years of shame, exclusion, loneliness—now exposed. She has touched Jesus, potentially making him unclean. She has done it secretly. And now she stands before a man of God with unimaginable authority.

Verse 47:

Then the woman, seeing that she could not go unnoticed, came trembling and fell at his feet. In the presence of all the people, she told why she had touched him and how she had been instantly healed.

Just like Jairus, she falls at Jesus’ feet. But not only in desperation—also in dread. She has no idea what will happen next. All she can do is be honest and cast herself before him.

And before we hear Jesus’ response, look at verse 49:

While Jesus was still speaking, someone came from the house of Jairus. “Your daughter is dead,” he said. “Don’t bother the teacher anymore.”

So just as the woman’s story moves from desperation to joy to dread, Jairus’ story also moves from desperation to dread. He sees the messenger. He hears the cold words.

And if you try to imagine Jairus’ situation here—really imagine it—you can feel the tension. He’s desperate. He’s begged Jesus to come. Jesus has agreed. But the crowd is slowing everything down. People are pressing in from every side. And Jairus must be thinking, Lord, please—my daughter is dying. We don’t have time for this.

And then Jesus stops.

And this woman—an outcast—comes forward and falls at his knees. And all Jairus can think is, We do not have time for this. My daughter is dying. Please, Lord, we have to go.

And then, in the middle of that agonizing delay, he hears the cold words:

“Your daughter is dead.

Don’t bother the teacher anymore.”

It echoes the grief of Mary and Martha in John 11, when their brother died and Jesus hadn’t arrived in time.

Both stories take a turn we don’t expect. They move from terrible to worse. From desperation to dread.

But these two daughters are about to experience something else. And this is where the third movement—deliverance—breaks in.

Let’s return to the bleeding woman. She’s trembling at Jesus’ feet, probably afraid he might take back the healing, or shame her publicly, or at best say, Fine, you can keep it, but what you did was wrong.

What will he say?

Verse 48:

“Daughter, your faith has healed you.

Go in peace.”

Rather than scolding her, rather than withdrawing his power, he blesses her. He calls her Daughter—a word Jesus never uses for anyone else in the Gospels. And he sends her away in peace.

And this shows us again: this was not magic. This was not a healing amulet moment. Jesus highlights her faith. He wants her—and everyone else—to understand what really happened.

And notice the parallel with Jairus. Immediately in verse 50, when the news of his daughter’s death arrives, Jesus turns to him and says:

“Don’t be afraid.

Believe, and she will be healed.”

Faith again.

And that’s exactly what happens. If you look at the next few verses, Jesus goes to Jairus’ house. The girl is dead. Everyone knows it. He doesn’t let the crowd follow—only Peter, James, John, and the parents. They enter the room where the young girl lies.

On the way, Jesus says, “Why are you wailing? She’s not dead but asleep.” They laugh at him. They know death when they see it. But Jesus often means more than his words initially suggest.

And why does he say this? Look at verse 56. After raising her, he tells them not to tell anyone what happened. Jesus isn’t trying to whip up the crowd. He’s not trying to gain popularity or start a movement. If he wanted fame, he would have done this miracle in the street.

He’s acting out of compassion—pure, genuine compassion. He’s restoring life to this family, but he’s not interested in spectacle. He has come to heal, yes—but also to teach, to proclaim the kingdom, and ultimately to die and rise again, inaugurating a new relationship between God and humanity.

So the desperation that turned to dread now turns to deliverance—for both daughters.

And what does this mean for us?

As I meditated on this story this week, I thought: in one sense, it would be enough simply to stand in awe. To see Jesus’ power. To remember that the same Jesus who did these things is alive today, present with us, powerful and compassionate and intentional.

But I want to draw out two sentences—two truths—that I think God is inviting us to see.

First:

God wants us to gain a fuller picture of who Jesus is and what he does for people—for us.

We rightly talk about Jesus’ death and resurrection for the forgiveness of sins. That is essential. Non negotiable. But it’s not the whole story.

Stories like this show us that Jesus’ work also involves: * cleansing what is unclean * removing shame * conquering death * delivering people from desperate situations * restoring people to community

Both daughters are restored to their communities. Just like the demoniac in the previous story. Tom Wright puts it beautifully: Jesus gets his hands dirty with the problems of the world. He welcomes our trembling touch. And he responds with the central biblical command: Do not be afraid.

Jesus doesn’t just forgive sins—he removes shame. He doesn’t just promise eternal life—he conquers death. He doesn’t just reconcile us to God—he restores us to one another.

And that’s still true today. Some of you here—or watching online—feel isolated. Shame. Regret. Embarrassment. On the outside, you look put together. Inside, you feel alone.

Jesus came not only to forgive you, but to restore you—to himself and to others. Whether your failures are public or private, relational or financial, your shame can be removed. You can be restored to the community you long for.

One commentator said it well:

“‘Don’t trouble the teacher anymore’ is never the right response to our troubles.”

Maybe today you feel beyond hope. Too ashamed. Too broken. Too far gone.

But “don’t trouble the teacher anymore” is never the right response.

The same Jesus who touched these lives touches ours. And we want to be a church where that restoration is welcome. You don’t have to get your life together first. You are welcome to be restored.

And all of this is accessed not by performance, but by faith—by falling at Jesus’ feet, in your heart or with your body, and confessing your need.

Which leads to the second truth:

God uses desperation and dread to transform us—whether deliverance comes or not.

In these stories, deliverance happens. But sometimes it doesn’t. And yet God uses desperation and dread to transform us—whether deliverance comes or not.

This week, I’ve had the opportunity—some of it planned, much of it unplanned—to spend a lot of time with many of you. Time with people here, people far away. Time pastoring, listening, holding space, counseling, praying. It has been a particularly heavy week—full of desperate situations and despairing situations.

I’ve been with older saints caring for spouses with dementia while facing cancer themselves.

I’ve been with people whose lives look polished on the outside but are full of guilt, anxiety, and regret.

I’ve sat with people in the ruins of job loss, broken marriages, and conflicts with adult children they don’t know how to navigate.

I even spoke with a student and friend who serves on staff at Christ Covenant Church in Nashville, where the tragic events occurred a month ago. He was in his office when it happened—barely spared—and then stood in the parking lot witnessing the grievous aftermath. Despair.

There’s one conversation I want to share with you, because this person asked me to. Chris gave me permission to share it. Otherwise I wouldn’t.

It’s about our brother, Andrew Toy. Many of you know Andrew and Sarah Beth. They’re members of Sojourn. Andrew has had health struggles for a long time, but in recent weeks things have taken a particularly difficult turn. He’s currently in a hospital bed—he may be watching right now—from Cincinnati, facing major surgery with significant complications. A few days ago he asked his doctors, very directly, “What are my chances of dying?” And the answer was not low.

So we had a long phone conversation. Death is very real to him right now in a way most of us live in denial of. We talked about Luke 18—one of my favorite passages—where Jesus tells the story of two men praying: one confident in his own righteousness, the other painfully aware of his sin and brokenness. One says, “Thank you that I’m not like that man.” The other can only say, “God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” And Jesus asks, Which one went home justified?

We talked about that. We talked about Luke 8. We talked about this story today. And praise God for the grace in Andrew’s voice—the simplicity of trusting Jesus in the face of dread, the clarity that comes when death is not theoretical but possible. This is the strange gift of desperation. The strange gift of dread. It clarifies what matters. It clarifies what life is for.

And you can join me in praying that God would deliver him completely—that God would spare him and his family this pain. God can do that. But by Andrew’s own testimony—what he wanted me to say to you—is this:

God is present with him in this dreaded situation, whether deliverance comes or not.

That is beautiful. Because with God, things are different. Knowing who God is as Deliverer—even when deliverance delays or doesn’t come—changes everything.

I love these verses from Deuteronomy. Israel has been in the wilderness for forty years—forty years of desperation, fear, loss, and pain. And Moses says in Deuteronomy 8:

You shall remember the whole way that the LORD your God has led you these forty years in the wilderness, that he might humble you, testing you to know what was in your heart… And he humbled you and let you hunger, and fed you with manna… that he might make you know that man does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of the LORD… that he might humble you and test you, to do you good in the end.

That’s the clarity that comes in the wilderness.

That’s the clarity that comes in desperation.

That’s the clarity that comes in dread.

Henry David Thoreau famously said, “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation.” He goes on: what we call resignation is really confirmed desperation. And unconscious despair hides beneath the amusements of life.

I don’t know where you are today. I know many of you are in despair. Some of you are in dread. Some of you feel fine—and that’s good. There are seasons of rest. But sooner or later, every one of us will face our limits—our mortality, our lack of control.

And the message of God here is that the same God who was present to Jairus and his daughter, and to this bleeding woman, is the same God who has not changed. He is present now for us in Jesus. That truly is the good news.

Wherever you find yourself today—or if not today, then someday soon—when you face desperation and dread, there is hope.

There is hope because God will be present with you.

There is hope because Jesus welcomes the trembling.

There is hope because faith—simple, desperate faith—opens the door to his presence.

Dr. Jonathan T. Pennington is currently Professor of New Testament Interpretation at Southern Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky. He has also regularly served as a visiting professor at Reformed Theological Seminary (Orlando), Southeastern Seminary, The Village Church Institute (Dallas), and The Institute of Biblical Studies in Orlando, FL as well as Morling College (Melbourne, Australia).

This article is based upon the verbatim text of a sermon by Dr. Pennington. It has been lightly re-edited in Copilot, as well as by the theological staff at Third Millennium Ministries.