Then the frightened woman, trembling at the
realization of what had happened to her, came and fell to her knees in front of
him and told him what she had done. And he said to her, “Daughter, your faith
has made you well. Go in peace. Your suffering is over.” (Mark
5:33-34)
A clock for Christmas
is really not the kind of gift that thrills an eight-year-old, but I said thank
you and took it to my bedroom anyway. I put it on the nightstand and plugged it
in. It was one of those rectangular-faced G.E. types. It didn't have moving
numbers – it had rotating hands, instead. It didn't play music either, but over
the years it did develop a slight, soothing hum that you could hear when the
room was quiet.
Today, of
course, you can buy clocks that sound like rain when it's time to sleep, or like
your mother when it's time to wake up. But not this one. The alarm would’ve made
the dogs howl. And forget a snooze button – you just picked it up and chucked it
across the room. It probably wouldn't net 50¢ at a garage sale in today’s age of
digital clocks and musical alarms. But still, over time, I kind of grew
attached to it. Granted, people don't usually get sentimental about cheap, electric
clocks, but for some reason I did about this one. Not because of its accuracy,
because it ran a little slow. Not even the hum, which I didn't particularly
mind. I liked it because of the light.
You see, this
clock’s hands glowed in the dark. All day, every day it soaked up the light; it
sponged up the sun. The hands were little sticks of ticks-and-time and
sunshine. And when the night came, the clock was ready. When you flicked off
the light to sleep, the little clock flicked on its light and shined. Not much
light, mind you. But when your world is dark, just a little light seems like a
lot. Kind of like the light a woman got when she met Jesus.
We don't know
her name, but we know about her situation. Her world was midnight black – the grope-in-the-dark-and-hope-for-help
kind of black. Read the following two verses and you’ll see for yourself: “A
woman in the crowd had suffered for twelve years with constant bleeding. She
had suffered a great deal from many doctors, and over the years she had spent
everything she had to pay them, but she had gotten no better. In fact, she had
gotten worse.” (Mark 5:24-26)
Can you imagine?
"Bleeding for twelve years;" "suffered very much;"
"spent all the money she had," and "getting worse." A
chronic, perpetual bleeding disorder. That kind of condition would be horrible for
any woman of any era, but for a Jewess? Nothing could be worse, because no part
of her life was left unaffected. Sexually, she couldn’t touch her husband. Maternally,
she couldn’t bear children. Domestically, anything she touched was considered unclean.
And spiritually, she couldn’t even go to church. She was physically exhausted
and socially ostracized. Granted, she had sought help "under the care of
many doctors," but the only thing those doctors had managed to do was to
leave her worse-off and her wallet lighter. Maybe she even went outside
conventional medicine. For instance, the Talmud gives no fewer than eleven
cures for her condition, and she had probably tried them all. Some were probably
legitimate treatments. Others, such as carrying the ashes of an ostrich egg in
a linen cloth, were just empty superstitions.
She "had
spent all she had." To dump financial strain on top of physical strain is adding
insult to injury. A client battling cancer once told me that the pressure of creditors
hounding him for payment in connection with his ongoing medical care was just
as devastating as the pain that came with the disease itself. Making matters
worse for this particular woman, "instead of getting better she grew worse."
In other words, she may have been hounded by creditors for medical treatments
that proved completely worthless. She woke up every day in a body that no one
wanted. And by the time we get to her story, she’s down to her last prayer. And
on the particular day that we encounter her, she's about to pray it.
However, by the
time she gets to Jesus, he’s surrounded by people. He's on his way to help the
daughter of Jairus, the most important man in her community. So, what are the
odds that he will interrupt an urgent mission with a high-ranking official to
help the likes of her? Pretty long. But what are the odds that she’ll survive
if she doesn't take a chance? Longer still. So she takes a chance: "If I
can just touch his clothes," she thinks, "I will be healed." (v.
28) Risky decision. To touch him, she would have to touch the other people that
were surrounding him. And if one of them were to recognize her it’d be “hello
rebuke,” and “good-bye cure.” But what choice did she have? At this point she
has no money, no friends and no solutions. All she has is a crazy hunch that
Jesus can help, and a hope that he will.
And maybe that's
all you have, too: just a crazy hunch and a high hope. You have nothing to give
but you’re hurting, and all you have to offer Jesus is your hurt. Maybe that’s kept
you from coming to God. Oh, you've taken a step or two in his direction, but
then you saw the other people around him. They seemed so clean, so neat, so
trim and fit in their faith. And when you saw them, they blocked your view of God.
So you stepped back. And if that describes you, then take heart because note
carefully that only one person was commended that day for having faith – and it
wasn't a wealthy giver. It wasn't a loyal follower, or even an acclaimed
teacher. It was a shame-struck, penniless outcast who clutched onto her hunch
that Jesus could help, and her hope that he would. That, by the way, isn’t a
bad definition of faith: a conviction that he can, and a hope that he will. Sounds
similar to the definition of faith given by the Bible: "Without faith no
one can please God. Anyone who comes to God must believe that he is real and that
he rewards those who truly want to find him." (Heb. 11:6)
That’s not too
complicated, is it? Faith is the belief that God is real and that God is good.
Faith is not some mystical, out-of-body experience, or a midnight vision, or a
voice in the forest. It’s a choice to believe that the one who made it all
hasn't left it all, and that he still sends light into the shadows and responds
to even the simplest gestures of faith. There was no guarantee, of course. She
hoped Jesus would respond . . . she longed for it . . . but she didn't know if
he would. All she knew was that he was there and that he was good. That's
faith.
Faith is not the
belief that God will do what you want. Faith is the belief that God will do
what is right. "Blessed are the dirt-poor, nothing-to-give,
trapped-in-a-corner, destitute, and diseased," Jesus said, "for
theirs is the kingdom of heaven." (Matt. 5:6 – my translation) God's
economy is upside down to our way of thinking because God says that the more
hopeless your circumstance, the more likely your salvation. The greater your
cares, the more genuine your prayers. The darker the room, the greater the need
for light. Which takes me back to my clock. When it was daylight, I never appreciated
my little clock’s capacity to glow in the dark. But as the shadows grew, so did
my gratitude.
Similarly, a
healthy woman would never have appreciated the power of a touch of the hem of
his robe. But this woman was sick, and when her dilemma met his dedication, a
miracle occurred. Note, too, that her part in the healing was pretty small –
all she did was extend her arm through the crowd: "If only I can touch him,"
she thought. But what's important to remember is that it’s not the form or type
of effort, but that the effort was made in the first place. The fact is, she
did something. She refused to settle for sickness another day and resolved to
make a move. Healing begins when we do something. Healing begins when we reach out.
Healing starts when we take a step. God's help is near and always available,
but it’s only given to those who seek it. Nothing results from apathy.
The great work
in this story is the healing that occurred. But the great truth is that the
healing began with her touch. And with that small, courageous gesture, she
experienced Jesus' tender power. Compared to God's part, our part is minuscule
but necessary. We don't have to do much, but we do have to do something like
asking for forgiveness, confessing a sin, calling Mom, visiting a doctor, being
baptized, feeding a hungry person, praying, teaching, going. Do something that
demonstrates faith, because faith with no effort is no faith at all. Have faith
that God will respond. He has never rejected a genuine gesture of faith. Never.
God honors radical, risk-taking faith. When arks are built, lives are saved.
When soldiers march, Jericho’s tumble. When staffs are raised, seas still open.
When a lunch is shared, thousands are fed. And when a garment is touched, whether
by the hand of an anemic woman in Galilee, or by the prayers of a beggar in
Bangladesh, Jesus stops. He stops and responds.
Mark assures you
of that because when this woman touched Christ, two things happened that happen
nowhere else in the Bible and Mark recorded them both. First, Jesus heals her before
he knows it. The power left automatically and instantaneously. It's as if the
Father short-circuited the system and the divinity of Christ was a step ahead
of the humanity of Christ. Her need summoned his help. No neon lights or loud
shouts. No razzle-dazzle. No fanfare. No hoopla. No splash. Just help. Just
like my dark room brought the light out of my clock, our dark world brings out
the light of God. And second, Jesus calls her “daughter” – “Daughter, your
faith has made you well." (v. 34) It's the only time Jesus calls any woman
– anywhere – “daughter.” God’s daughter. Just imagine how that made her feel
because who could remember the last time she’d received any term of affection,
or knew the last time kind eyes had met hers? It’d probably been a decade or
more. To the loved, a word of affection is just a morsel, but to the love-starved,
a word of affection can be a feast. And Jesus gave this woman a banquet.
Tradition holds
that, in thankfulness, she never forgot what Jesus did. Legend states that she
stayed with Jesus and followed him as he carried his cross
up to Calvary. Some believe she was Veronica, the woman who, according to
Catholic tradition, walked the road to Golgotha with him. And when the sweat
and blood were stinging his eyes, she wiped his forehead. We don't know if the
legend or traditions are true, but they could be. And I don't know if the same
has happened to you, but I know that it can – and then be thankful when it
does.
Grace,
Randy
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