Hunches

Hunches

Jesus went with him, and all the people followed, crowding around him. 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. She had heard about Jesus, so she came up behind him through the crowd and touched his robe. For she thought to herself, “If I can just touch his robe, I will be healed.” Immediately the bleeding stopped, and she could feel in her body that she had been healed of her terrible condition. . . . 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 5:24-29; 33-34)

A clock for Christmas is really not the kind of gift that thrills an eight-year-old boy, 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 no, 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 strange 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 – grope-in-the-dark-and-hope-for-help black. Read the following two verses and you’ll see what I mean: “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 menstrual disorder. That kind of condition would be horrible for any woman of any era. But for a Jewess? Well, 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 – no washing dishes; no sweeping floors. 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 clout, no friends and no solutions. All she has is a crazy hunch that Jesus can help, and a hope that he will.

And truth be told, 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.

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 he 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 here 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 tells you 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 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.

Second, he 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

Leo Tolstoy, the great Russian writer, tells of the time he was walking down the street and passed a beggar. Tolstoy reached into his pocket to give the beggar some money, but his pocket was empty. Tolstoy turned to the man and said, "I'm sorry, my brother, but I have nothing to give." The beggar brightened and said, "You have given me more than I asked for – you have called me brother." You see, 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 she never forgot what Jesus did. Legend states that she stayed with Jesus and followed him as he carried his cross up Calvary. Some believe she was Veronica, the woman who, according to Catholic tradition, walked the road to the cross with him. And when the sweat and blood were stinging his eyes, she wiped his forehead. She, at an hour of great need, received his touch – and he, at his hour of pain, received hers. We don't know if the legend or traditions are true, but we know they could be. And I don't know if the same has happened to you, but I know it can.

Grace,

Randy