Desperate

Desperate

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. Jesus realized at once that healing power had gone out from him, so he turned around in the crowd and asked, “Who touched my robe?” His disciples said to him, “Look at this crowd pressing around you. How can you ask, ‘Who touched me?’” But he kept on looking around to see who had done it. 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 5:25-34)

To see her hand you need to look down. Way down. Down low. That's where she lives. Low to the ground. Low on the priority list. Low on the pecking order. She's low. Very low.

Can you see it? Her hand? Gnarled. Thin. Diseased. Dirt blackens the nails and stains her skin. Look carefully among the knees and the feet of the crowd. They’re scampering after Christ. He walks. She crawls. People bump her, but that doesn’t stop her. Others complain. She doesn’t care. The woman’s desperate. Blood won't stay in her body. “A woman in the crowd had suffered for twelve years with constant bleeding.” (Mark 5:25) Twelve years of clinics. Treatments. Herbs. Prayer meetings. Incantations.

“She had suffered a great deal from many doctors.” (v. 26) Do you smell quackery in those words? Doctors who’d done nothing to heal the disease, but had taken great pains to remove her wallet? She "had spent everything she had to pay them, but she had gotten no better. In fact, she had gotten worse.” (v. 26)

No health. No money. No family. “Unclean,” according to the Law of Moses. The Law protected women from aggressive, insensitive men during those times of the month. But in this woman's case, the application of the Law had left her not just untouched, but untouchable; ceremonially unclean. The hand you see in the crowd? The one reaching for the robe? No one will touch it.

That wasn't always the case. Surely a husband once took it in marriage. The hand looked different in those days: clean, soft skinned, perfumed. A husband once loved this hand.

A family once relied on this hand. To cook and sew. To wipe tears from cheeks, and tuck blankets under chins. Are the hands of a mother ever still? Only if she’s diseased.

Maybe the husband tried to stay with her, taking her to doctors and treatment centers. Or maybe he gave up quickly, overwhelmed by her naps, nausea and anemia. So he put her out. A change of clothes and a handful of change – that’s it. Closed the door.

She has nothing. No money. No home. No health. Dilapidated dreams. Deflated faith. Unwelcome in the synagogue. Unwanted by her community. For twelve years she’s suffered. She has nothing, and her health is getting worse.

Maybe that's what did it. She “had gotten worse.” (v. 26) This morning she could scarcely stand. She splashed water on her face and was horrified by the skeletal image she saw in the pool’s reflection. What you and I see in Auschwitz photos, she saw in her reflection – gaunt cheeks, tired and taut skin, and two full-moon eyes.

She’s desperate for a miracle. And her desperation births an idea.

"She had heard about Jesus." (v. 27) Every society has a grapevine, even the society of the sick. Word among the lepers and the left out was that Jesus could heal. And Jesus was coming. By invitation of the synagogue ruler, Jesus was coming to Capernaum.

Odd to find the ruler of the synagogue and the woman in the same story. He’s powerful. She’s pitiful. He’s in demand. She’s insignificant. He’s high. She’s low. But his daughter is dying. Tragedy has a way of leveling the social topography. So they find themselves on the same path in the village, and on the same page in the Bible.

As the crowd comes, she thinks, "If I can just touch his robe, I will be healed." (v. 28) At the right time, she crab-scurries through the crowd. Knees bump her ribs. "Move out of the way," someone shouts. She doesn't care; she’s not going to stop. Twelve years on the streets have toughened her.

Jesus' robe is in sight. Four tassels dangle from blue threads. Ornaments of holiness worn by Jewish men. How long has it been since she’s touched anything holy? She extends her hand toward a tassel.

Her sick hand. Her tired hand. The hand the husband no longer wants, and the family no longer needs. She touches the robe of Jesus, and "immediately the bleeding stopped, and she could feel in her body that she had been healed of her terrible condition." (v. 29)

Life rushes in. Pale cheeks turn pink. Shallow breaths become full. There are cracks in the Hoover Dam of her fragile health, and a river floods her soul. The woman feels power enter. And Jesus? Jesus feels power exit. "Jesus realized at once that healing power had gone out from him, so he turned around in the crowd and asked, 'Who touched my robe?'" (v. 30)

Did Jesus surprise even Jesus? Has Christ the divine moved faster than Jesus the human? The Savior outstepped the neighbor? "Who touched my robe?" You can’t steal a miracle from God.

His disciples are incredulous. "'Look at this crowd pressing around you. How can you ask, "Who touched me?"' But he kept on looking around to see who had done it." (vv. 31-32)

Can we fault this woman's timidity? She doesn't know what to expect. Jesus could berate her, embarrass her. Besides, he was her last choice. She sought the help of a dozen others before she sought his. And the people – what will they do? What will the ruler of the synagogue do? He’s upright. She’s unclean. And here she is, lunging at the town guest. No wonder she’s afraid.

But she has one reason to have courage. She is healed. "The woman, knowing what had happened, knowing she was the one, stepped up in fear and trembling, knelt before him, and gave him the whole story." (v. 33 MSG)

"The whole story." How long had it been since someone put the gear of life in Park, turned off the engine, and listened to her story? But when this woman reaches out to Jesus, he does. With the town bishop waiting, a young girl dying, and a crowd pressing, he still makes time for a woman from the fringe. And using a term he gives to no one else, he says, "Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace. Your suffering is over." (v. 34)

And Christ moves on. But not before acknowledging the results of her faith.

And she moves on. But not before acknowledging the object of her faith. Maybe the Hebrew writer had her in mind when he wrote that, "Faith is the confidence that what we hope for will happen; it gives us assurance about things we cannot see." (Heb. 11:1)

But we can't. We can’t move on. We can't because we've been there. Been her. Are there. Are her. Desperate. Dirty. Drained.

Illness took her strength. What’s taken yours? Red ink? Hard drink? Late nights in the wrong arms? Long days on the wrong job? Pregnant too soon? Too often? Is her hand your hand? If so, take heart. Your family may shun it. Society may avoid it. But Jesus? He wants to touch it. When your hand reaches through the masses, he knows.

Yours is the hand he made; yours is the hand he loves to hold.

Grace,

Randy