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? It’s 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 is 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. You name it, she’d tried it.
“She had suffered a great deal from many doctors.” (v. 26) Do you smell quackery in those words? Maybe. This
is Mark’s account, not Luke’s – and Luke’s the doctor. Luke simply states that
the woman “…could find no cure.” (Luke 8:43) Apparently “suffering” and “many
doctors” didn’t suit Luke’s notion of the Hippocratic oath, or maybe he was just
helping his colleagues avoid a malpractice lawsuit. According to Mark, however,
doctors had done nothing to heal the disease, but had taken great pains to
remove her wallet in the process. 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, was it? Surely a husband once took it in marriage. The hand
looked different in those days: clean, soft-skinned, and perfumed. A husband
once loved this hand. And 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 simply gave up, overwhelmed by her naps, nausea and anemia. So he put
her out. A change of clothes and a handful of change – that’s it. Simply 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) Maybe this
morning she could scarcely stand. Perhaps she had 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 likely 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. She’s twelve – the same number of years
with which the woman in this story has been untouchable. Tragedy has a way of
leveling the social topography. So the woman and the synagogue ruler 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) Then, at just 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
out-stepped 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,
or 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 untouchable. And here
she is, lunging at the town guest. No wonder she’s afraid.
But she has one
reason to have courage. She’s 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, that’s exactly what 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 then Christ moves on. But not before acknowledging the results of the
woman’s faith.
And she moves on,
too. 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 sometimes we
can't. We can’t move on. We can't because we've been there. Are there. We’ve been
her. Are her. Desperate. Dirty. Drained. Untouchable.
Illness took her
strength. And what’s taken yours? Red ink? Hard drink? Late nights in the wrong
arms? Long days in 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.
You’re not
untouchable; yours is the hand he made. And yours is the hand he loves to hold.
Grace,
Randy
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