Yours is the Hand He Loves to Hold
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?”
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. Extremely 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 into her, but that doesn’t stop her. Others complain, but 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. WebMD. YouTube diagnostic and self-help videos. 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 is the doctor here. Luke, on the other hand, 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.” (Mark 5:26) From broke to broken.
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. She’s a contagion; a disease. She’s toxic and no one wants to be around this wasted waif. It’s been that way for over a decade. She might as well be wearing a scarlet letter “A,” like Hester Prynne wore in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s 1850 novel The Scarlet Letter. But for this woman, it would be a scarlet letter “D” for “diseased,” and the color of what she can’t keep – her blood.
That wasn't always the case, was it? We don’t know, but surely a husband once took her hand in marriage. The hand looked different in those days: clean, soft-skinned, and perfumed. Maybe a husband once loved that hand, and a family once relied on that 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 they’re diseased.
And if once married, 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, maybe he put her out. A change of clothes and a handful of change – that’s it. Simply closed the door and walked away. And now 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, her health is getting worse, she’s not getting any younger and no one even cares.
Maybe that's what did it. She “had gotten worse.” (Mark 5:26) 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 he 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) Funny. 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." (Mark 5:31-32)
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) She stood up to then kneel in humility and reverence.
"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 ever recorded, 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 concluding with words of encouragement and endearment.
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 see. 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 messes and the masses, he knows because 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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