Happy ending. Two wonderful healing stories, one sandwiched in the middle of the other. First, we hear about the little girl, Jairus' daughter. Word had spread that this itinerant rabbi from Nazareth who reportedly had incredible healing powers had arrived in town. Enter Jairus, one of the high muckety-mucks in the local synagogue who happens to be the father of a very sick child. He wants his sweet baby well (and she would always be his sweet baby, no matter how old she was — any father knows that). That is why the gospel record presents him as dashing up to Jesus and, instead of making a genteel request, falling on his knees, probably grabbing Jesus around the ankles, and over and over, half asking, half crying, begging, "My little daughter is dying. Please come and put your hands on her so that she will be healed and live" (v. 23).
We have no record of Jesus' response. Just that Jairus' begging works. So they head off toward Jairus' home.
Meanwhile, we are introduced to a nameless woman, a nobody. Not nearly of the same social standing as Jairus. For all twelve years of Jairus' daughter's life, this poor lady has had no life at all. You see, these hemorrhages were not merely inconvenient; in a society that places immense value on ritual purity, they disqualified her (and anyone with whom she might come in contact) from being a part of the community of faith.
This was some spunky lady. As we say, she had survived this misery for a dozen years without giving in. There is no mention of a husband here, but if she had had one, in a day when getting out of a marriage could be for as silly a reason as burning the breakfast toast and was as easy as handing a wife a handwritten notice of intent and saying publicly, "I divorce you; I divorce you; I divorce you," he probably had dumped her years ago. No doubt she had tried all the ritual cures — the Talmud itself gives no fewer than eleven of them. Some of them are tonics and astringents; but some of them are sheer superstitions like carrying the ashes of an ostrich egg in a linen rag in summer and a cotton rag in winter; or carrying a barley corn which had been found in the dung of a white female donkey.[1] No luck. Doctors had been no help — all they had cured her of was her bank balance; now she was so broke that it was all she could do to pay attention. But she had paid attention when word came about this healer.
What would she do when she got to the rabbi? Would she slowly make her way near to him then, with a flourish, whip off her veil and, while horrified townsfolk looked on, announce her desire for healing? Naw. Too ostentatious. She settled on a plan. "If I just touch his clothes, I will be healed" (v. 28). Just reach out and touch. No big deal. And if there are lots of people around, as there surely will be, it will be even easier. Reach out and touch ... then steal away into the crowd. I wonder where she learned that ... the healing power of a simple touch?
We know what happens next. Her chutzpah is rewarded. As the text says, "Immediately her bleeding stopped and she felt in her body that she was freed from her suffering" (v. 29).
Wait a minute! "Who touched my clothes?" (v. 30). Uh-oh — if this lady had taken a great leap of faith before, now the desire must have been to find a great leap of escape. Is there a nearby hole to crawl into? Become invisible? She could have stood silently — even the disciples had given her an out: "Gracious, Jesus, you see the crowd pressing in on you; how can you say, ‘Who touched me?' " Just keep quiet, dear heart. Would that not be preferable to admitting in front of God and everybody that she had just made this rabbi as unclean as she was by her audacious and selfish touch? And what was the penalty for deliberately making someone else unclean? Did someone say death?
Aw, so what! Why not just admit it? This life of isolation and exclusion, no family, no friends, no love, no care is not much better than living death anyway.
It only took a moment for her to make up her mind. "Who touched my clothes?" With fear and trembling she came forward, the veil slowly falling from her face. Neighbors in the crowd must have gasped when they saw who was coming to confess. She was unclean! Haltingly, she began to explain ... twelve years, rituals, doctors, money, last resort ... "If I could but touch...."
"Daughter, [and this is the only time in the gospels we have record of Jesus addressing anyone this way] ... Daughter, your faith has healed you; go in peace, and be freed of your suffering" (v. 34). Or in a more contemporary rendering, "Go in peace, and take care of yourself." Wow!
Meanwhile, the business at hand interrupts. That little girl, Jairus' daughter ... don't bother Jesus anymore. It is too late. She is gone. By the time the entourage gets to the house, the weeping and wailing that are a traditional part of the funeral have already begun. Jesus says they have jumped the gun: "Why all this commotion and wailing? The child is not dead but asleep" (v. 39). They all give that diagnosis the old hardy-har-har only to have to eat their sardonic laughter in another few moments.
We know what happens: He takes her hand and says, "Little girl, I say to you, get up!" (v. 41). And she does. The healing touch comes through again. Perhaps the message in these stories is that there is something tremendously therapeutic in touch.
Churches are slowly learning that. There is more and more of it on Sunday mornings, a lesson that many of us who grew up in another era have had to reluctantly learn. One of my cyber friends came across this in a church newsletter called Touch in Church.
What is all this touching in church?
It used to be a person could come to church and sit in the pew and not be bothered by all this friendliness and certainly not by touching. I used to come to church and leave untouched. Now I have to be nervous about what's expected of me. I have to worry about responding to the person sitting next to me.
Oh, I wish it could be the way it used to be; I could just ask the person next to me: How are you? And the person could answer: Oh, just fine. And we'd both go home ... strangers who have known each other for twenty years.
But now the minister asks us to look at each other. I'm worried about that hurt look I saw in that woman's eyes. Now I'm concerned, because when the minister asks us to greet one another, the man next to me held my hand so tightly I wondered if he had been touched in years. Now I'm upset because the lady next to me cried and then apologized and said it was because I was so kind and that she needed a friend right now.
Now I have to get involved. Now I have to suffer when this community suffers. Now I have to be more than a person coming to observe a service. That man last week told me I'd never know how much I'd touched his life. All I did was smile and tell him I understood what it was to be lonely.
Lord, I'm not big enough to touch and be touched! The stretching scares me. What if I disappoint somebody? What if I'm too pushy? What if I cling too much? What if somebody ignores me? "Pass the peace." "The peace of Christ be with you." "And also with you." And mean it. Lord, I can't resist meaning it!
I'm touched by it, I'm enveloped by it! I find I do care about that person next to me! I find I am involved! And I'm scared. O Lord, be here beside me. You touch me, Lord, so that I can touch and be touched! So that I can care and be cared for! So that I can share my life with all those others that belong to you! All this touching in church — Lord, it's changing me![2]
What was it our audacious friend said so many centuries ago? "If I but touch ... I will be healed."
1. William Barclay, The Daily Study Bible, CD-ROM edition (Liguori, Missouri: Liguori Faithware, 1996). Used by permission of Westminster/John Knox Press.
2. Brian Stoffregen, via Ecunet, "Gospel Notes for Next Sunday," #144.