When she heard about Jesus, she came up behind Him in the crowd and touched His garment. For she said, "If only I may touch His clothes, I shall be made well." (Mark 5:27-28)
They gather around the Healer, crowding him with their infirmities. They have come because they have heard the stories and wonder whether he might be their answer, their miracle, their cure. From their sick beds, begging spots and corners they have come. The blind, the maimed, the crippled, the deaf, the sick, the dying and those who wish they were dead are standing together like some strange ill-formed group. Who knew there were so many hurting people, hoping for healing? I envy them.
It’s not so easy for me. While others stand near Jesus, holding out their hands in hope, I stand at the back of the crowd, my hands clasped tightly in front of me to ensure I don’t accidentally touch someone. And as for hope – hope disappeared with the last of my money, spent paying doctors who shake their heads and say “I do not know”.
Twelve years I have suffered like this. Twelve long and lonely years. At first I felt like the illness was something I needed to get rid of. Lately, I almost feel as though I have become my illness – untouchable, unclean.
The crowd jostles each other, fighting for the place closest to the Healer. Someone deliberately pushes someone else out of the way, so that they can move a little closer to the front of the crowd. How long has it been since I was pushed? I can’t even remember what a push feels like. I would welcome any touch, however unkind the motives may be. These people don’t realize how lucky they are to stand in a crowd, to feel people pushing up against them, to feel another human. Or how lucky they are for the chance to hear those words “You are cured. Your sins are forgiven.”
There is no cure for me. Nor is there any forgiveness of sins. You see I know something that none of those doctors knew. I know why I am sick. God is angry with me. It’s the only explanation. Why else would he make me unclean for more than ten years? Why else would he hold back the cure, knowing how much I want to be made well? I must have done something really awful to anger him this way. I only wish I knew what it was. I wish I could find the forgiveness and cure that these people before me seek.
For this Healer could cure me. I feel sure of that. If he wanted to, he could make me well. But how could I ever stand among other people, knowing that I am not worthy to take my place in a crowd, knowing that just one touch will make them unclean. I always thought that nothing could ever get worse for me. Years of blood, no human touch, permanently unclean – what could be worse than that? I think I have found my “worse”. For standing here, knowing that the man before me can make me well, but also knowing that there is no way of asking him to make me well, is much worse than anything I have ever experienced. Healing is right in front of me – but beyond my grasp.
Unless – but no, it’s impossible. But if I could just – could I? Could I? If I crept up behind him, I could touch his robe. He would never know. And I feel sure that just a single touch of his robe would be enough to heal me.
An important man from the synagogue comes up to speak to the Healer. I do not hear what is said, but the Healer looks like he has decided to go somewhere. He turns and follows the man – perhaps to his house.
People still crowd around him, but I notice they are crowded mostly in front of the Healer. The back of him is almost clear. This is my best chance. I either try to touch him now, or spend the rest of my life wondering what would have happened.
I walk quickly through the crowd, still keeping my hands in front of me, dodging through the people so that I don’t contaminate them with my touch. I crouch down low, creep slowly forward, reach out my hand and touch the bottom of the Healer’s robe.
The flow of blood stops.
It stops.
It actually stops.
I feel like jumping up and down. I feel like kissing the Healer. I feel like turning and shouting to everyone “I am healed. I am healed.” Instead, I grasp my hands in front of me, bow down low and dodge through the crowd, careful not to touch anyone.
“Who touched my clothes?” It is the healer who speaks. I stop walking and slowly turn around.
“You see the people crowding against you,” one of his disciples says, “and yet you can ask, ‘Who touched me?’”
Jesus looks around the crowd, as if trying to see who has touched him. I grasp my hands even tighter than before. What should I do? If I tell him what I did he will be angry. But if I don’t, when his eyes see my face he will know I was the one. I should have known this would happen. I should have known there was no healing for someone like me. I should at least do the honourable thing and admit what I have done.
I walk up to him, not daring even to look at his face, shaking so badly it feels like even the earth is trembling beneath my feet.
“Please, Lord. It was I who touched you. I am very sorry. I have suffered from a hemorrhage for 12 years and I have tried everything to become well. I knew that if I only touched the hem of your garment, I would be healed.”
I wait for the blood to start again. I hope that nothing worse will happen. He seems like a good man. Perhaps he will decide that the return of my blood flow is punishment enough. I stare at the ground, in fear and in hope.
“Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering.”
I stand up straight and look at his face. This seems impossible to believe, and yet I see the truth of it upon his face, feel the truth inside of me.
“Thank you,” I say, but some other men, who appear to be from the house of the synagogue ruler are talking to him.
I walk back through the crowd, with my head held high, my hands swinging by my sides, savouring the touch of people as I pass them.
