Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26
The woman in our story had been hemorrhaging for twelve years. Imagine what her life was like. Women were considered unclean when they were menstruating. In fact, they were considered unclean for seven days after their cycle ended. And since her cycle never ended, she was never considered clean.
During her monthly “time of impurity,” a woman was not allowed to enter the temple to worship God. She was not allowed to sit where others might sit because she would contaminate whatever she sat upon. She was not permitted to touch another person or that person would be made unclean. Usually there was a fellowship among the women that allowed them to share and be in relationship with one another during their cycle. But considering this woman’s ailment, most likely even other women were afraid to touch her. What if this mysterious illness was contagious? What if it was punishment for the woman’s sins?
Can you imagine how it must have felt to not be touched by another human being for twelve years?!
I have known of people like her. Maybe not the hemorrhaging part, but other parts ring true.
There was older woman in one of my churches who, every Sunday, would say to me, “I have to get my Cindy hug.” If she went straight to coffee hour, she always sought me out before she left. And if I had gone straight to a meeting, she would send an email: “I missed my Cindy hug today.” I knew why those hugs were so important. I knew what she didn’t say: that she got all the hugs she could on Sunday because she had to store them up to last all week.
We all need to be touched. We all need to be loved. So even though we may have little in common with the woman in our story, we share her need and we fear her plight.
Maybe she was a girl when the ailment began, not yet married. Then she never would be married. She would be the property of her father until he died, and then a burden on her brothers. Or if she was married when the problem began, her husband could not be expected to keep a wife he could not touch, a wife who could not bear him children. He might keep her out of love, but no one would blame him if he didn’t.
At first she would have known it was because of her illness—it wasn’t a reflection on her personally that no one wanted to touch her. But after a while it must have felt very personal . . . SHE was unclean. SHE was untouchable. SHE was unacceptable to God and all of humanity.
She must have sought a cure. She must have seen every doctor she could afford, every miracle worker who came down the pike. She must have sought forgiveness. In a culture where illness was sometimes perceived as punishment from God, she must have prayed until her throat was hoarse. But still no end to the hemorrhaging.
Twelve years of being unclean. Twelve years of being refused entrance to the temple. Twelve years of shame.
I have known people like her. I have known people who carry such shame . . . sometimes because of things they have done, more often because of things that were done to them, but sometimes simply because of who they are.
I once knew a man who had been told for too many years that he was unclean, unfit, unworthy. He had been made to feel ashamed of who he was. He had been told he was unwelcome in church. But because of a television commercial from the United Church of Christ, he went online to see if there was such a church near him. The nearest church was 60 mountainous miles away, but its website carried a statement assuring him that even he would be welcome.
So he drove over an hour that Sunday morning to see if it might be true. It was the first Sunday of the month, and communion Sunday. When he came forward to take the bread and dip it in the cup, he looked me in the eyes as tears streamed down his face. All he could say was, “I’ve waited so long . . . I’ve waited so long.” He knew how it felt to be labeled a sinner and excluded from the temple.
The woman of our story had been excluded so long, had been ill so long, I wonder what she thought when she heard about Jesus. Did she get excited at the news of this new healer in town? Or did she figure she’d heard them all, seen them all, been ignored or taken advantage of by them all? But out of desperation she followed Jesus, and what she saw gave her courage.
Jesus called Matthew, a tax collector, to be his disciple. Tax collectors were despised by their people. They were Jews, hired by the Roman government to collect taxes from their own people. They were not paid by the Romans. They were paid by charging as much as they could get from their own people, and keeping the surplus. And that’s who Jesus called to be a disciple?
Then Jesus went to dinner with him—Matthew and other tax collectors—and sinners! Good Jews like Jesus were not supposed to associate with sinners, and certainly were not supposed to eat with them. Maybe Jesus didn’t care so much about propriety, about what other people thought. Maybe he wouldn’t dismiss her because she was assumed to be a sinner.
Maybe that’s what gave the woman courage. Not a lot of courage. Not enough to walk right up to Jesus like that religious leader did and ask for her miracle. No, she was too scared of being rejected. So she snuck up on him, not giving him a choice. Some would say it was a cowardly act, even a selfish act—for she would make him unclean, too—but she was beyond worrying about such things.
The leader of the synagogue, however, was not beyond worrying about such things. Although unnamed in Matthew, in the Gospel of Mark he is called Jairus. As a leader of the synagogue, he was accustomed to being listened to, accustomed to his orders being followed. “Yet this precious child’s illness has reduced him, weakened him, lowered him to the ground in front of a traveling folk healer in a last-ditch effort. . . . By going to this itinerate preacher-healer who was already in trouble with the authorities (authorities like him, in fact, his colleagues and perhaps even his friends), he risks being ridiculed.”[1] He risked his place in society, the respect he had earned, perhaps even his livelihood. And none of it mattered. He risked everything, and at first it looked like the risk was worth it: Jesus agreed to accompany him back to his daughter’s side.
But then he saw her. That woman. The one with the hemorrhaging. The one he had seen many times sitting outside the temple. He always kept an eye on her—sometimes the “unclean” try to sneak in. And there she was, and he saw it happening as if in slow motion. He saw her reaching toward Jesus, and he wanted to shout “No!” If she touched Jesus, Jesus would be made unclean, and he would have to go to the temple to be purified, and that was precious time Jarius can’t afford to waste. But he couldn’t stop her, and when she touched Jesus’ cloak, Jesus knew he had been touched. Instead of reprimanding her, instead of sending her away so he could be made holy again, Jesus healed her. You could tell—just by looking at her—that she was well again. Color returned to her cheeks. Strength returned to weak limbs.
But that’s not all. Instead of calling her “unclean,” Jesus called her “daughter.” Daughter. Like his daughter. Like his twelve-year-old little girl. This woman had been sick as long as his child had been alive. How could he want to deny her of her miracle?
You see, throughout the Gospels, Jesus does not provide only physical healing. Physical illness invariably caused social illness as well. It interrupted relationships, disturbed social relations. So the very act of healing brought the wounded back into relationship. It was social healing.
And to make it even clearer, he called the woman “Daughter.” Since they had no relation, the term could mean only one thing: Daughter of Israel. He invites the wounded back into the community. He invites the proud to see that they are part of the community, too.
Many of us are in need of healing. Some of us are in need of physical healing, or our loved ones are, and I wish I could tell you why some people seem to get miracles and others don’t. I wish I could tell you why only some people get cures or remissions. I don’t have those answers. I’m sorry; I wish I did.
But I do know that some of us are in need of relational healing. Our connections have been stretched to the point of snapping, and we are left with the loose ends of frazzled nerves. Healing of our wounded relationships may mean reconciliation or it may mean wishing one another well in our separate journeys. Either way, we need healing.
This is true in our personal relationships as well as our relationships within the church. We need to relate to one another in healthy ways, so that if we have a problem with someone, we go to them rather than talk to others about them. We need to model social healing.
Some of us keep ourselves at a distance. We need to be brought back into community. We need to be reminded that we belong. Or maybe we’re the ones who need to do the drawing back. Surely that is part of our calling in this time when “church” seems synonymous with “judgment” and religious seems synonymous with “hate.” We need to heal and be healed. We need to heal in order to be healed.
We also need social healing on a larger scale. This week I heard a politician say that we should vote for the candidate who is on our side. On one level, I agree with that. Since my marriage still isn’t recognized in all fifty states, I tend to vote for people who are on my side. On the other hand, I have lots of people on my side. What about those who don’t? Can we get social healing for that?
One scholar says: “The effect of Jesus’ life and teachings was that people no longer accepted social brokenness . . . as irreversible.”[2]
I pray that this is true.
[1] Huey, Kate. “Healing Powers.” www.iucc.org.
[2] Ewart, David. holytextures.com