The Interruption

(From Luke 8)

This tale might well be called the “Interruption of the Interruption.” But of course, I had no idea that Jesus had already been interrupted, by none other than the leader of our synagogue, a man named Jairus. All I was trying to do was keep as much out of sight as possible, drawing no attention to myself.

 Had I known about Jairus, and his close-to-death young daughter, I would surely have stayed away. After all, Jairus was a leader, a prominent person, and I was a nobody. What’s worse, I was a nobody who was unclean and had no right to be out and among a crowd of people. Jesus would surely come to the aid of Jairus, and he just as surely would not even acknowledge me, an unclean nobody.

 You see, I’d suffered from a bleeding, a chronic bleeding. For twelve years I suffered. Oh, I tried to get help, spending practically everything I had on physicians and cures, all of which failed. To say that I was discouraged would be an understatement of great proportions. To be honest, I’d lost all hope of healing.

 Then, I heard about Jesus. Jesus, the miracle-worker. Jesus, the healer. Jesus, the prophet. Jesus, the giver of hope. And not just to the prominent, but to the everyday people, the poor, the nobodies. But how would he treat someone who was ritually unclean? After all, wasn’t Jesus a good Jew, a follower of the Law?

 I had to chance it. I was desperate. Living in virtual isolation for twelve long years, suffering as I did, had taken its toll. I might as well have been living alone in a desert.

 I hadn’t always been sick. At one time, my life had been full of promise. As I grew and matured, marriage to a local man was a likely future for me, including a home of my own. Then, children, a dream of mine since my own childhood. I would have been a great mother, I told myself. My family and friends agreed, and plans were coming together for my marriage into another local family. It looked like all my dreams would come true. And I’d have no fewer than eight children!

 Once the bleeding began, though, my dreams were lost, slowly trickling away, day after day. Marriage and children were casualties to this chronic condition. Why was this happening to me? Had my sins condemned me to a life alone, shunned by literally the entire community? Was it me? Was it somehow all my fault? Did I cause this? 

 Whatever the cause, I was left with only a tiny shred of hope and faith. But now, Jesus had arrived, fanning the embers of that hope and faith.

 Unfortunately, it was difficult to find him alone. He attracted a crowd, it seems, wherever he went. I would have preferred, of course, to seek Jesus in private. But that would be impossible and my desperation drove me, even if it meant that I would find him only in public. Besides, what if he left town and never returned? I feared that this day, this time, this opportunity, might be my only chance. So, I dressed, binding myself as best I could to stop the constant flow. I ventured out, cautiously, searching for him.

 Finding Jesus was not hard. I sought out the noise of the crowd that seemed to follow him everywhere. And there they were, only a few streets away. But I hadn’t counted on the interruption from Jairus. When I arrived on the scene, Jairus, literally on his knees, was pleading with Jesus to come and save his dying child.

 And of course, Jesus would go with Jairus. I was fully confident of that and began to doubt my personal mission to seek healing. After all, his child was ill unto death and my situation, though terrible, was not as serious.

 I quickly altered my plans. As Jesus set off (at a brisk pace, I might add) with Jairus, the crowd that had been listening to Jesus began to follow them. They wanted to see what Jesus would do for Jairus. What if I could simply blend in with them, becoming part of the throng? Perhaps I could simply touch Jesus, or even an article of his clothing, without slowing his pace to the stricken child. I felt sure that even a touch would heal me.

 Covering myself as best I could, I worked my way up to the front of the crowd, expending all of the energy that I could muster. And bending low to keep myself concealed, I reached for Jesus. My hand fell upon the fringe of his robe, touching it ever so gently. Continuing on, I reached again, hoping for a firmer touch the second time.

 But now, several in the crowd blocked any further contact with Jesus. I fell back. However, before I could assess my disappointment, something began to change. Something inside of me. It’s hard to describe, but I began to feel a sense of wholeness, a feeling that I could barely remember from twelve years before. Though it was impossible to inspect myself while out in public, I was certain that my bleeding had stopped. I could scarcely conceal my joy. I was healed!

 My mission accomplished, I wanted to leave as invisibly as I had come. As I turned back to retrace my steps, I heard Jesus cry out “Stop!” And I instantly knew that I had been found out. My mind raced with possibilities. I could be called out for the transgression of appearing in public in an unclean state. I might be blamed for “stealing” some of Jesus’ healing power. The twelve-year unclean stigma weighed heavily on me, and so I imagined only rebukes from Jesus.

Illustration by Judy Gordon

 “Who touched me?” He asked. To most in the crowd, it seemed a silly question. One of his disciples tried to reason with him, explaining the closeness of so many people on the street.

 But he was not dissuaded. “Someone touched me,” he went on, and it was clear that he would not proceed until he found out who it was. “I felt it, a healing power left me.”

 So, here was my moment of truth. Expecting some kind of anger or even punishment from Jesus, I meekly responded to Jesus that I had touched him, hoping to be healed. I quickly told him the whole shameful story. 

 “My child,” Jesus gently responded, “you were healed, weren’t you? And it was your very faith that healed you. It was your faith. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering.”

 I have to say that the crowd took very little note of my brief conversation with Jesus. After all, I wasn’t visibly afflicted and their priority was Jairus and his daughter. I was grateful for the attention that did not fall to me as I started home. Inside, I was glowing, but I desired to stay as inconspicuous as possible amid so many people.

 As I was leaving, I heard voices informing Jesus that the little girl had died and that his help was no longer needed. I was saddened and hoped that my brief exchange with Jesus had not cost the life of Jairus’ daughter.

 Jesus, however, would hear nothing of it. “She is not dead, only asleep,” he replied, provoking laughter from some in the crowd. He continued on, toward Jairus’ house.

 And later, I heard that the daughter was healed, alive and well.

 I’ve now been declared clean by the local priest. My life can resume, albeit not the life I had hoped for. 

 Reflecting on it all, I continue to wonder why? Why was I afflicted? Why for so long? Why did all of the earlier attempts at healing fail? Was it me? My fault, somehow? I was sure that Jesus would ask me which of my sins had caused this condition. Others had asked that very question, many times, over the years. But Jesus did not ask. He seemed to simply accept me as I was. Why? 

 Perhaps I will never know the answers to these questions. But one thing continues to stand out in my memory. I had sought out Jesus because I believed that he could heal me. I truly did, and even in the strange circumstances of his promise to heal Jairus’ daughter, he healed me as well. I was not left out, there was room for me in his attention and in his healing power. He literally was interrupted twice, first by Jairus and then by me. 

 I was not scolded for my boldness in coming out, an unclean person, seeking physical contact. Instead, I was affirmed. You see, it was what he said that keeps coming back to me. Because he didn’t take credit for healing me. No, he didn’t. I remember his exact words: “And it was your very faith that healed you.”

 My faith. My tiny shred of faith. My unwillingness to give up. My perseverance. My belief in him, and his healing power, even from a slight touch to the fringe of his robe.

 That’s what I can’t forget. And you know what? He never even knew my name.