Mark 5:27 “When she had heard of Jesus, came in the press
behind, and touched his garment. 28 For she
said, “If I may touch but his clothes, I shall be whole. 29 And straightway the fountain of her blood was dried up; and she felt
in her body that she was healed of that plague. 30 And Jesus, immediately knowing in himself that virtue had gone out of
him, turned him about in the press, and said, Who touched my clothes?”
Act I, Scene
One:
[Enter a
woman with an issue of blood for twelve years]
She nervously makes her way through the throng of fanatics, skeptics, unbelievers, commentators and disciples. And all the while as she is making her way through “the press”, the cadent pound of “Twelve years…twelve years… twelve years…” beats in her head.
She nervously makes her way through the throng of fanatics, skeptics, unbelievers, commentators and disciples. And all the while as she is making her way through “the press”, the cadent pound of “Twelve years…twelve years… twelve years…” beats in her head.
Twelve years
of pain. Twelve years of “No-there’s-nothing-we-can-do-for-you”. Twelve years
of sorrow and nagging discouragement. Twelve years of “maybes” and “might-bes”
and “If you're lucky”. Twelve years of hopelessness and broken dreams.
Maybe she
had believed the diagnoses for a while. She had been through every procedure,
every counterfeit cure and nothing eased her malady. She had drunken
this elixir and washed herself in that water and believed this doctor only to
get her hopes up for another crushing disappointment. She had spent everything
she had. There was nothing left. No more options but the only one she was
refusing to face: defeat. Maybe this woman had almost been fully convinced that
this was how it was, this was how life
was. Pain. Disappointment. Permanently. Forever. How could one expect anymore? And
how could we blame her? We go through a few months of darkness and misfortune
and we throw our hands in the air and surrender to despair.
Maybe she
had heard second-hand stories of this miracle working Jesus. Maybe he was the
Messiah. Maybe he was a prophet. Maybe he was just a man endued with power from
God. And perhaps, as she would lie in bed at night, she would ponder what she
would do if she were ever in His presence.
“If…If…If…”
She awoke that
day like any other day: in pain and weary. As she lay there worrying about the
day’s demands- how she would feed her family, what clothes needed mending, how
she would pay this creditor- she heard a faint rumble from her window. She
crept up to peep her head out into the open air only to witness a multitude of
people from all walks of life surging like a wave around one distinct
epicenter. Only one thing could ignite such a stir.
“It has to
be…”
She felt the
energy from the movement and without waiting to feel the sting of unbelief; she
made her way to meet the teeming crowd.
Press.
Press. Press.
Press past
your insecurity. Press past your fear. Press past the cynics and naysayers.
Press through your past mistakes. Press beyond the cold, hard rock called “No”
that has hanged itself around your neck for too long.
Palms
sweaty. Heart pounding. Shove here. Excuse me there.
“Pardon me,
I need to get through, please... If I can just touch his hem…Press”, she
whispers to herself, “Press through now!”
Now, she was
on her knees crawling through the mud and feet. Trample here. Kick there. And
then suddenly, a flash of white. A flicker of hope.
The screams
of Doubt and the voices of her Past roar like an insurmountable wave before
her. “Stop. You can’t. You will never.
No. No. No!”
And then silence.
The brush of
heaven’s wings against her fingers.
Humanity
grips the edges of divinity.
A hush.
And Love in
the form of a root, sprung up from dry ground, emerges to silence the trembling
of Fear at His feet.
