Late Night Prayers

He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease” [Mark 5:34].

She had lived with her condition for twelve years. She had likely often wondered, however, how anyone could characterize her current state as “life.” Indeed, because of strict religious and social rules [see Leviticus 15:25-30], the woman about whom I speak—the woman described in the middle of this week’s Gospel lesson [Mark 5:21-43, the fifth Sunday after Pentecost, RCL, Year B]—was considered ritually unclean because of her twelve-year hemorrhage. Moreover, it wasn’t just that she was considered unclean; anyone she touched was rendered unclean as well.

By now, the unnamed woman had perfected what during the 21st century would be called “social-distancing.” She carefully kept to herself. It had been more than a decade since she had hugged one of her grandchildren. It had been twelve years since she had felt the calming embrace of a family member or close friend when she had become so discouraged because of her inability to find a cure. She had been shunned at the synagogue. Segregated at her home, she had to keep her plates, cups, and eating utensils separate from those of others. If she drank from someone else’s cup, it had to be destroyed.

She’d been to every physician in the area, but no one had been able to help. Oh, they had gladly taken her money as they offered up so-called cure after cure. All the “cures” had done was to lighten her wallet; her heart had become heavier and heavier. Now, she was in utter despair. Most of her financial resources were gone. She couldn’t work. What could she do? Others might take in laundry or serve as a maid, but her condition prevented even that. She was at her wit’s end.

She had heard of a new rabbi who had burst upon the scene. His name was Jesus and people said that he seemed different from any teacher or rabbi that they had ever seen. When this man named Jesus spoke in the synagogue, he did so as one with authority. And this Jesus didn’t just talk. He had driven out an unclean spirit from one man [Mark 1:21 et seq.]. He’d cured another of leprosy [Mark 1:41]. He had angered some when he linked a man’s paralysis to his past sins, relieving the man of both his afflictions [Mark 2:5]. He’d angered others by healing a man with a shriveled hand on the Sabbath [Mark 3:5b]. And just the other day, she heard that he had freed a man in the nearby region of the Gerasenes who had been troubled by more than a thousand demons [Mark 5:8]. The woman thought, “Might he heal me as well?”

She saw the crowd approaching. She thought to herself, “That must be Jesus in the center, the one to whom they are all addressing their pleas.” She saw that he had a kind face. She had imagined that he would be taller. But even from her distance, she knew that he had a special nature, a special way of looking at those around him, a patient presence that seemed most promising. But how could she maneuver to where he was? He was surrounded by a throng. If she brushed up against someone and they recognized her, her hopes would be dashed. The leaders had kept her out of the synagogue; she was certain they would prevent her from approaching this one whom some said was the Messiah. And even if she got close to him, what would she say?

Then she noticed Jairus, one of the leaders of the synagogue. He had run up to Jesus and had immediately fallen to his knees. The woman had heard of Jairus’ sick daughter. She could hear Jairus’ loud plea. Jairus was asking Jesus for help. The woman knew in her heart that she was less deserving than Jairus’ daughter. Jairus, after all, was a prominent man, a man who no doubt had given lots of money to the synagogue.

He was respected. What had she done? She was a mere woman who had spent her resources trying to get well. No doubt Yahweh favored those who were prominent in society. No doubt Yahweh listened intently to the prayers of folks like Jairus. No doubt Yahweh would consider the plight of Jairus’ little girl before considering her own condition.

But look, there was a thin “crease” within the crowd and the crease almost reached to where the man named Jesus was standing. If she stepped quickly and carefully, she thought there just might be a chance to get close to Jesus. Everyone was looking at Jesus and at Jairus. No one was looking at her. And so, she pulled her arms close in to her body, stepped sideways just a bit, and slithered over to where the rabbi stood.

And then she did it. Knowing that she would render Jesus unclean, knowing that if she were caught, she’d be severely punished, yet knowing also that this man named Jesus was her only hope, she leaned silently forward and touched the edge of his cloak.

It was as if a spark ignited within her breast. She knew immediately that her hemorrhage had stopped. Her quick scheme had worked. She’d gotten away with it. No one had noticed—no one except Jesus. Jesus quickly said, “Who touched my clothes?” [Mark 5:30]. His disciples were incredulous. They told him that he was surrounded by a bumping, churning crowd and he had asked who touched him? “Who had not touched him?”

The woman thought to herself, “What do I do?” Fearful and trembling, she came forward to address the young, handsome rabbi. Knowing that she would face not only his ire, but the anger and condemnation of the crowd for daring to get close, daring to touch the one from Nazareth, she fell to her knees and “told him the whole truth” [Mark 5:33].

Can you not feel her heart soar with both relief and joy when he turned to her and said, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.” Scholars point out that the word that is translated as “healed” is quite nuanced, that it doesn’t so much mean “cured” as it means “made whole.”

As we see in the fifth chapter of Mark’s Gospel, Yahweh’s love is not diminished when divided between the woman cowering before Jesus and the little girl who has died at Jairus’ house. Christ “heals” them both. The love of God is sufficient for all; it does not involve zero sum mathematics. There’s plenty to go around.

Two thousand years later, a man in his early 70s sat in his North Carolina study late one evening. You know him as Nick (not his real name, of course). I wrote about him a month ago [for those new to these Wednesday meditations, you can read about Nick by clicking here].

The cancer was back, and this time, it was back with vengeance. Special treatments had secured him almost five years of relatively active life, five years to be with those whom he loved and who deeply loved him, but Duke’s quiver of medical arrows was now almost empty. As he sat in his study, he reflected back and recognized that in many ways, he had been quite fortunate. He’d founded and built a successful business. Over many years, he’d made—and kept—a gaggle of friends. He had a close and abiding relationship with a wonderful wife, and a special warmth and love that can only be shared between a father and daughter.

He thought to himself, “There are many in this world, Lord, who seem more deserving than me. There are the young folks in East Durham, struggling to make ends meet, trying to raise children in a harsh and cruel world. There are countless masses of folks on other continents who are enslaved by hunger or politics, who have little freedom of movement and almost no hope of a good tomorrow. There are others who only know loneliness.”

He continued to think to himself—or was it actually a prayer to his Heavenly Father?—“There are others in hospitals here in Durham, and still others far removed from here, who have not had nearly as full a life as me. Some who suffer have worked harder within the church than I have. Others have volunteered more time without hope of payment. Still others have given of themselves in ways that I have not, or could not. Is it fair, in the face of what others have done, that I pray for a holy relationship with you, O Lord?”

He looks down at a page of his opened Bible. His fingers brush the paper almost in the same fashion as the nameless woman’s hand had softly touched the edge of the Messiah’s robe. His heart wells up with tears and joy, for he knows that Yahweh’s love is unbounded. Yahweh’s love is incalculable. Yahweh’s love is far outside anyone’s control. That love envelopes him, as it did her, and refuses to let go. He thinks to himself, “To hell with this cancer; I am blessed and loved by a wandering rabbi named Jesus.”

Thanks be to God.