I received quite a few books as Christmas presents. And, what a great gift they have been! I've enjoyed having new reading material around the house again -- devotional books, novels, parenting books -- all sorts of good reading. One of my favorites has been a book of short little daily readings, called Comforts from the Cross, by Elyse M. Fitzpatrick. I've been reading them daily, especially on days when the book of Lamentations (where I am at in scripture at the moment) doesn't quite stir my heart. Lamentations is Holy scripture, and it is valuable, but it isn't an easy read. I read this in Comforts this morning, and loved it. It can be so easy to get so focused on being very responsible and grown up -- on doing well in your job, your church, your relationships -- trying so hard to do so well, in fact, that you (and by "you", I mean me) become quite self-righteous in your own mind, and fail to realize just how desperate a state you actually come to each day in. This woman knew her desperation -- her need. And, so she knew the incredible comfort of being called "daughter". It's been a long time since I thought of myself as "daughter." I needed this reminder today.
Cured and Clean
By Elyse M. Fitzpatrick
Excluded. Unclean. Defiled. For twelve desperate years she had struggled against her body. Blood poured from her, and that blood not only brought about personal distress, but also made her a societal outcast. If she was a married woman, she would have been unable to have sexual relations with her husband. Even if she was precious to him, he could not take her into his arms. Married or single, she was excluded from participation in normal family life. If she had children, she couldn't lie in bed and play with them. Anyone who sat on a chair on which she had sat would be unclean and would have to wash ceremonially and then offer a sacrifice at the temple. When the family went to the temple on a holy day, she had to stay home.
To live in such isolation after childbirth was expected in those days, but the new mother was surrounded by a loving family, all waiting the day when the priest finally declared the mother clean. But the isolation experienced by the bleeding woman wasn't the usual week or two; it was twelve years. Twelve years without access to worship. Twelve years of gossip whispered behind her back. Mothers would have warned their daughters, "Don't go near; she's unclean." Twelve years without a caress, a touch, an inviting smile. Twelve years of desperate exclusion, loneliness, and shame.
That she was desperate is clear. She "had suffered much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had" (Mark 5:26). We can imagine that year after year she heard about women in other villages who were cured, so she rushed to uncover their secret, scraping up the necessary payments, yet she "was no better but rather grew worse." Every penny she could get her hands on went to doctors who only exacerbated her condition.
I can't imagine what terrible indignities she suffered at their hands. This wasn't modern medicine with its tidy gynecological offices housing highly trained physicians who write prescriptions for hormonal therapies and perform sanitary procedures. No, ancient medicine consisted of the most base herbal preparations, poultices, and methods that not only failed to cure her but made her suffering worse. She was unclean and her uncleanness had bankrupted her. And still she bled. Days and months of disappointment followed by months and years of shame and isolation. She could touch no one; no one wanted her touch. And now, all hope was gone. She had no money left, so even if a cure could be found, she couldn't afford it.
Then, she heard reports about a holy man who loved unclean women and welcomed them as followers. Many had been ill like her. Some had been possessed by devils; others had been notoriously wicked, but he had healed and welcomed them all. Amazingly, hope began to grow within her breast again. Perhaps she thought, I have no money to pay him. I can't touch him because I'm unclean. But, even so, she believed, "If I touch even his garments, I will be made well." (v. 28) So she waited until his followers and the crowds were passing by, and she slipped into the press. Keeping her head down and her shawl up, she furtively pushed her way ever closer to the One. There he is. If I can just stretch out my hand past these others! I'm almost there; please don't let me be discovered. There! With my fingertips I brushed his cloak. Immediately, she felt her body change. The blood stopped. She was healed. The crowd moved on, but she stood still -- a whole, clean, honorable woman at last. She had finally received all that she hoped for, but she was soon to learn that her expectation had been far too small.
From the midst of her reverie, she noticed the crowd halt. The Master was speaking, "Who touched my garments?" (v. 30). An icy shard of fear pierced her heart. What if this holy man finds out what I did and takes my healing from me? What if he is angry because I've made him unclean by my touch? Will this simply end in more shame, more separation? While his disciples pointed out the size of the crowd, the woman bravely made her way to him. In fear and trembling, she "fell down before him and told him the whole truth" (v. 33).
How did he respond? He called her "Daughter." This is the only time that Jesus actually called a woman by this name; it was a sweet acknowledgement of relationship and endearment. Instead of pushing her away, he drew her close. Daughter -- she probably hadn't heard that word in many years. She was a daughter again, and everything that came with the name -- relationship, healing, and peace -- was restored to her.
Don't be confused. Jesus wasn't stumped about who had touched him. He knew this woman's name (even though we don't). It had been written on his heart for twelve times twelve million years -- yes, forever. This woman would have been satisfied with physical healing, but her Savior would not. He forced her to come to him and be in relationship with him, to fall down before him, to come out of the shadows and into the full light of day. Our Savior loves to give us gifts, but the best gift of all is himself, and he won't let us slink off, back into darkness and isolation. No, his love will pull us out of our shame, defilement, and fears, and then he'll speak gently and lovingly to us, "Daughter, be at peace."
Because Jesus is completely pure, he isn't concerned about becoming defiled by touching us. He's not afraid that our uncleanness will contaminate him. Instead he draws us near; he speaks to us in love. He sees our desperation, our bankruptcy, and our uncleanness, and he calls us "Daughter," If you're like me, it's easy to find a measure of satisfaction and peace in knowing that our sins are forgiven and we've been cleansed. But our Savior wants more than that. He's taken us for his bride, and he isn't satisfied when we hide from him or try to use him for our own purposes. Yes, we want to be clean, and he wants that for us too; but clean strangers aren't what he's after. He means to have a wife. And so he continually brings us to points of desperation when we have to fall before him, broken and bankrupt, and then he speaks lovingly to our hearts and draws us up into his presence.
Don't be afraid to go to him now. He isn't fazed by your sin; he isn't afraid that you will contaminate him. In fact, as you get close to him, his holiness will infect you. Go ahead, daughter; press in through the crowd of all that threatens to block access to him -- your shame, pride, destitution, and uncleanness. Touch him out of your desperation and find him patiently loving and awaiting your arrival.
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