The hem of his cloak

A word for the week

If I just touch his clothes, I will be made well. That is what she told herself, over and over, as she pushed through the crowd, and the whole story lives in that one desperate, hopeful sentence. She had been bleeding for twelve years. Twelve years of an illness that, in her world, made her ritually unclean, which meant untouchable, cut off from worship, from normal life, from the simple human comfort of being embraced. She had spent everything she had on doctors and only gotten worse. Twelve years of that, and she has one hope left, and it is small and secret: if I can just touch the edge of his coat, without anyone noticing, maybe.

So she comes up behind him in the press of the crowd, this woman who is not even supposed to be out among people, and she reaches through the bodies and touches his cloak. And immediately, Mark says, she feels it in her body, the bleeding stops, she is healed. She got what she came for. And now, if the story were only about the healing, she would slip away into the crowd, cured and unnoticed, which is exactly what she wanted. But Jesus stops.

Who touched my clothes, he says. And the disciples think it is an absurd question; the whole crowd is pressing on him, everyone is touching him. But Jesus knows the difference between the jostling of a crowd and the touch of real faith, and he will not let this woman disappear anonymously with her healing. He looks around. And she, Mark says, comes forward fearing and trembling, because she has broken every rule, an unclean woman touching a rabbi in public, and she falls down and tells him the whole truth.

And here is why he stopped her, why he would not let her sneak away healed but still hidden. He did not want to give her only her body back. He wanted to give her back her place among people, her dignity, her belonging. So in front of the whole crowd that had shunned her, he calls her a name no one had called her in twelve years: daughter. Daughter. Not, unclean woman; not, you who broke the law. Daughter. Your faith has made you well; go in peace. He heals the wound the disease left in her soul, the isolation, the shame, by naming her as family, out loud, where everyone could hear.

That is what he does. He is never content to fix only the visible problem and leave you hidden in your shame. She would have settled for a secret, anonymous cure. He gave her that and then insisted on more: on seeing her, knowing her, calling her daughter, sending her back into the world in peace instead of slinking off in fear. The touch of faith, even faith as small and desperate as hers, even faith that only dares to reach for the hem, is never lost on him. He turns around. He finds you in the crowd. And he wants to give you not just the healing but himself, and your name, and your place back.