For She Said

"The Touch" by Aaron and Alan Hicks

August 28, 2016

Mark 5:25-34

25 Now there was a woman who had been suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years. 26 She had endured much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had; and she was no better, but rather grew worse. 27 She had heard about Jesus, and came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak, 28 for she said, “If I but touch his clothes, I will be made well.” 29 Immediately her hemorrhage stopped; and she felt in her body that she was healed of her disease. 30 Immediately aware that power had gone forth from him, Jesus turned about in the crowd and said, “Who touched my clothes?” 31 And his disciples said to him, “You see the crowd pressing in on you; how can you say, ‘Who touched me?’” 32 He looked all around to see who had done it. 33 But the woman, knowing what had happened to her, came in fear and trembling, fell down before him, and told him the whole truth. 34 He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.”

Sermon: “For She Said”

When I pushed through the crowd,

jostled, bumped, elbowed by the curious

who wanted to see what everyone else

was so excited about,

all I could think of was my pain

and that perhaps if I could touch him,

this man who worked miracles,

cured diseases,

even those as foul as mine,

I might find relief.

I was tired from hurting,

exhausted, revolted by my body,

unfit for any man, and yet not let loose

from desire and need. I wanted to rest,

to sleep without pain or filthiness or torment.

I don’t really know why

I thought he could help me

when all the doctors

with all their knowledge

had left me still drained

and bereft of all that makes

a woman’s life worth living.

Well: I’d seen him with some children

and his laughter was quick and merry

and reminded me of when I was young and well,

though he looked tired; and he was as old as I am.

Then there was that leper,

but lepers have been cured before –

No, it wasn’t the leper,

or the man cured of palsy,

or any of the other stories of miracles,

or at any rate that was the least of it;

I had been promised miracles too often.

I saw him ahead of me in the crowd

and there was something in his glance

and in the way his hand rested briefly

on the matted head of a small boy

who was getting in everybody’s way,

and I knew that if only I could get to him,

not to bother him, you understand,

not to interrupt, or to ask him for anything,

not even his attention,

just to get to him and touch him…

I didn’t think he’d mind, and he needn’t even know.

I pushed through the crowd

and it seemed that they were deliberately

trying to keep me from him.

I stumbled and fell and someone stepped

on my hand and I cried out

and nobody heard. I crawled to my feet

and pushed on and at last I was close,

so close I could reach out

and touch with my fingers

the hem of his garment.

Have you ever been near

when lightning struck?

I was, once, when I was very small

and a summer storm came without warning

and lightning split the tree

under which I had been playing

and I was flung right across the courtyard.

That’s how it was.

Only this time I was not the child

but the tree

and the lightning filled me.

He asked, “Who touched me?”

and people dragged me away, roughly,

and the men around him were angry at me.

“Who touched me?” he asked.

I said, “I did, Lord.”

So that he might have the lightning back

which I had taken from him when I touched

his garment’s hem.

He looked at me and I knew then

that only he and I knew about the lightning.

He was tired and emptied

but he was not angry.

He looked at me

and the lightning returned to him again,

though not from me, and he smiled at me

and I knew that I was healed.

Then the crowd came between us

and he moved on, taking the lightning with him,

perhaps to strike again.

Madeleine L’Engle’s poetic rendering[1] of the hemorrhaging woman story tells it better than any other.   It makes us begin to think like this unnamed woman, to feel her despair and pain and exhaustion.  We begin to root for her like we recently rooted for Olympians, hoping she’ll make it through that pressing crowd, hoping she’ll have the chance to touch that dusty hem and be healed.  We want lightning to strike for her, for us.

As we wind up our summer series using topics from that little yellow box, we finish today with a challenging one: how do we find hope in suffering?  For me, we find it in this woman’s story.

As I sat with that unnamed woman this week, named only by her lingering illness, I asked her this question, again and again: where did you find hope?  And then, as if responding directly to that question, three small words leapt from the page of our Mark reading: for she said.

All she could think of was her pain.

But she had heard of this Jesus.

No one could help her.

She didn’t really have proof that he could.

But still, she came up behind him to reach out and touch his cloak, breaking with all customs of purity and holiness, for she said, “If I but touch his clothes, just his clothes, I will be made well.”

For she said.  There is the hope in suffering.  It is that voice within us – that divine voice – that tells us that what we see is not all there is.  We are not our worst, most painful experiences.  This woman told herself that she would be made well, despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary.  She convinced herself, showing that we only really have the power to change one person in this world (but that doing so can create ripples that last and last).  

For she said.  

Those three words gave her the hope and courage she needed with each step closer to the One who could make a difference.  If she’d spoken other words to herself, she never would have made it.  If she’d said, “I’m too tired” or “He’s too busy” or “It’s not worth the risk” she would have kept on bleeding for the rest of her life.  But she didn’t.  She told herself the impossible, and, the real miracle of the story happened, she began to believe it.  

(It’s important to pause here and recognize that the impossible doesn’t always happen – the healing doesn’t always come in the way we hope it will.  But time spent listening to the voice of hope instead of the voices of despair and anxiety is never wasted.)

I wonder what it is we say to ourselves most of the time?  Does our self-speech fill us with hope and courage, especially in the midst of suffering, or do we only hear a critical and fearful voice ringing in our ears and hearts?  That voice of divine hope is within us, but it is so easily drowned out by many competing voices, every bit as aggressive as the crowd around Jesus that day.  

I urge you to listen.  Listen to the voice of hope within you, a voice that can give you the courage to take steps towards wholeness.  A voice that exposes that other voices of loathing and fear and bitterness are lying.  

For she said.  The stories we tell ourselves have everything to do with how we experience the world, and the One who made it.  She told herself lightning could strike and life could get better through a complete stranger.  And so, miraculously, her inner voice became an outer voice, as Jesus named her before that pressing crowd: “Daughter, daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.”

Do we dare to have this daughter’s extraordinary hope?  Hope, not found despite suffering, but through it?

If voices without or within are telling you to give up, to give in to despair, and to settle for a lesser, safer life, then tell them ever-so-politely (or not) to shut up.  And then listen – listen with every ounce of your being -- for that divine voice of hope, and follow it boldly.  Who knows?  Lightning could strike.  Amen.

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[1] “When I Pushed Through the Crowd”, The Ordering of Love: The New and Collected Poems of Madeleine L’Engle, WaterBrook Press, 2005.