On Being a Desperate Woman

Jesus traveled the Sea of Galilee often, taught in the area, perhaps even had a home for awhile in Capernaum, a town at the northwest edge of the Sea. When I got to stay a couple of days at a kibbutz there, which now caters to the tourists who flock to the beautiful sand of the beaches, the blue, blue water of that big scenic lake, our group rode one of the tourist boats called “The Queen of Sheba.” It might as well have flashed a neon sign, “TOURISTS! TOURISTS!”

Our Israeli guide said to us at one point something along the lines of, “You wanted to walk where Jesus walked. Well, look out here,” and waved her arm at the water of that picturesque Sea, “there you are.” I saw in my mind Jesus walking on that water heading to the terrified disciples in their boat, Peter stepping out, heading to his Friend and Leader, looking down, crying out, and Jesus taking his hand, the both of them stepping into the boat.

What I would give to be back in that same spot again, walking that sand, breathing that air!

Of course, now modern conveniences like air conditioned cottages and umbrellas with beach chairs dot the beach landscape. But not far away, ancient ruins also lie about like reminders of the times before, the times when Jesus’ sandals marched the nearby roads, the sands of those beaches, calling men from their fishing boats. “Come, follow me! I’ll give you a new job—to fish

for men!”

One day as he emerged from a boat after crossing the Sea, the crowds waited. His reputation had spread, stories of healing in the day when doctors no doubt tried their best, but the words “medicine” and “modern” meant very different things than they do today. Even now, if, truly, the touch—merely, and truly, the touch of a man could heal us from the dread diseases that modern science cannot fix--we would travel far and drain our resources to reach that one. At one time in Capernaum, at what may have been His home, four friends cut a hole in the roof to lower a friend to Jesus, as the crowd would not let them through to reach Him, desperate for the healing of their friend.

Sometimes I tell myself I am too tired even to get in the car to drive the few miles I live from church. And, yes, I know Jesus does not reside in a building. But, His people meet there. How often does He speak from those people, from that pastor? How desperate am I to hear from Him and what have I missed in the not going?  As I key these words, in my ears I hear Michael W. Smith sing those moving words in the worship song, “I’m desperate for you.” Even so, Lord……

On that day so long ago, a woman, herself desperate and despairing, placed herself in the crowd to try to get to Jesus. She had what the Bible calls in some translations an “issue of blood.” The New American Standard translates it a “hemorrhage.” However you translate it, she had been bleeding for twelve years. Twelve. Years. Twelve years. Without stopping.

In that culture, that meant far more than just the monthly (and for her yearly) inconvenience almost all women of all cultures know. It made her “unclean,” meaning no one—NO one—could touch her AT ALL. Perhaps she had come from far away (we don’t know) but she so despaired that even knowing that she made all those in the crowd around her who so brushed up against her unclean just by her inadvertent movements, still she came to try to get to Jesus. Could Jesus really heal her? The Bible tells us that already she had spent all the money she had going from doctor to doctor. Probably they had tried, truly tried, to help her. We will think the best of them; but they could not do what they could not do. After twelve years, all their efforts came to nothing.

Not only had their efforts taken all her money, but by this time, she likely was anemic from the constant bleeding. If she had a husband, quite likely he was gone, unable to touch his wife at all. Maybe not—but, really, how many men in an age when women frequently were viewed as objects to bargain for and with rather than as equals would stay with a woman they could in no way touch? If she had not married, well.  Desperate.

Also present in the crowd that day, a high synagogue official, Jairus by name, came to Jesus, falling at his feet, also desperate, and begged for his daughter, ill to the point of dying. “Please come and heal her! She is about to die!” And so Jesus, ever compassionate, started off with Jairus. Why did Jesus leave the crowd to go with Jairus? That can be explored.... and should be. The Jairus is not our central character here. It is the woman. The desperate, despairing, frantic woman.

Back in the crowd that woman, so longing for Jesus healing touch, saw them starting to leave and  pushed forward through the men and women there, thinking, “I don’t need to talk to Him, don’t need Him even to see me. If I can just touch the hem of His robe, that will be enough! If I can just touch him!”

And so she did, hardly got close enough to barely brush the hem of His robe, just a soft…….. bare……. touch…….

And IMMEDIATELY she was healed!!! And she knew it!!

Then, suddenly Jesus stopped!

Because of the way my mind works, I see in my mind the disciples bumping into the back of him—bump-bump-bump-bumpbumpbumpbumpbumpbump!!! Kind of like the seven dwarfs into the back of Snow White in the woods for some reason. I have no idea why.

But, once they sort themselves out, Jesus said, “Who touched me?”

The disciples looked around at the throng of people closing in on them. The anxious father, worry for his ill daughter at home, no doubt, just wanted to be on his way. Maybe, maybe he had enough belief in Jesus to be patient. Either way, Peter spoke up and said, “Who touched you? Who didn’t?”

But Jesus waited, and, finally, said, “Someone touched me. Power left me.”

Because when a woman of faith touches the Living Son of God, they both know it.

I want to touch Him that way.

The woman—our formerly bleeding woman, her name never given here, her story told in three gospels, her boldness passed on to us to give us courage over our hurts and fears to brave what we must to push our way through the crowds of daily life, through indifferent, uncaring throngs of circumstance and barricades--turned and threw herself at His feet, telling Him why she had, in her anguish and misery, reached out to the only Hope she felt she had left, and immediately felt His healing touch.

And He gently responded to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace.”

Jairus’ daughter also gets healed, and though that story is as dramatic as the woman’s, deserves the telling on its own.

We do not know any more of this woman’s life after this. I would like to think she had a man who had waited for her, as miraculous as that would have been—a man like Joseph who had taken Mary, Jesus' mother,  as his wife in such sacrificial circumstances. Well, it could have happened. Or perhaps she married later, had children. But, maybe not.

Maybe she didn’t want a man and a family; I may just be projecting all over the place there. We don’t know of her life after this in Scripture.

At least we don’t know yet.

But, someday in Heaven I want to find her. And I will tell her what an impact this brief day in her life made on me, how I thought of her so often, how her faith so moved me. I will ask her to tell me her version—what it felt like when, after so many years, she felt whole and well again! Did she run home? Did she again hug her mother—an action denied to her for so long? If her mother was still alive?

And I will now try to use that story as inspiration for my own life. I want to touch the Living Christ with a faith recognized by both of us. I want to be desperate enough for Him that when I reach for Him, I can brush His robes, and we will both know it.

Even so, Lord Jesus.

Hearing God

Back in the day, before Mega-churches sat on so many corners in cities, many churches, especially in the Southern towns where I grew up, had on Sunday morning Sunday School at 9:45 or 10:00 then church at 11:45 or 12:00, and that was Sunday morning. Almost always after that 11:00 service, the pastor of the church (and his wife and family) went to Sunday Dinner with one of the church’s families. Frequently, the wife of said family, and, often, the grandmother who lived with the family, missed the church service to go prepare that dinner so as not to keep the pastor (and wife and family) waiting after church ended. It might be 1:00 before everyone arrived for dinner, but then, quite a bit of food had to be prepared.

Frequently fried chicken sat golden brown and steaming in the middle of the table, maybe with chickens that till Saturday afternoon had pecked around in the yard out back. At that time the term “free range” would have truly meant the chickens ranged around freely—at least until they didn’t. The vegetables, depending on the time of year, came fresh from the garden or from the home-canned goods stored from that garden. Biscuits wrapped to keep warm in a basket, potatoes mashed and piled high in a bowl, gravy made from the chicken drippings—Southern food at its finest—helped complete the meal. And dessert—on, my. I have my grandmother’s cookbook, a source of riches not often seen anymore, at least anywhere in my house.

At one of these meals, chicken on plates, and all the accoutrements, led to conversation. The pastor talked, as pastors do, complimented the women (certainly then the women had done all the cooking) on the food, and said, oh, pastorly things. Among them, he began a comment, “The Lord told me…….” And went on to share what the Lord had told him.

After the meal, the pastor (and his wife and family) left. The grandmother and mother began to clean up, packing up the leftovers to be the family’s supper, washing dishes (dishwasher? Pshaw!), and generally get ready for an afternoon nap. At one point, the grandmother stopped and softly said, “I wonder why God never talks to me like that.” Then that sweet, Godly woman, a woman who prayed every day of her life for her family, her church, and her pastor, read her Bible every day at some point, continued with her work and went on with her day.

I have no doubt that God spoke to that pastor. There are some folks today who would have us believe that He does not interact with His children in that way—that individually we should not expect to receive from Him a message intended just for us.  What I do not know is exactly when that idea took root among God’s children—and why?

For, we are His children.  As a parent, I know that I want to hear no voice more than that of my son, and I know that I’d like Him to hear my own voice once in awhile. Even as he is a grown man, I assure the world, he benefits from my motherly, er, wisdom. What if we said to our children, once grown, “Okay. You’re grown now. I don’t want to see you or hear from you anymore.” And I just pick the grown part at random…… pick an age. God is our Father and all about relationship. Redemption of the Cross gives the relation of adoption to us as His children. And, if God and His Son went through that experience of that brutal, bloody, truly inexplicable to us Cross to have that relationship, how can we think He doesn’t want any interaction with us?

And so, how do we hear from God? Books line whole sections of book stores on just that topic.

Peter Marshall was the Chaplain of the Senate just before World War II. Born in Scotland, he had to apply more than once for his American citizenship after living here for years before he could bring himself to go through with it, so much did he love his home country. But, eventually he did, and so, Chaplain of the Senate. He told the story of himself in Scotland as a young man, walking in a foggy night, cutting across a moor to save time, then hearing someone call his name. He stopped, turned to see who had called him, but heard only wind. He walked on a bit and heard, “Peter!” again, but again could find no one. Taking another step, he stumbled, fell, and his hand reached out and found only empty air. He had reached a deep stone quarry. If he had continued on without those cautionary halts, he would have fallen into the deep hole, into a certain death. He never doubted God had called his name.

I don’t know that Dr. Marshall again believed he heard God talk out loud to him; that is, of course, an exceptional example. I would wish that the pastor at the chicken dinner that day might not just assume that everyone heard from God as easily as he seemed to do and not unintentionally caused that sweet grandmother such heartfelt pain. But I also would want this sweet grandmother to know that God does, indeed, love her and value her as much as He does that pastor and wants to talk with her.

And He left us a Book.

Paul told Timothy, “All Scripture is inspired by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, for training in righteousness;  so that the man of God may be adequate, equipped for every good work” (2 Timothy 3:16-17). The literal translation for the word “inspired” is “God-breathed.”

Imagine as the men who penned “all Scripture,” the Holy Spirit within them, beside them, behind them, breathing the words onto the pages of the Bible. Inside those Scriptures, the verses themselves describe the Scriptures’ objects that lead to some kind of action.  Hebrews 4:12 tells us Scripture is living, active, sharper than a sword. Ephesians 6:17 says that the word of God is the sword of the Spirit; in Isaiah 55:11, God uses Isaiah to say his word will go out only to return having completed its purpose; in the gospel of John 6:63, Jesus says that His words are life. Those are just a few…… Scripture is not meant to just be read on Sunday or sound good on holidays. It is meant to be taken internally and to affect daily life.

God can communicate with us however He wants, of course. But, for sure, God talks to us through His Word.

I love to read Scripture, then grab a verse and take it apart word by word, mining it for meanings missed in light readings. Though not a true scholar, I have had some good teachers, and there exist good tools available to those of us amateur Bible students, lots of good commentaries, different translations freely available online, Bible dictionaries, and Strong’s Concordance, that takes every word in the Bible, shows the original word in the original language (as if I could read the Hebrew or Greek), gives a meaning, then shows all the ways the Bible translates that word in different places.  Comparing those various words and meanings gives shades to the words and points of view in a verse; lets me see it differently than I may have done previously.

Or not. Sometimes it is just fun.

But I know this:  when I have needed to hear from God, if I have given him a chance, He has not failed me. He is faithful, in spite of my own vast shortcomings. Sometimes He uses other people. Sometimes He smacks me more in the face, metaphorically, of course.

A few years ago a friend betrayed me. The betrayal was deep and hurtful and long term. Forgiveness was not the issue; I do forgive. Forgiveness does not automatically restore trust, and I wait for the growth to trust again. For years I struggled with this situation. I didn’t see my friend often, but when I did, it always seemed like a fresh pain. I forced myself again to purposefully forgive and pray blessings for them.

In Israel, at that beautiful, ancient Wailing Wall, I put my palm on the precious stones and prayed for my family, my work, my closest friends, and then, “God bless this friend who so hurt me; bless them big.”

Then one day as I drove, oh, somewhere, I said, “God, if you do not help me with this, I do not know what I will do. Please help me! My heart feels shattered!”

Not long after that I listened to a Bible lesson online. The teacher read from the Psalms. I don’t remember the lesson; I don’t remember if she spoke on this verse or not, but somewhere in the lesson she read Psalm 34:18:  “The LORD is near to the brokenhearted And saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

When I heard that verse, I felt in my inner spirit what is sometimes called a “quickening.” And my sore, sad, crushed broken heart knew that God had heard my prayer, and that Still, Small Voice repeated silently in  my spirit, “I am near. Let me restore your spirit.”

I looked up the verse and saw what it did not say. It did not say, “The LORD is near to the brokenhearted as long as it’s not your fault at all.”

It did not say, “The LORD is near to the brokenhearted as long as you do what He says 24/7.”

It did not say, “The LORD is near to the brokenhearted as long as you ask Him to be.”

It did not say, “The LORD is near to the broken hearted if you feel Him there.”

It says He is near, a concept, of course, presented from Genesis to Revelation.

When I tried to come up with how I felt when my friend so turned away from me, the old John Denver song came to mind:  You done stomped on my heart, and you mashed that sucker flat.  You just sorta stomped on my aorta………”

My spirit crushed, my heart broken, my aorta stomped. But God…….

Those two words truly do turn around the world.

But God is near. He is near because He is my Father, and if I am broken hearted, He is near because He said He would be. I am not alone in this struggle. 

Here’s the deal:  God loves my friend who hurt me just as much, just as deeply, just as truly as He loves me. He stands up for them just as strongly and just as squarely and just as fervently as He does me. And, that’s okay. Because He is God, and because Jesus died on the cross and then rose alive, He can be both things for both of us.

God is near to us both.

I have seen that friend since I found this Scripture verse, and it still hurts, with this different perspective:  I do not feel alone. I still pray blessings for them, and I know that with them, and with me, God will work the relationship towards healing, if not in this world, then the next. If circumstances happen that I see this friend again, I pray to have grace to look around them and see Christ, near to both of us. For certainly few need forgiveness more than I.

God is near…….

I do not think He wanted my heart to break as it has. But, Great Alchemist that He is, He took this situation and transformed it into a way for me to learn His presence, and the gold of hearing, through His Spirit, Him speak to me through Scripture.

I believe that sweet grandmother did at some point hear God talk to her as she read Scripture. What I also hope is that at some point that she recognized as His voice the words that so stirred her heart of a given morning, turning the worn pages of her Bible, underlined, written in, loved by a woman of God seeking to know her Heavenly Father and knew those words there, right there, would help her through that difficult time today.

Or, perhaps, she just heard her God say He loved her.

I so pray that for us all.