We're All Bleeders
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This week’s Reach for More of Jesus is written by a guest writer. Charles Martin. Now, to be clear, Charles doesn’t actually know he is writing this week’s RFM, and yet he penned the perfect words that must be shared from his book, “What If It’s True?” A friend recently loaned me his book (thank you Lori). As I read the words I’m sharing with you here, I knew, he had captured the narrative and the Biblical truth of one of the most powerful and heartrending moments when a broken life literally reached for Jesus. I knew it needed to be shared with you. May it move your soul as deeply as it has mine.
* from the book, “What If It’s True?” By Charles Martin, pages 23-29 *
News has traveled and even the outcasts have heard the stories of Him. Something in her stirs. Hope? Desperation? Mixture of both. Being unclean, she cannot get to where He is. They won’t let her. The law prohibits it. She knows she is not allowed around other people. She’s been forced to live and sustain herself on the outskirts, and—if she knows anything at all —she is certainly not allowed to reach out and touch anyone. Most of all, Him. But, she doesn’t care what they think.
She has come to the end of herself.
She doubles the cloth rag between her legs. Covers her head more so than usual, crowding her eyes and brow so that she might not be recognized. The crowd passes. He is in the middle. Everyone’s attention is focused on Him. She files in behind. Out of sight. Then, gathering her nerve, she begins picking up her step, working closer. Weaving. Elbowing. If she is caught, she will be disciplined. Greater shame. Complete and total public embarrassment. Both bleeder and believer, she picks her way through the crowd.
Just a few steps away, the crowd encroaches. She has to elbow her way through. She knows she is in violation. If she’s caught — she doesn’t want to think about it. A few more steps and there He is. An arm’s length. Standing next to him are several men who look like they are from Galilee. The loud, big one must be Cephas. She’s heard of him too. The crowd shoves, and pushes, and tightens, and she is losing sight of this Man named Jesus of Nazareth. In desperation, she lunges, extends her reach, and grasps the corner of His garment. His shirt. The tassel. The wing. She clings. Holds tightly.
He feels the tug. Feels the power leave.
She feels it enter.
Now a certain woman had a flow of blood for twelve years, and had suffered many things from many physicians. She had spent all that she had and was no better, but rather grew worse. When she heard about Jesus, she came behind Him in the crowd and touched His garment. For she said, “If only I may touch His clothes, I shall be made well.”
Immediately the fountain of her blood was dried up, and she felt in her body that she was healed of the affliction. (Mark 5:25-29)
Luke recorded it this way:
And Jesus said, “Who touched Me?”
When all denied it, Peter and those with him said, “Master, the multitude is pushing and press You, and You say, ‘Who touched Me?’”
But Jesus said, “Somebody touched Me, for I perceived power going out from Me.” Now when the woman saw that she was not hidden, she came trembling; and falling down before Him, she declared to Him in the presence of all the people the reason she had touched Him and how she was healed immediately.
And He said to her, “Daughter, be of good cheer; your faith has made you well. Go in peace.” (Luke 8:45-48)
Mark and Luke say, “Immediately.” Or, “straightaway.” Matthew says, “from that hour.” Right then and there, her broken body is healed—and she knows it. Twelve years of pain and shame and anger and exasperation begin working their way out her soul. The tears begin to fall. She tries to back away. To escape. She is trembling. She is shattered. Her knees buckle.
Jesus pauses. Stops. She is fearful of what He might say next. Then He says it. “Who just touched Me?” She is discovered. Found out. More shame. Cast farther out. Will they stone her for so great a violation? Jesus raised His voice. “WHO touched Me?” His friends, led by Peter, say, “Master, all these people? Everybody is touching You.”
Jesus shakes His head. They don’t get it. He is the Sun who has come with healing in His wings, and somebody who both knew and believed that touched Him with intention. The Sun of Righteousness wants her brought before Him. Why? Because He fashioned her. Knit her together. He’s known her pain. Has suffered with her. He saw her coming through the crowd. He knows she’s been weakened by twelve years of chronic anemia so He slowed just enough so she could reach out and touch Him.
He’s not finished with her. Not by a long shot.
He lifts a hand. “Somebody touched Me with intention. Power left My body,”Everybody, all those big men, begin looking for the perpetrator in the crowd. The thief.
Trembling, having lost total control of her emotions, pleading on the inside that God would either have mercy on her in this moment or just strike her down, she falls to her knees. Soaks the earth with her tears. Bowing her head, Hiding her eyes, she spills it. Lays it out there for the whole world to hear.
“Here is my shame!”
Her cries echo off the stone city walls. She is a woman undone. Laid bare.
Jesus who knows her name, steps forward. He is so glad to see her. He has missed her and He has been looking forward to this moment for a long time. He chose this road because He knew it wound near her house. Because while her body is battered and torn, it’s her heart that is broken. In this moment, Jesus has already healed her body. “The fountain of her blood was already dried up.” He is calling her forward because He is about to heal her heart. Then, of all the words He could have spoken, He says the one singular word she needs to hear.
“Daughter.”
The word echoes inside her. Dancing around her insides like a pinball until it comes to rest in that place in her gut. Where her soul lives. Down where her hope is buried.
Scripture doesn’t say it, but I think Jesus reaches out and lifts her. Raises her up in front of everyone else. Hugs her. Tightly. While she weeps and smears snot on His shoulder, He welcomes this daughter back into the family. And then just so everybody knows and to ensure there’s no doubt, no question, He says, “Your faith has healed you.”
Somewhere in there it hits her. “I am healed! It’s over. I am what I once was. What I’ve always longed to be.” This knowingness spreads across her face. “I am a child of God!”
For whatever reason, this tormented woman in the street was a bleeder.
I wonder how much time passed before she took off that diaper? How long before she tore down the laundry line, burning every last rag. In my mind, she stands alone in the street and screams at the top of her lungs, “He called me ‘Daughter’!”
When I get to heaven, I want to find this woman and hug her neck. Her story knocks a few things loose in me, and I want to thank her. I want to thank her for her gumption. For her faith out of which she elbowed her way through a crowd that didn’t want her. For despising her own shame. For, when all seemed lost, she reached out her hand and cried out to Jesus. Why, of all the saints in Scripture, do I want to find this one?
This woman believed the Word was more true than her circumstances.
Let that sink in.
“Thy word is truth” (John 17;17, KJV)
We’re all bleeders. You, me, that person over there. All of us. We are draped in shame, bleeding out, and yes, our bodies need healing. But it is our hearts that are broken and we are in need of hearing one singular word. If you think this is an isolated event in the life of a woman that didn’t and doesn’t pertain to you, let me lead you to Matthew: “And when the men of that place recognized Him, they sent out into all the surrounding region, brought to Him all who were sick, begged Him that they might only touch the hem of His garment. And as many as touched it were made perfectly well” (14:35-36).
The wings of His garment are here. Now. Will you reach out and grab hold?
Some days, I find myself at the end of myself. As Isaiah said, My “filthy rags” are hanging in the backyard and blowing in the wind. I am bleeding and I am broken and I am getting worse. But I’ve heard the stories, and He is passing by. I bathe quickly, wrap on a diaper. Elbow my way through. Cling to His shirttail. Plead to God to have mercy.
And then He calls me forth, saying the thing I need to hear. “Son. Charles. I’ve missed you. I was hoping you’d find Me today. I’m so glad to see you.” It’s around here that Jesus hugs my neck and I weep on His. Smearing snot.
“See how great a love the Father has bestowed on us, that we would be called children of God; and such we are” (1 John 3:1 NASB)
Children. That is what we are!
You and I are not disqualified by a decade of shame and pain. By nonstop blood. By stench and smell and filthy rags. We are not too dirty. We, each of us, and yes—that includes you—are welcomed in. Lifted up. Healed. Forever. From this very hour.
The question is this: While you are a bleeder, are you a believer?
Close your eyes. He chose this street. He’s waited for this moment. He’s walking slower. Taking His time. Chose this route because He knew He’d pass by you. The multitude is with Him, but there’s a break in the crowd. He sees you behind Him. His heart leaps.
Go! Forget the diaper. You don’t need it. Run fast. Don’t worry what anyone else thinks. Throw elbows. Lunge. Reach out.
Cling! Cling.
