The crowd is both a
good thing and a bad thing for her. It is good in that she can easily conceal
herself within it. No one pays much attention to women in the first place, she
thinks, and her modest attire helps amplify her anonymity. It is bad in that if
she is not careful in all this jostling, the blood will blossom on the front of
her robe and she will cause a panic. How ironic that a culture steeped in blood
has such an institutionalized fear of it.
Thanks to her condition, she lives a highly compartmentalized life. It doesn’t really matter how she got it – the doctors have never been able to pinpoint a cause, much less a cure – but she has made it her life’s work to find healing. Seminars, self-help books, workout tapes, juicing – nothing has worked.
She has adopted her illness as if it were a child, making a space for it in her life and providing for its every need. Each outfit, every activity, all social interaction is carefully planned. Every waking moment is spent in hyper vigilance to ensure that no one sees, no one suspects. As a result, she is frustrated and broke and desperate beyond belief.
She has kept this secret for 12 years now, sharing it only with the most expensive of doctors within the sanctity of the diagnostic confessional. Should her secret become widely known, she would be forcibly expelled from her community and even her family. She is well skilled at dodging commitments and activities that might expose her (“Visit the mikveh? Oh no, I can’t. I’m much too shy!”), but after 12 years the excuses are wearing painfully thin. And she is so very, very tired.
The stress of living a double life has only served to increase her illness and her isolation. She is friendless, alone, defensive and cornered. Quite frankly, she just wants it all to be over. Jesus is her last (and best) hope.
She does not begrudge Jairus his request. She knows him from the synagogue (she sits in the back), and he has even tried to be kind to her on occasion. “If he only knew!” she chuckles. “How horrified he would be to learn that he’s been unclean all this time!” She checks herself – that’s not very kind. If she were him, she’d be horrified too. In fact, it’s her horror of her uncleanness that has driven her to such desperation.
Jairus unwittingly serves as an excellent distraction, which allows her to improvise a plan: wait until Jesus is on the move, squeeze between the two disciples to His right (John and Andrew), pretend to trip (or faint) if necessary, and reach out to touch Him to steady herself. It’s a perfectly innocent-seeming gesture, especially in this boiling crowd (she’s already had her foot stepped on twice).
In the end, it’s the dismount that is her downfall. It was supposed to be so easy! Smash and grab! Hit and run – a perfect 10! But, wouldn’t you just know it? He felt the healing at the same instant she did, and there was no escaping the lightning connection between them. She is whole, but she is undone. In a way, this moment of public scrutiny is far more painful to her than the past 12 years of private shame.
"Who touched me?" Jesus asks, looking her right in the eye.
Taking her cue from Jairus’ earlier request, she throws herself at Jesus’ feet. And suddenly it’s all too much. She has had enough. Tapping into hidden reserves of strength – the righteous product of years of suffering – she openly (almost defiantly) declares “I did it – it was ME! Don’t ask me to apologize because I’m not sorry. It took the last bit of strength and courage I had to come to You for help, to reach out to You for healing. But I’m whole now, and I’m glad I did it.”
Jesus, always generous, never judging, helps her to her feet. “I’m glad, too. Now go in peace.”
