The Touch

A sermon preached at Old South Congregational Church, United Church of Christ, Hallowell, Maine, June 2, 2006.

Text:  Mark 5:
The Rev. Susan M. Reisert

Sermon prayer:  G and M God, in whom is the fullness of light and wisdom, enlighten our minds by your Holy Spirit and grant us grace to receive your Word with reverence and humility.  Amen.

            Should I touch him?  The difficulty of stretching, pushing my way through the crowd, the pain of being pushed myself.  Should I touch him?
            Maybe if I can just get through this tremendous crowd.  If only I could get a little closer, a little closer.  Then I could reach my hand.  Should I touch him?  Should I try?
            If I could just touch the edge of his cloak.  Just a little touch.  No one will know.  No one needs to know.  No one knows how painful it has been to be me.  No one knows what I’ve been through.
            If only I could get a little closer, a little closer.  Just to touch his cloak.  But, there are so many people, so many.  They are everywhere and so close.  It is so hard to get through them, to keep up with them as they move along the road.
            This man attracts so many to be around him.  There are so many people.  I just need to get a little closer.  Don’t they know how important this is to me?  How long it has been?  How horrible my life has been?  How painful to endure?
            No one knows the shame.  It’s the blood.  Not like the rest.  All the time.  All the time!  Do you know what that means?  They think I am unclean.  Unclean!  My family.  The friends I once had.  All think that I am unclean.  They do not want to be near me, to talk to me, to know that I am around.  Unclean.  Always unclean.
            I’ve tried to deal with this.  I’ve tried.  I don’t want to feel sorry for myself, so I’ve tried.  All those so-called physicians, all over the place—Capernaum, Tiberias, Bethsaida, Magdala, Sepphoris.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Every last cent—spent on all of those useless physicians who said they could help, but then they couldn’t.  They took my money and now I am not only no better, I am worse.  Worse!
            And I have prayed,  Oh, I have prayed.  And that hasn’t worked either.  Twelve long years of this.  If only I could get closer, closer.  This One may be able to help me.  I have nowhere else to turn.  This One, he may be the one to help me.  He may be able to help.  But, I need to get closer, closer.  And there are so many, so many others.  All around, all around.
            Unclean, unclean, unclean.  That is what they cry.  That is what they have to cry.  It is written.  Unclean, unclean.  It is written.  Sometimes I feel like I should join them.  Unclean, unclean.  Perhaps we should all join together, all of us, unclean—the lepers, the handicapped, the paranoid, the eunuchs, you know the rest.  All unclean.  It is written.
            If only I could get close enough to touch.  Even just the cloak.  What if he found out?  Would he be able to tell if I touched him?  Just the outside of his garment?
            Unclean, unclean.  I just can’t take it anymore.  And, it’s all been made worse by being forced to stay away, to hang back, so religious people can be religious and religious people can have harmony or peace or whatever they like to call it—be pure, be clean, be holy and know why they are clean and pure and holy and explain to others why they are clean and pure and holy and tell them how they can be clean and pure and holy so they can be clean and pure and holy and know why they are clean and pure and holy and explain to others why they are clean and pure and holy—and keep the whole thing going.  Nice and neat without those of us who are unclean.  So, it is written.  But, don’t I need God too?
            Why does God hide behind the curtain?  Why am I forced to stay so far away?  How can I get clean?
            If only I could get a little closer.  I’m making progress, but he still seems so far away.  So far.  So many people.  If only I could push through just a little bit more, just a little bit more.
            Hey, look, there it is right in front of me—finally.  His cloak.  I am so close now.  Now all I need to do is to touch him, touch just the cloak.  He won’t even notice and maybe I will be healed.  No more unclean, no more.
            I see my hand go out.  It’s almost like it is doing it on its own.  Oh, I just need a little more courage.  Will this do it?  Will my twelve long years of suffering be over?  Will it?  I am so close now.  Please no more unclean.
            There, I touched it.  I touched the cloak and I know that something has happened.  I feel different already.  Much better.  I hope this means an end to the unclean, unclean.  That is the part I have hated the most.  I did nothing, nothing to deserve such a label.  Unclean, unclean.  It is written.  Enough!
            I feel different now.  I touched the cloak.  Different, even in the middle of this great crowd.
            But, wait.  He has stopped walking.  He has turned around and he is looking around, looking for something, someone.  Does he know that I touched his cloak?  I shrivel and draw back.  I am not ready for this.
            I hear him say, “who touched my clothes?”  I don’t know what to do.  I hear those closest to him, his helpers, tell him, “You see the crowd pressing in on you; how can you say, ‘Who touched me?’”  But still he continues to look around, looking for the one who had touched him.  Looking for me.
            Without really even thinking about it, I fall down in front of him, trembling and I just spill it all—I unleash the whole horrible truth right there in front of him and in front of all of those people.  It just came out.  What is he going to do?  What is going to happen to me?
            Shaking and trembling, cowering,  Part of me is so afraid and another part is not.  I’m feeling so much better.  The bleeding is stopped.  I hope and I pray that he will not take it from me.  Then, I hear his voice, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace and be healed of your disease.”  Just like that and it was over.  Someone came up to him to tell him about something else that was happening and he went away.  And I was still there.  Healed.  No more unclean.  No more rejection.  No more hatred.  Enough.  I am healed.  I can live my live without bitterness, without shame.  I am healed.  I reached out my hand.  I touched his cloak.  I felt the power of healing and now everything is different.  I am healed.

            Some of us come to this story from the gospel of Mark this morning identifying with this woman suffering with the twelve-year hemorrhage.  Some of us know what it is like to be labeled as unclean, unwelcome, unwanted.  Some of us know what it is like to go from physician to physician, searching for something to ease the pain and discomfort and yet find nothing.  Some of us know what it is like to be in this woman’s shoes.
            Some of us come to this story identifying with Jairus, one of the leaders of the local synagogue whose daughter is very ill and on the point of death.  Jesus is going off with Jairus and a crowd gathers around to follow and the woman with the twelve-year hemorrhage is part of that crowd.  Some of us know what it is like to be in Jairus’ place, to have a loved one so sick and we are so desperate for healing for that important person in our lives.
            Some of us come to this story identifying more with the disciples, close followers and helpers of Jesus but not always knowing what exactly is going on, not always understanding.  Should we allow more people to gather around or should we protect Jesus?  What exactly does it mean for us to be around this man who attracts such a great throng of people?  How do we deal with all of those who gather around, looking for something—to be healed, to be touched, to talk to him,
            Some others of us may come to this story identifying with the great crowd.  We gather together, but we sometimes feel mostly like we are just along for the ride.
            No matter how we come into this story, we know this story is about, among other things, dramatic healing and the power that comes from being in the presence of Jesus.  This story, among other things, is about the power of touch and the power of laying everything out in front of our Savior and offering everything to him, showing our faithfulness by letting go and trusting in His goodness and His love.  This story is about the power of approach and approaching again and again.
            This is a good story for today.  Not only are we confronted with a myriad of prayer concerns in these days in the life of this church community, but many of us are in need of some healing, of some knowing of that power of touch, of being assured of Jesus’ presence in our lives.
            This is a good day for this story, especially as we are about to gather around this sacred table, this table of sacrifice and victory, this table of grace and mystery, this table of reconciliation and renewal, this table of welcome, this table of faith.
            Whether we come here to be healed, to be touched, whether we come to reach out a hand to touch, whether we come to be made clean, whether we come to let go of our prejudices, our own hurtful judgments on others whom we label as unclean or unwelcome, whether we come here to beg for healing for someone we love, whether we come here only because others are here and we are attracted to what they are doing and where they are going, we are welcome here.  We are welcome around this table.
            This is the place to reach out our hand and to seek out the touch and the power of our Redeemer.  This is the place to reach out, to touch, to seek.  This is the place to spill it all, to offer everything we have to our Savior who is in our midst.
            Our faith demands that we come to our Savior with all of our selves—the good, the bad, the ugly, the in-between, our suffering as well as our participation, from our actions or from our neglect, in the suffering of others.  Our faith demands that we bring it all here, to this table of grace, so that we may know the power of reconciliation and wholeness, of healing and the fullness of life.
            Our Savior does not always come to us as we would like, but our Savior does come to us—in hope, in love and in power.  Our Savior does not always heal us or our loved  ones in the way that we expect healing, that is part of the mystery of our faith—the difficult mystery of our faith.  But, healing is there—sometimes in body, but always in spirit.
            As we share the elements of this sacred meal, we are reminded of the very real, but still mysterious presence of the One who gives life as no one else.  As we gather around this holy table, we welcome a grace that only God can offer. 
            As we gather around the table this morning, let us bring all of ourselves and let us reach out in spirit to the One who lingers here with us, offering new life and beckoning us forward on this journey of life and faith.

[Many thanks to William Loader for providing inspiration for the beginning of this sermon in “Should I Touch Him?  A Reflection on Mark 5:25-34; Matthew 9:20-22; Luke 7:42b-48”]