Picture this:
A crowd is gathered in the center of the city, pushing in, all trying to get a glimpse of the man walking by. You’ve heard rumors of this man. Some say he is the greatest teacher to have ever walked this Earth. Others say he will one day take over this crippling government oppressing us that lack a voice. Others say even crazier things—he’s preformed miracles, ones even the Great Houdini couldn’t conjure up.
You’re not so sure. If you’re honest, you’re not so sure about anything these days, really. It’s been twelve years of bleeding. You’ve seen every doctor across the nation, even the ones your insurance won’t even pretend to cover a penny of. Nobody knows what is wrong. Nobody has a solution. People look at you, see you as unclean, sick, unwanted, and their words cut you deep, push you to retreat. You’ve quit your job, feel too dirty to get groceries in town, too much pain to call up mom, too little change to try to move. You’re desperate and you know it.
Standing off to the side, you see him begin to walk by. And suddenly your feet are walking you straight into the midst of people pushing in, all reaching to simply touch this man, to see what it is he is really all about. And you don’t remember telling your hand to move but it is and it’s grabbing his coat before you can stop it and you hold your breath not knowing if the rumors are true…
“Who touched me?”
Your heart stops. Wasn’t everyone touching him? How did he know that you, an outcast, had touched him? Your mouth is dry, but you force the words out, “…it…it…was me.” Your body is trembling as your heart beats faster than you ever remember it beating before. Your face is hot, and you silently curse yourself for not putting on deodorant this morning. Everyone is transfixed on you, but you only see him as he begins to turn around. Falling on your face before him, you hide your face in your coat, not wanting to see his anger, not wanting to hear him speak the names people have called you, the ones you hear repeated in your nightmares. You decide it’s best not to let him speak, to explain yourself, to somehow convince him that he was your last hope. Maybe he will spare you. Maybe you can beg him to forgive you for causing such a disruption, for putting him out of his way, for somehow thinking you were worthy to touch him. And so you do. You tell him everything. Twelve years of pain. Twelve years of loneliness, fear, uncertainty, rejection, and utter brokenness. Tears are pouring down your face as words you’ve never spoken aloud come pouring out. Sobbing, you finish, and he takes your hand, his eyes soft as he looks at you and says: “Daughter, your faith has made you well.”
Maybe this story sounds crazy. Maybe it sounds impossible. But I believe there is a power in sharing our stories, our pain, the darkness we’ve harbored for too many years alone. I believe healing is found when we stand and listen to those who are hurting, who have run themselves dry trying to find the solution to only come up empty handed.
And so I say to you, the one who stands outside the crowd as the bleeding woman did, the one who is searching for an answer that may seem nonsensical, I will listen. I haven’t always. I’ve done my share of standing in the crowd, unaware, unengaged. But I refuse to do that anymore. I refuse to allow beautiful souls walk around in fear for their safety. I refuse to allow individuals, of whom I believe are insanely loved by a God who would send his only Son to come and die for them, sit alone with their pain because nobody cared to listen, nobody cared to be present. I believe Jesus came to set us free from our pain, to show us we are never alone, to promise us that even in the midst of grave suffering, hope wins and love endures. I wear him in my heart as a sign to you, a promise to you, that you matter and your pain need not be silenced. You are safe with me.
