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CHAPTER II If I May Touch
Now, I must speak of a most cherished memory in my time with Jesus of Nazareth.
Like zephyrs in the night, one cannot predict the movement of God's power, nor the touch of his grace, nor the brush of his love.
Two little girls knew one another by their mutual attendance at synagogue. And it was within the perimeters of the synagogue that the friendship was confined. Their fathers were well-known to the community, one respected, even celebrated, the other pitied. One dressed in the finery of affluence, the other dressed in poverty. One whose father was obeyed, the other whose father obeyed the best he could, yet begged in the streets.
Damaris and Prisca had known each other for almost two years and were, each of them, twelve years old. Damaris was a lively child, always smiling. Her mother had died in childbirth and she had been raised by her father and uncle. She was always seeking ways to improve her lot and that of these two men, both of whom were blind as a result of Roman brutality. They were poor Jews and failed to pay the taxes Rome had determined was its due. They paid their taxes, therefore, with their sight. When the tax collector reported them to the office of tribute, a Roman cohort arrived at their door a few hours later and cut out their eyes.
Damaris was witness to this. She screamed and cried as would be expected, but she determined that their lives would not end because of this. But life as they knew it did end. Losing their modest income from sandal-making, they were forced to beg to survive. Their home degenerated from a modest hovel to a shack, disheveled and dirty. Damaris did the best she could to care for the two men, but she was, after all, only twelve years old. She led them about the streets of Capharnaum, begging; depending on the charity of others. Actually, her presence elicited greater sympathy than otherwise might be expected, but the income from begging was as nothing compared to having sight and having a home.
Prisca was anything but lively. She tried to be, but her sickness prevented her from the high-energy playfulness common to most twelve-year-old girls. Moreover, since her birth, her mother had left home as well, owing to what seemed to be incurable disease. Although her father, Jairus, was ruler of the synagogue, he could not give her health, and the child continued to get worse, especially in recent months.
When they were younger, both girls sat in synagogue with Prisca's mother in the women's section in the balcony above the men. During the service, which regularly lasted for hours, the girls would draw on tablets and pass them back and forth to each other. Or they would feign the need of the call of nature and sit outside the synagogue on the steps while services were conducted inside. These things were tolerated in children both by parents and, with disapproval, by the elders. Prisca sometimes embarrassed her father by her behavior in the synagogue, but he could not bring himself to discipline her owing to her illness. His heart was broken that he could do little or nothing for his little girl and her mother . . . her mother--well that was another story.
We spent the night in the accommodations of Matthew's spacious home. The next morning, as Jesus loved to do, we took a walk along the edges of the lake. The previous evening's socializing had taken its toll and the crisp, morning air felt and tasted good. As usual, it wasn't long before people started gathering around us. Of course, they had come to see Jesus, but we were beginning to feel that we somehow, shared in his celebrity. We liked it, but at the same time, we resisted it. We sorely longed for time with Jesus uninterrupted by the needs of others. A man began to push his way through the crowd toward us. It was Jairus. I recognized him because of his position with the synagogue. A man highly respected in Carpharnaum; as ruler of the synagogue, elders and even the priest answered to him. His face was ashen with grief. He came and fell at Jesus' feet. "My little girl is dying, Lord." He was on all fours, his head hanging. I was struck by the paradox of such a man as Jairus so humbling himself. "Please," he begged, "come and put your hands on her. Heal her and she will live." The response was instant. "Take me to her," he said simply. The crowd followed, whispering in anticipation.
The woman watched as the crowd approached. They pressed around Jesus. It was a wonder that he could breathe, let alone move through the streets. She saw Jairus approach and shoulder his way through the crowd. She could understand. As ruler of the synagogue, he simply could not be to her what she needed. She was unclean. The flow of her blood had not stopped after the birth of Prisca. For twelve years it continued. The doctors had given her mixture after mixture of herbs and drugs, performing all manner of treatments, but to no avail. She was unclean. She could not even live under the same roof as her husband. Thankfully, he had provided for her as best he could, but the family had suffered greatly. There was just no way. No way. She worried about Prisca. She could not see her as often as she wanted; in fact, it had been almost a year. She assiduously avoided contact with her daughter for the embarrassment it might cause the child. She would often hide if she saw her coming. Jesus continued to approach. She knew of Jesus. Everyone in Capharnaum did. She knew he could heal, but she despaired that he would ever notice her. Just let me near enough to touch him, she thought. Please, dear God, let me just touch his robe as he passes, and I shall be whole. Weak and pale, the blood continued to leak from her body. Twelve years of this humiliation. It was an ugly business. The humiliating stigma of being "unclean" added to her terrible sense of shame. It had weakened her so severely that she did not expect to live much longer. She had lost count of the physicians she had seen. So frustrating. No one, it seemed, could relieve her suffering. At this point, Jesus was her hope--a slim hope, but her only hope. It was difficult in the press of the people to get close to where he would pass. Suppose he turned aside? Suppose he would not pass close enough? Doubts assaulted her. No! He is coming. If I can but reach past this person's legs . . . There! She felt the soft folds of a garment caress her fingers. She was uncertain that it was Jesus she touched. It could have been anyone. At that instant, she also felt something take place deep within her. Her entire body lost its pale chill and warmed naturally. Am I . . ? Am I . . ? Am I healed? The realization crept upon her until her sense of wellness was so complete that she could not speak. She wanted to shout but words would not come, only feelings, only spontaneous bursts of tears, relief and gratitude. The crowd surged on, but suddenly, Jesus stopped. He was silent for a moment looking about him with a peaceful, yet penetrating, curiosity. We all wondered what had caused him to halt so abruptly. Had he stubbed his toe on a rock? He did not seem to be in pain. Was he sick? Did he notice something the rest of us did not see? Did someone shout something that arrested his attention? "Who touched me?" Peter, walking next to him laughed. "Master, you see these people crowding against you and you ask, 'Who touched me?'" "No, wait. Someone touched my clothes. I felt strength drain from me." His eyes darted about in the crowd, searching. Then he saw her. And herein are two anomalies. How is it that Jesus could know slender, feminine fingers had merely brushed the folds of his robe in a pressing crowd, and how is it that he could detect that healing energy had been released from him, except that he was exceptional? Except that he had come from God? And over against that, how is it that if he came from God, which I do not doubt, he could possibly not know who had done it? She was on her knees facing away from us. At first glance, one might think that she had dropped something and was down on her knees looking for what she had dropped. Then slowly, her tear-filled eyes turned toward him, beaming, yet she trembled, a strange mixture of fear and pleasure. He took a few steps and stood before her. Yet it appeared as if she knelt before him. "I am responsible," said she. "I touched you. I said to myself that if I touch the hem of your robe, I will be whole. And I was . . . I mean . . . I am." Tears of joy and relief returned, now mixed with anxiety and fear for having been discovered. Jesus reached his hand and caressed her face. "Dear sister," he said tenderly, "do not be frightened. Your faith, your courage has healed you. Go in peace. You are freed from your suffering."
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