Mark five twenty eight
If only I just touch his garment I will be healed…
If I crawl through the crowds perhaps they will not notice
me. Cautiously, I begin my genuflection
pilgrimage to the holy one.
The blood stained garment that covers the sin catches on the
stones. Whimpering, the Pharisees look down and scoff, Can anything good come
out of Nazareth?
They snicker.
If only. If only I just touch his garment I will be
healed.
The crowd presses in. A religious wall thicker than
bricks and mortar try to separate me from the holy one. A polished sandal bruises
my heel, crushing my foot into the stones. Pain sears from the wound.
I look up. Kindness is my plea. Will
you help me Mr. Sadducee?
Will you bring me
to the holy one, Mr. Pharisee? They dismiss.
You are an unclean
woman in need of a good stoning, not healing. The truth always comes out in one’s greatest affliction.
If only. If only I just touch his garment I will be healed.
The blood and the stones restrain me. I must wait. Intuitively, the holy one moves. The myrrh beckons him to lay hands on the shadowed sick. Pressing through the multitude, He stops within a stone’s throw of my reach. My tear veiled eyes see his dusty feet thirsting for the expensive consecrated oil.
The holy one hesitates; His heart longs for my persistence. The contained mercy oil gives me the courage to reach out over the manicured toed Pharisees and
Sadducees and caress the swish of his garment. His healing myrrh empties into my weary spirit and the holy one knows.
Who touched my garment?
Mr. Pharisee and Mr Sadducee grasp the stones in
anticipation. I whisper out my confession. It
is I, Lord.
Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace, and be healed of your affliction.
The stones must wait as Mr. Pharisee and Mr. Sadducee are
silenced.
Mark six fifty six
Wherever He entered the villages, cities, or the country, they laid the sick in the marketplaces, and begged Him that they might just touch the hem of His garment.
And as many as touched Him were made well.
