Women in white raiment

by John Lemley

It was after Jesus had begun His new method of teaching by parables, the keynote of which was, “Take heed how ye hear,” and had, at the close of a hard day’s labor, sailed over the Sea of Galilee, and spent the night in the region of Decapolis, in the hope of getting away from the multitudes to obtain a little rest, that, on the following morning as he returned to Capernaum, the people, from the hillsides were watching for His return, and as soon as they recognized the sail of the little vessel, and long before he reached land, great throngs had lined the shore to welcome His return.

Notwithstanding the prejudices of the Scribes and Pharisees had already been aroused against Christ, there was, on the shore, nervously moving among the people, a very prominent citizen of Capernaum, by the name of Jairus, a ruler of the synagogue. From the deep lines of anxiety visible on his face, he was evidently in great mental distress. And well he might be, for his beautiful twelve year old daughter had been given up by the physicians and was dying. As a last resort, he hastened to find Jesus, who already had performed many cures in his city, and so when he learned that our Lord had passed over the Sea of Galilee, he could do no better than wait His coming. No sooner had the little vessel touched the landing than Jairus pushed his way through the crowd, and when he got near enough fell at Jesus’ feet, and in great agony of heart besought Him, saying, “My little daughter lieth at the point of death; I pray Thee come and lay Thy hands on her, that she may be healed.” There was no calmness in this appeal. On the other hand, it was full of agitation and fear, mingled with fancies that the Lord must first lay His hands upon his dying child. There is a striking similarity between this appeal of Jairus, and that of the nobleman who came to Jesus in the early part of His ministry, and cried out, “Come down ere my child die.” Then the Lord told the nobleman to go his way, his child should live, but here His divine compassion went out to the distressed father. Doubtless Jesus saw the weakness of his faith, but He also saw his sincerity, and so He “went with him.”

But the daughter of Jairus was not the only sufferer in that city. We read, there was “a certain woman which had an issue of blood twelve years, and had suffered many things of many physicians, and had spent all that she had, and was nothing bettered, but rather grew worse.” Surely she was in a sorrowful condition, had suffered many things, besides the disease which was wasting her life away, for medicine in that age was but imperfectly understood, and diseases were often exorcised by charms, and, doubtless her “many physicians” practiced all sorts of charms and resorted to every kind of omen, until her money was gone, and she was not only poverty-stricken, but daily growing worse under her affliction. One almost wonders, since Jesus had now been for a year and a half a resident of Capernaum, that she had not sooner appealed to Him for help. Perhaps his work had been in another part of the city, or she may have been deterred from asking His help because of the nature of her malady, or she may have thought within herself that she could do in the throng what she had not the courage to do openly, for she said, “If I may but touch His garment, I shall be whole.” And now was her opportunity, for “much people followed Him, and thronged Him.” Besides, on this occasion, Jesus may have passed through the street on which she lived, since He has such a way of passing by the door of helpless, suffering humanity, for He is “touched with the feeling of our infirmities.”

This woman at first does not impress us as having a very exalted idea of the Saviour or faith in His ability to heal. Doubtless she shared the superstition of her people, and imagined that Christ healed by a sort of magic or magnetism, for, as she mingled in the throng, she said to herself, if I come “in the press,” if I can only get near enough to “touch the hem of His garment,” I will be healed. These seem to be the thoughts passing through her mind as she ventured out on her errand of being healed. It is important, however, though difficult, to realize her situation, for she had become impoverished, diseased, and almost helpless. Once she was possessed of health, and some means at least, and, no doubt moved in respectable society. Her changed relations to her former surroundings made it all the harder to be publicly recognized, and so she timidly permits herself to be absorbed by the multitude as they pressed their way through the crowded street that morning. There may be another reason of which she was fully conscious, namely, according to the Mosaic law, such a sufferer was unclean, and was required, after the cure was wrought, to bring an offering for purification. Orientals had a perfect abhorrence of such a person, for her very touch would render them unclean. Perhaps could we know all the circumstances which shaped her actions, the wonder would be, that she came at all, and that her courage was greater than her faith.

At length, and as unobtrusively as possible, she came up, in the press of the people, behind Jesus, and stretched out her trembling hand, and in such a modest way touched the hem of His garment that no one saw it, not even His disciples, who were nearest the Saviour. Since no one saw her act, she thought no one needed to know it. Perhaps she was so careful that she even thought Jesus was not conscious of it. But to our Lord there was a difference between the touch of faith and the touch of the crowd. She was all too deeply conscious of her great need. She was carried along with the multitude, because she believed if she could get near enough to Jesus to touch Him, she would receive that which all her physicians were unable to bestow, namely, restoration to health. She was there for a blessing. The crowd was there through idle curiosity. They wanted nothing, only to see. They pushed through the thronged highway together, and as they did so talked about the simplicity of the great Man in their midst, were interested in Him because of His fame, discussed His origin, wondered at the growing opposition of the Scribes and Pharisees, but hoped some good would come of Him to the nation. The woman believed she would personally receive new life from Him. In this she was not disappointed, for “straightway the fountain of her blood was dried up; and she felt in her body that she was healed of that plague.” To her there was an inward consciousness, which could not be mistaken, of the staunching of a wound through which her life, for long years, had been slowly and yet surely ebbing, and she felt the rising tide of new existence and a return to wholeness.

But now the scene changes. The great throng came to a halt. What has happened? one inquired of another. See! Jesus has turned around “in the press” and is sharply looking into the faces of those nearest Him, and demanding, “Who touched my clothes?”

To the disciples this seemed a strange inquiry, and they could not understand its meaning, and replied, “Thou seest the multitude thronging thee, and sayest thou, Who touched me?” To appreciate the astonishment of the disciples one must see an Oriental throng pushing its way through a narrow street of an Eastern city. There is no resisting its onward rush. Like some mighty river which, fed by a thousand spring freshets, irresistibly bears everything before it, so is an Eastern crowd, and the wonder is that Jesus could stay at all. But He immediately knew in “Himself that virtue had gone out of Him.” He was conscious that He had put forth power for the woman’s healing. He would there and at once correct any superstition that there was any healing virtue in His clothes. Not in the touch of the garment, for the people pressed Him on all sides, and experienced nothing of His healing power, even though one or another might have had a concealed disease, simply because this conscious need of help was lacking in them, and so it was her own faith had saved her, even though in the beginning it was not wholly free from superstition.

But what a trial this stop must have been to the woman, especially when there was such urgent haste, and this seeming leisurely way of calling out all the circumstances of the case, even after all disavowed touching Him, and His looking “round about to see her that had done this thing.” She must have thought to herself, “I will surely be discovered.” And timidly shrank back in the crowd, her face burning with confusion, for doubtless she was not only alarmed at the delay, but also mortified and afraid on account of the nature of her malady, disturbed by the consciousness of impropriety, as having, while Levitically unclean, dared to mingle with the people, and even touch the great Teacher Himself. We wonder, in the sweep of the Saviour’s eye over the multitude “to see her,” as she caught sight of His beneficent face, possibly for the first time, she did not see something in it that calmed her fears and inspired hope? It would seem so, for even while yet “fearing and trembling” she came promptly out from among the throng, “fell down before Him,” and, hard as it must have been for her to tell her shame in the ears of the multitude, woman-like, she bravely “told Him all the truth!” Confessed the whole sad story of her life, and twelve long years of suffering. Oh, the touch of loyalty to truth and honor in this woman, prostrate at the feet of Jesus, pleading for mercy and forgiveness! How His own heart must have been touched by it. He would not break the bruised reed, even in this necessity for the good of her faith, to have her openly confess the great blessing she had received. Doubtless the Lord constrained her to make this confession, partly to seal her faith and to strengthen her recovery, and partly to present her to the world as healed and cleansed.

But while she is sobbing out her confession at the Saviour’s feet, He graciously addresses her, “Daughter, be of good comfort; thy faith hath made thee whole; go in peace!” Had ever such endearing words fallen upon human ears! To the woman in the house of Simon the Pharisee, He had said, “Thy faith hath saved thee!” To this one He says, “Daughter, be of good comfort; thy faith hath made thee whole!” That endearing appellation, “daughter,” must have sounded as a lost note out of heaven in the ear of this woman. Could it be possible that she, who, under the Levitical law, had been held by her people as unclean, is called “daughter” by the pure, sinless Son of God? Did ever heaven come down to earth in such graciousness, and rescue from the mire of uncleanness and elevate womanhood to be a princess of the sky? Surely these were days of heaven upon earth, and we may well believe that “daughter” arose from her prostrate attitude at the feet of the Lord of life and glory, “a new creature” in Christ.

Early ecclesiastical legends have garlanded this woman with many beautiful fancies. Her birthplace, according to tradition, was Paneas (the modern Banias), located at the sources of the Jordan. Here, in the front of her residence, she caused a monument to be erected to her Deliverer. She must also have been in the company of women who followed Jesus to Jerusalem at the last Passover, for, at the several trials of our Lord she is made to appear under the name of Veronica, and is said, in the presence of Pilate, to have proclaimed, in a clear, loud voice, the innocence of our Lord, and after he was condemned to be crucified, on the way to Calvary, wiped His face with her own handkerchief.