Jesus jostling.

Sometimes, I read about Jesus and I’m just overwhelmed at the beauty of him. The idea of God incarnate, wearing clothes, having a man-smell — all that earthiness about him — it’s awe inspiring. Even if you don’t believe, suspend your disbelief for just a moment and think about it.

Pretty cool, right?

But then when I think about this God incarnate, wearing clothes, having man smell, bumping up against the rest of us — well, that’s when it gets really crazy. In a Jesus crazy-beautiful kind of way.

In The Jesus I Never Knew Phillip Yancey says that the incarnation is about disruption — it’s about God interrupting the stuff of earth, hitting the reset button, so to speak. Stopping the flow of humanity in its tracks and putting it on a different course. The other day, I read this passage:

A woman who had suffered a condition of hemorrhaging for twelve years — a long succession of physicians had treated her, and treated her badly, taking all her money and leaving her worse off than before — had heard about Jesus. She slipped in from behind and touched his robe. She was thinking to herself, “If I can put a finger on his robes, I can get well.” The moment she did it, the flow of blood dried up. She could feel the change and knew her plague was over and done with.

At the same moment, Jesus felt energy discharging from him. He turned around to the crowd and asked, “Who touched my robe?” His disciples said, “What are you talking about? With this crowd pushing and jostling you, you’re asking, “Who touched me? Dozens have touched you!” But he went on asking, looking around to see who had done it. The woman, knowing what had happened, knowing she was the one, stepped up in fear and trembling, knelt before him, and gave him the whole story. Jesus said to her, “Daughter, you took a risk of faith, and now you’re healed and whole. Live well, be blessed! Be healed of your plague!” — Mark 5:21-34

The incredibly redemptive nature of this interaction is not lost on me. Way back in Genesis, Eve was cursed with blood, and here, on this day, was a bleeding woman reaching out for Jesus. Because her condition caused her to be ritually unclean in the eyes of her Jewish family and friends, she was extremely isolated from her loved ones. On top of all that, she’d been used and abused by the very people from whom she sought help. She placed not just precious trust but also hope in doctors who failed to help her and stole her money. Double whammy.

And here came Jesus, surrounded by a crowd of people looking for a show. Pressing in on all sides, they were, technically, “followers of Jesus.” But they were in it for the show — he was on his way to go perform a healing. You know, that little raising people from the dead trick he was known for.

They were trying to get a piece of him, and she thought If I can just touch his robe, I’ll be healed. A feminist reading of this passage might take note of the interruption of the blood curse. How in one small, rebellious act of faith (she was unclean — to touch him would have been a sin, which explains her fear of confessing) she reached out for God, probably expecting a stoning, and he turned and blessed her instead. He blessed her and told her: you are healed and whole — then he instructed her to go and live her life well and be healed of her plague. It was an active, ongoing thing, and I swear I can hear women throughout the ages breathing a huge collective sigh of relief.

But another thing struck me as I was reading this passage: the Jesus jostlers. All those people crowding around him, looking for a show, wanting a piece of what he had.

So many were touching him, and you would think hey, anyone who physically rubs up against the messiah would probably feel something, right? A little twinge, maybe a tingle. Maybe they might start glowing supernaturally like Moses did when he came down from the mountain. But apparently not.

Apparently in order to be touched by the power of Jesus, we have to touch him with the power of faith.

Jesus noticed the difference. Out of all those people who were crowding around him this woman took a risk. When she acted upon her rebellious faith and said, Screw it! I’ve got nothing else but Jesus so I’m reaching out to him! — well, something happened. And Jesus noticed.

Who touched my robe?

I can’t imagine what it must have felt like to be her in that moment. To have the messiah of the world turn and notice you like that, to be looking for you. And the beauty of it was he was looking for her to bless her.

She thought otherwise, of course. She thought she was in trouble. Her society and the law taught her that she was unclean, untouchable, and she thought for sure that Jesus was going to whack her.

Who touched my robe?

And the disciples — who quite frankly are a little bit snotty sometimes, I mean really if my kids talked to the messiah like that they’d definitely get a time out and no dessert — are all, “What the heck are you talking about? Uhhh, have you noticed the throngs of people who are all grabbing at your hair and trying to touch you? DOZENS have touched you.”

But Jesus, with singleness of focus, was on a mission to bless the act of faith.

And here is what I love: Jesus did not care that she was a woman. He did not care that she was unclean. He did not care that she was rebelling against the “law” and social mores. All he cared about was her faith. Who touched my robe? And in fear and trembling, she knelt before him and confessed. And he blessed her. He blessed her for her faith.

As I read this I began to wonder — am I a Jesus jostler? Do I, like the crowd, dance around his epicenter, crowd him to see the show, to get a piece of what he’s offering? Or do I stretch out my finger of faith — the kind it takes to pull the energy out of him so he notices? Am I just in it for the show, waiting for God to prove himself to me?

It’s been shown over and over and over — God responds to faith. Sometimes it’s the desperate plea of the ones dangling from the tethered ends of their proverbial ropes. In grief, in loneliness, despair. Sometimes it’s in the huge faith-void — that place where many believers will get to eventually where God seems like a distant fairy tale you believed in when you were a child. It’s a big black hole of thick, inky black and cold, and it seems to swallow you up whole. But then God reaches in there like some kind of cosmic plumber and pulls you out of the slime to a new, brighter shore.

Either way, however it comes, that tiny little inkling of faith moves God in a powerful God kind of way. And then Jesus comes down, walks through all the jostlers looking for you.  Imagine those eyes — the look on his face as he searches, eager to find you with his blessing, to pour out his love on you in response to your tiny little faith. Imagine the feeling of his eyes on you when he finds you. Imagine the freedom when he declares you blessed and free of plague.

Imagine.

And go live life well, and be blessed.