Continued from previous post
This particular church would pause at a point early in the service when everyone was supposed to turn to the person next to them, introduce themselves, say hello and try to be a little friendly. We had a new pastor from out of town who I think picked up on the frosty New England tendencies and was attempting to break us out of the habit. It was working pretty well. Usually it got out of hand and the pastor had to reign the congregation back in to get on with the rest of the worship service.
On this particular Sunday morning, I turned to introduce myself to the woman sitting next to me. She told me her name and I immediately recognized her. She was sort of a local rock star in the Boston area. I had heard her on the radio a few times, and I told her that I knew of her music. She thought that was cool. Then I asked her how she was doing, you know, kind of casually in a “we only have two minutes before the pastor will start screaming at us to sit down and shut up,” but not nosy way, and I’ll never forget her response. Rather than glamorizing her life as a well-known, critically acclaimed musician, she looked me squarely in the eyes and told me of the difficulty of trying to make a living as a musician and also raising a child as a single mother. And then she stopped speaking for a second, and we stood there in silence while the white noise of the congregation’s trite exchanges swirled around us like an audible blur. She turned her eyes upwards and said, “Really, I’m just hanging on by the hem of His garment.”
I thought that was so beautiful and sad at the same time. I pictured this woman with her guitar strapped over her shoulder, one arm reaching up hanging on for dear life to the hem of Jesus’ robe as he floats randomly through the sky, her other arm dragging along her little girl, who is gripping Mom’s wrist with both hands, desperately hoping that she doesn’t slip off. I wanted to help her somehow.
Maybe she was thinking about the woman in the gospel story who was suffering from a bleeding condition for all those years, and with great determination, she pushed her way through a huge crowd because all she wanted to do was touch Jesus’ robe. She knew he could heal her. Jesus is walking down the street, mobbed by people all around him, like chaotic paparazzi following his every move. She keeps pushing, persisting, probably getting bruised from being kicked and shoved in the process. She gets close enough and desperately grabs out for him. And then Jesus says, “Who touched me?” The disciples, trying to be good bodyguards, are probably annoyed, and they say, “What are you talking about? Everyone touched you! You’re in a freakin’ mosh-pit of people trying to get a piece of you!” But Jesus knew some kind of power went out of him. He stops walking. He turns around. Everyone stops. What is he doing? Something’s going to happen. He sees the woman, zones in on her, and tells her she’s healed.
This woman sitting next to me in church that morning just wanted to get the same attention. She wanted to push through the crowds, the noise, the pressures, and just have Jesus pick her out, to see her pain, to notice her cries, to give her a break. So she’s hanging on by the hem of His garment. To me, it’s a beautiful way to describe the difficulties, the pressures, the barely-making-ends-meet periods we all go through in life. We question how we got here, how it all ended up like this, why it can’t be better. We pray and plead with God to save us from our wretched conditions, and sometimes it seems like he is walking away, or floating away, randomly pushed along by the masses of needs in the world other than our own. And then we reach out and grab him and all we catch is the hem of his garment. And we clutch on to it and don’t let go until he takes notice.
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