And there came a man named Jairus, who was a ruler of the synagogue. And falling at Jesus’ feet, he implored him to come to his house, for he had an only daughter, about twelve years of age, and she was dying. Luke 8:41-42
Ask any parent about the worst thing they can imagine, and chances are it will be losing a child. Especially, perhaps, a young child. When the weak, unhappy infant emerges from the womb, a mother’s heart is moved with pity as well as love. Such a helpless creature, so defenseless, so soft and limp in a hard world. A good father has compassion on his children . . . like the father who, forgetting his dignity and standing in the community, pushes through a sweaty crowd and throws himself at Jesus’ feet.
He’s a “ruler of the synagogue”—meaning, probably, a Pharisee who acted as trustee and program director for the local worshipping body. Though not a teacher of the law, he might be accustomed to being “greeted in the marketplace” and perhaps even “making a show of lengthy prayers.” But all show is forgotten when his little girl approaches death’s door.
Women had no value in those days, we hear. And that’s true, generally speaking. But the individual girl or woman could be priceless. Strong men collapsed upon losing a beloved wife or daughter. Sure, cynics may say—they missed the sex or the companionship or the profit-making marriage alliance, not the person herself. I doubt it. The human heart has always made room for love; it’s not something invented by the present enlightened age.
Anyway, this is one distraught father. If he had ever been among the skeptical Pharisees questioning the new Messiah’s credentials, that’s all forgotten now—nobody else can preserve the jewel of his heart. “Please, Master . . . please . . .”
The Master nods. The crowd, getting wind of another miraculous work in progress, swells and compresses as they travel the short distance to Jairus’ house. We’re already told that “the crowd welcomed him” after his return from Gentile territory—the excitement returns! Rumors running everywhere reached the ear of another female, this one not so cherished.
We know so little about her: was she someone’s wife, sister, mother? All we know is her infirmity, a shameful condition that must have severely weakened her. A continual “discharge of blood” is not something she can be discrete about, either, because if she is a law-abiding Israelite, everything she sits on and every dish she eats from and the bed she lies upon—and everyone who touches those things—and touches her–is unclean. If she has a family, they would have to treat her as a virtual prisoner in order to maintain ritual cleanness themselves.
If she lived today, she might be carrying a sign reading ‘Unclean’ is unfair! It certainly seems that way to us: if God made women’s bodies to bleed (or breed) every month, what’s unclean about that? Why is He so squeamish about His own supposedly grand design?
I can’t say for sure, except that blood has a peculiar significance for Him, at least since He heard it spilled out and crying to Him from the ground (Gen. 4:10). For the life of the creature is in the blood, and I have given it for you on the altar to make atonement for your souls, for it is the blood that makes atonement by the life (Lev. 17:11). But it can’t be one’s own blood, and it can’t be offered one’s own way, even if a poor woman can’t help it. For twelve years, we might say, she’s been involuntarily “offering” blood, and what is unacceptable is also unclean.
We know the story: she plunges into the crowd, heedless of who may be defiled by touching her, but she’s careful not to defile Jesus. She can’t throw herself as his feet, as Jairus did, nor speak to him, nor face him. But if she can only touch . . .
A pious Jews was expected to wear tassels on the corners of his outer garment, as a reminder of The LORD’s commands, so as “not to follow after your own heart and your own eyes” (Num. 15:39). That’s probably the “fringe on his garment” the woman was aiming for, and the moment she touches it, power flows from him and into her. Mark says they both could feel it (Mark 5:29-30).
Stop and think about that: he had power to spare. He could have healed all Israel with a wave of his hand. Nevertheless, he doesn’t heal en masse, but one at a time: his power is focused and purposeful. And his ultimate purpose is to do the will of his Father, as any Jewish man was supposed to do, but Jesus actually could do. The fringe was a symbol of that, and this woman took hold of it by the power that comes not of assertion but of submission. She was instantly healed.
And she was instantly called out: “Who touched me?” In the crush of arms, legs, hands, voices, anyone could be touching him. But only one with faith. She intended to melt away into the crowd and then follow all the purification rules that would restore her to society, but Jesus has a point to make: “Take heart, daughter; your faith has made you well.” The law still holds, but you can stop shedding your useless blood—other blood will apply for you.
Why does he address her as “daughter,” especially since she’s probably older than he? This is the only occasion where he uses that term in addressing a woman. Perhaps because, meanwhile, Jairus’ daughter is dying. It must be hard for this father to hold his tongue—why does Jesus have to stop and squander precious time talking to a grown woman who should have had the courtesy to wait her turn? She’s not dying! She’s waited twelve years—what’s a few minutes more? We can easily imagine his thoughts because they would be ours. And when the messenger comes with bad news, while Jesus is still speaking to that woman, we can imagine how the father’s heart drops.
Both are daughters: the beloved 12-year-old girl and the despised woman with the 12-year affliction. Both have a place in the great heart of God. “Don’t be afraid,” Jesus tells this stunned and grieving father. Don’t be afraid, he tells us: only believe. By faith we are sons and daughters, and death’s door means nothing to him. Whether it yawns open for us, or has already closed on us, he will one day walk in and take our hand and say,
“Child, arise.”
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