I was really looking forward to Sunday. It had been a long week of ministry, and I was physically and emotionally exhausted. What better place to be filled up than at church? My squamate and I strolled through the nearly deserted streets to the grocery store, where we struggled to convey to the market owner that coffee was desperately needed. We sat on a bench, listening to the droning music floating from the Orthodox Church in the park, and watching the sun glisten gold on the autumn leaves. It is beautiful here, bright and striking, the way the crumbling buildings breath immense history and the crispy leaves fall dead onto the streets which are so heavily travelled by innumerable feet.
Noisy, smelly, busy, that’s what the Galilean town was. Crowds upon crowds upon crowds trespassed these streets, hundreds of sandals crunched crumbling stone and dirt and debris. A dog sprinted across Jesus’ path, tail between its pathetically thin legs. Jesus was expected there, and he was welcomed warmly by eager faces and excited hands. Almost immediately, a man named Jarius came and fell at Jesus’s feet. His synagogue robes marred by the grimy road, he pleaded for the Healer to come to his house to save his daughter, who, at the fresh age of 12, was dying. Jesus felt acute sympathy at the desperate plea, and immediately followed Jarius through the crowds, which was difficult, for everyone wanted to be near Him, close to Him, touching Him. With one word, Jesus could have split the crowd, as if it were a thrashing sea, but he loved that these people longed to touch him.
I glance over at a girl sitting by herself on a bench not too far away. I feel a nudge. This whole week has been tuning my ears to the pitch of the Spirit’s voice and softening my heart that it might dissolve in obedience at His touch. I wanted to ask the girl to church, even though most likely we would be rejected. Syd, my squamate, and I polished off our coffees and walked over. But just as we were about to reach her, a little boy came up to us and began speaking quick Romanian. We do not speak Romanian. “English?” We asked him, which was probably the most common question we have asked over the past week. He pointed us to the market. Clearly he needed something but couldn’t pay for it. I passed him a few lei, Romanian currency (approximately 1/4 of a US dollar). He pocketed the cash and pointed to the market again, speaking quick and quiet. I glanced at the girl. I still wanted to invite her to church, but here was a clear supplication for help.
The crowds were crushing him enthusiastically. No one else could have felt the soft touch of a desperate woman, no one else could have known as his power went out from him to brighten a sad life. No one else would have stopped in their tracks to pursue someone who didn’t have the courage to ask personally for healing. But Jesus felt, he knew, and he pursued. The woman had already received her bodily healing, but Jesus wanted to make sure her soul was healed too. His disciples rolled their eyes impatiently. What about the synagogue leader? What about the seconds ticking away from his daughter’s life? What was so important about a nameless woman? But Jesus drew her from the shadows of the crowd as she trembled. Many would have recognized her as “unclean”; she had the wild, neglected appearance of someone who was not allowed often into the crush of society. With a wavering voice she spoke of how she had been bleeding for twelve years, of how she had been rejected and discarded, of how she had heard of a Healer, and that all she cared to do was to touch the very edge of his cloak. Her round, scared eyes met the Lord’s, expecting punishment, but surprised by grace. “Daughter, your faith has healed you, go in peace.”
Syd and I turned to the market. Marian, the little boy, hurried us through the aisles, pointing to items. I noticed that his shirt was marred with grime and must. We bought him a pair of gloves and socks, which wouldn’t have been possible with the meager lei I had previously given him for a meal. Walking out out of the store, we waved goodbye to Marian. I glanced at where the girl had been sitting, but her spot was deserted. A crispy brown leaf landed at my feet. I wonder if the nudge I had felt from the Spirit was only to put us on the path of Marian and not the girl on the bench. I wonder what God will continue to do in his life. The Christian stereotype is that every encounter has to be one that ends in a confession or a conversion, but in truth it is being obedient to the Spirit, whether or not He interrupts your best intentions. Jesus was interruptible. In the story of the bleeding woman, He was on His way to heal someone much more important in the world’s eyes. But He saw people and not tasks, wanting the nameless woman to know Him and not just His power. Glory to God, who knew Marian, and also the girl on the bench. He knew that we needed to be interrupted.
