The Edge of His Cloak

That day by the lake, as hundreds of eyes watched a small boat draw closer to shore, expectancy rose from the crowd like a song. Voices of men, women and children murmured, cried, and fluttered through the air. They jostled each other, each head surfacing over the next then disappearing back into the sea of bodies. Each eye strained for a glimpse of the man disembarking from the tiny wooden vessel, like his countenance was the very air they breathed. Each of them caught it, if only a glance, except for one woman. She was drowning.

Bent over, wrapped in cloth, afraid that anyone would see or recognize her, she moved through the surging crowd without ever lifting her face. Elbows rammed into her side, hands brushed her skin, and she both cringed and marveled at each touch. After all, she had not been so close to other human beings as she was now in years.

This is wrong. Again and again the thought plagued her. I cannot be doing this. It is wrong.

Perhaps it was wrong. Perhaps she was wrong. But what other choice was left to her?

Ahead of her the crowd began to part, and the voices seemed to rise as one. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus! The man moved slowly through them, nearly crushed by the waves of people, each as eager as the next to speak to him, to touch him. They all wanted something different, but in one way or the other, they all wanted him. His followers tried to shield him, but they only served to suffocate him further.

The woman watched him closely. Could this really be the man she had heard of? There was nothing special in his appearance. He was not beautiful by any means, did not wear extravagant clothing. But she knew, as they all did, that he was nothing like any of them had ever encountered before. That he did wonderful things.

She inched closer to him, the stories she had heard filling up her mind as she shuffled onward. The whispers in the streets: blind can see… demons cast out… lepers healed… Even that the dead had risen from their beds at his word. Each miraculous story always ended with the same question: Who is this man?

Some said Elijah. Others, John the Baptist. But some said that he claimed to be the Messiah, the Son of God. Could it be true? Everyone asked this to their neighbor, their friend, their family. Could this possibly be true?

If anyone asked her, the woman would have had an answer. But no one ever did. No one spoke to her, or even looked at her. When she walked down the street they moved away, not afraid but always avoiding. She did not cry out “Unclean! Unclean!” to those around her, as those with infectious skin diseases did, but the murmurs of others seemed just as loud, and just as effective in keeping everyone away. In her head the words repeated: Unclean. Unclean. The clothing she bled in, if nothing else, reminded her constantly of her shameful state.

A few months after the bleeding and pain had begun, fear had crept into her mind. After a year, the loneliness. Her voice grew hoarse from lack of speaking, her skin pale from lack of sun. It was her heart that was damaged the most, though, even as she grew more and more ill.

Hobbling now from the pain, the lack of nourishment and energy, she resolutely plodded after Jesus. His disciples nearly blocked him from her view, as they ushered him along. She saw another man, in front of Jesus, pulling him forward. She saw this man’s eyes for a moment – they were full of pain. So many were. Eyes almost shined from the crowd, so bright with equal measures of fear and hope. She knew that hers, especially in her grayish, sunken skin, must have been luminous, so great was her desperation.

Years ago, that desperation had turned her to the priests. She went to them, asked them what could be wrong. They inspected her, never touching, of course, but had no answers. Again and again she went to the temple, begging for help, until finally they turned her away at the door. You are unclean, they said. You may return when the blood stops.

But the blood never stopped. It was a wall that barred her from the holy place of Yahweh, that kept her from worshipping, from making sacrifices, from simply being in his presence. This was the greatest suffering of them all. She passed by the temple but could never go in. She heard her people singing praises to the Lord but could never join them. She longed with all her heart to go to her God, but it was not allowed anymore.

So when she heard that her God had come out of the temple, to the people, to the unclean, to her, how could she not hope? How could she not believe? Like so many others, she had faith because it was all there was left to be had. The priests, the physicians, had only ever taken and denied. And now, here, at last, was a promise of something being given. Without cost and with unimaginable power.

A small gap appeared before her and the woman darted forward, claiming it and the view of Jesus that came with it. Such an insignificant man in appearance, yes, but she knew that power filled him, power none of them could understand. She stared in wonder. Who could make the dead rise, if not someone so suffused with the wonder of God that as little as his breath would heal? As little as a touch of his hand, or perhaps even his garments…

A small, nagging voice in the back of her mind appeared, reminding her how the physicians she had gone to in her great need had also promised magical healing. Cures to all infirmities, including her own. She had believed them, and paid the price they had demanded, only to be poked at and prodded, her pain rising but bringing no answer with it. Her wealth had trickled away, and it had bought nothing but suffering for twelve years. What makes his promises any different? Said the voice. It could be nothing but another lie.

But as she watched the Messiah move through the crowd, his face filled with compassion so deep she could not comprehend it, she told the voice firmly: No. He was not the same as those doctors, the self-proclaimed healers. He asked nothing in return for his miracles. No money, no favors, nothing. From all the stories she had heard, he gave with reckless abandon. Even those skeptical of his power could not deny his love. This, she knew, set him apart from any she had run to before.

That was why, when she heard that Jesus of Galilee was returning, she had gathered with the rest, and with the rest hoped – if I only speak to him… if I can only touch him… Even just the edge of his cloak…

In the vast crowd, she was smaller than small. She was nothing. So if only she could come close enough to grasp a small piece of his clothing, she would be healed, and leave unnoticed. Then all would be well; her illness would be gone, and no one would have to know that the unclean woman had dared to touch the Messiah. She pushed past person after person, until she stood so near to him that she trembled. With anticipation, with fear, with desperation and faith and hope so incredible she marveled at how her frail body could contain it.

As she inched closer, she saw the fringe of his cloak lift in the wind, the sun shining through it. It was almost as if it was reaching out to her, and she, in turn, reached for it and touched it.

In a moment she felt it – that the blood had stopped, but more than that. After twelve years of her money, her health, her joy and love and very blood seeping out of her, she felt herself being filled instead. Filled to the brim with something too wonderful to name, filled to overflowing. Even as she turned to escape, to hide, she knew that she was healed, that her body was fully and completely restored. So amazing was the sensation that she hardly noticed that Jesus had stopped, and all the crowd with him. She hardly heard him say, “Who touched my clothes?”

His disciples looked confused. In the mix of voices, the woman heard one say, “You see the people crowding against you–” and another “you ask, ‘Who touched me?’” But Jesus ignored them, searching the sea of faces.

How can I hide from a man so awesome that he heals with less than a touch? The woman thought, and, shaking, crept forward. Silently she fell at his feet, feeling dirty despite being healed. Unclean, unclean! The voice went on and on. How can you be in the presence of someone so pure when you are so filthy? You have not even washed your clothing clean of blood.

“I– I touched you,” she whispered, not even daring to look up at him. “I knew that if I did– you would heal me. That my –” she paused, choking on her words, “--my bleeding would stop.”

She expected disgust, expected him to pull away from her. When he did not, she looked up and, to her great amazement, saw that he was smiling down at her. “Daughter,” He said, placing his hand on her, “Your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering.”

She only stared up at him, too full of shocked gratitude to speak it. Even as a man approached and said something to Jesus, and he walked away, she remained on her knees. It seemed to be years before, at last, she rose in a daze and wandered home.

*

In the months and years that followed, as more and more stories of the man named Jesus of Nazareth filled the streets and public places of every town, the same question continued to circulate: Who is he? Still, theories of all kinds chased this question until they tired and fell away. But one woman in Galilee, whenever she heard someone speak this question, would touch them on the hand and smile as she remembered the man who had made these once impossible actions possible. “I know who he is,” she would say, not proudly but with absolute certainty. “He is the Messiah, the Son of God.”