Jairus: My name is Jairus, and I have a certain
amount of power. I say that not by way
of a boast, but as a matter of fact—it’s not me, but the work of Adonai,
the nameless one, Lord God of Israel. I am what you would call a rabbi, a teacher
. . . And a healer, a counselor, and sometimes even a midwife. In this small town on the banks of the sea of
Gennesereth—that you may know as Galilee—a man of the cloth must be also be a camel
of many colors. I am a big fish in a very little pond, I but I do have a certain amount of influence, a
certain amount of power. . . But my little daughter, whom I love more than life
itself, lies dying at my house. And over
that, I have no power or control.
The Woman: I have no name. At least not one you would know or care to utter. I was named Sarah at birth, after the mother of our people, but it has been twelve years since I heard it aloud. Sometimes, I can hardly recall it myself. To you, and other passers-by, I am nameless, bleeding, unclean; not welcome in the company of my people, or any of the services and liturgies open to women of my class. Former class, I mean . . . That, too, has been erased by my illness, just as surely as the wind crossing the sand erases tracks in the desert. Over this, I have no power or control.
Jairus: I am at our tiny synagogue, pouring over a scroll, trying to bury myself in my work. Perhaps I should be home with my family, my wife and dying daughter, but I just had to get away, if only for an hour. A man comes running up, shouting something about a boat; I tell him to calm down, take a deep breath, and he says: “Teacher! A boat just came ashore, and it carried Jesus of Nazareth! He’s walking with his disciples this way!” My heart lifts and I feel a stab of unaccounted hope: I have heard of this man and his deeds.
The Woman: So…. Here I am begging along the road to town. It is already hot, and there is no shade; perspiration runs down my arms and legs. Flies buzz around me, no matter how often I wash at the well, I smell of coppery-sweet blood. Further along the path, between me and the sea, people are gathering. They move as one, in an ever-growing knot, toward where I sit. I do not know what is happening, but hope builds: perhaps today I will get enough to eat. I see the teacher hurry toward the crowd. He is not a bad man, in his way: he sometimes throws me a coin and a smile from across the road. I know that he cannot do more, cannot come closer; I am after all unclean. But I long for human touch.
Jairus: As I get closer, I can see that there is a sizable crowd; I notice that there are many more people than are on our village and I wonder where they all came from. They are roiling, noisy, it is a circus-like atmosphere. Perhaps they expect him to perform some kind of a miracle or trick; the thought brings a small smile to my lips. When I get to the crowd, it parts, and suddenly I am face to face with Jesus. And I wish I could tell you what he looks like, but my eyes are drawn immediately to his, and that’s where they stay. In them, I see myself, my life, and an infinite compassion . . . He knows all about me, and how can that be? We have only just met . .
The Woman: The teacher reaches the crowd, and disappears into it . . . from where I sit, it looks as if he is simply absorbed, with not even a ripple. The crowd stops moving, I try to get more comfortable in the dust. I sigh, resigned to waiting a bit longer to know whether or not I will eat.
Jairus: Suddenly, I know what I must do: in spite of all my schooling, all my training, I must fall to my knees in worship, not of the Lord God Adonai, but of a man, of a human being. And even as I do, something inside me opens up, it all becomes clear, and I hear myself saying: “My little daughter is at the point of death. Come and lay your hands on her, so that she may be made well, and live.” And without a word, he gestures for me to rise, and lead the way.
The Woman: Finally, they are moving again, before I know it, they are upon me, the crowd flowing around me, jostling one another, but not really coming near. I am, after all, unclean . . . And then, I see him, in an instant, everything changes . . . My heart can feel him, feel the compassion radiating off of him like, like some kind of invisible aura. I abandon all thought of alms, all thought of sustenance, because I know that if I but touch his clothes, I will be made well. And that is what I do, I reach out and immediately, I feel the flow of blood stop, and I know beyond a shadow of doubt that I am healed.
Jairus: We stop again, and I’m not sure why. Jesus says “Who is it that has touched me?” And immediately a disciple questions him: “You see the crowd pressing in on you; how can you say, ‘Who touched my clothes?’” But Jesus’ gaze lowers, and I see what he sees: there, on the ground is a bedraggled woman, cowering like a beaten cur.
The Woman: I am frightened beyond belief. I thought I could touch him and remain unseen, just as I always am . . . But somehow, he knew it, he knew that I touched his cloak. He must have felt it, felt the power leave him, just as I felt it enter me, and now I am well and truly lost. Here I am, unclean, touching another person, and with that, I have made him unclean . . . And even if I hadn’t been ill, I—a Hebrew woman—touched a strange man, and an important teacher, at that. Women have been stoned for less than that.
Nevertheless, I crawl until I am right at his feet and confess all. I tell him about my past, how at 12 years of age, my flow began and didn’t completely stop. How I have spent all my money, and all my parent’s money, until now I am reduced to this . . . how I know I did wrong but could not help myself. I pour out my heart to him, as I never have to another, and he listens with compassion in his eyes, and maybe a tear. But the strange thing is that I am sure that he already knew . . .
Jairus: The woman prattles on, describing her circumstances, her sorrow, and I am not unsympathetic, really I’m not, but my daughter is still dying, and so I urge him in my mind to rebuke her, put her in her place as any Jewish male would do, so we can get on with my daughter’s healing before it is too late. I look up and see my servants at the edge of the crowd just as Jesus tells her: “Daughter, your faith has saved you; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.”
The Woman: He called me daughter. He called me daughter! Again, I have a family, at last a place in the world. I am the child of this amazing, compassionate human being, and I know that he’s done so much more than healed me, he has truly saved me. I am longer be alone, no longer forsaken—I know that by one person at least, I am loved. As he moves on toward the house of the rabbi, I take up my mat and follow.
Jairus: He called her daughter. He called her daughter! I am flabbergasted, amazed . . . What kind of healer is this? What kind of master? Not only does he make her clean, which only the priests can do, but he establishes connection, he establishes relationship . . . and I can see the joy, the gratitude in her face. But I am not allowed to think upon what this means, because my just as we set out, servants tell me my daughter is dead.
The Woman: My heart goes out to Jairus, because I
too know loss, but I also know that
my father will not let this stand: the one who saved me, a broken child of the earth, will surely save an innocent
little girl. And sure enough, he says as
much: “Do not fear, only believe.” And
he chooses three of his followers, together they head toward the rabbi’s
house. As for me, I settle back onto my
mat, content to wait for my father’s return.
Jairus: As we near the house, I hear loud, theatrical weeping and wailing, and realize my wife has already hired the mourners. As we enter, Jesus says: “Why do you make a commotion and weep? The child is not dead but sleeping.” And the mourners laugh nastily and mutter about how they know a corpse when they see one, and each snicker and jibe sends a knife into my heart. But Jesus doesn’t get angry, he just asks them to leave, and taking his disciples and my wife and me, enters the my daughter’s room. As we see her frail body, only twelve years old, my wife breaks into tears, but Jesus takes her by her hand—and only later do I think upon the fact that he has touched another unclean thing—he takes her hand and speaks a gentle word of command: “Talitha cum. Little girl, get up.” And she does, getting slowly to her feet, unsteady at first, like a colt, and falls into her mother’s arms. And he warns us to say nothing—as if we could keep quiet!—and bids us give her something to eat. We are prostrate with gratitude and amazement.
The Woman: At first, it is a whisper on the wind, a change in the air like the turning of the seasons. Soon, I sense it, ripples of joy and wonder spreading out from the rabbi’s house like a stone thrown into a pond. I smile then, and close my eyes, for I know that I have another sister in my family, another daughter of my father, Jesus.
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