Reacher
He pressed through the crowds, calling at the top of his lungs, pleading for wholeness.
She broke open a fortune in perfume and covered his feet with her hair.
He scrambled up a tree, above the crowd, to get just a glimpse of the One who changes lives.
He launched over the side of a boat and found footing where there was none before, when a hand pulled him from the deep as his vision wavered.
He stood, forlorn and grieving until his finger felt the place where the nail held him fast.
Throughout the gospels we see those who want a touch from the Master, the Great Physician. And then we see those who reach to touch the Creator.
As you work through the narratives of each gospel, themes will appear. Light of the world, suffering savior, etc. We see countless miracles He performed from commanding nature to robbing death of its trophies. And yet, as I read through account after account, I see these two lines forming; one seeking to be touched and in some way transformed and one to grab ahold of the Creator and sovereign Lord of the universe. This is not new. In the testaments of old we see Joshua planting himself in the tabernacle, pleading for the Presence; Jacob wrestling with the divine; Moses beseeching to see the face of his God knowing it would undo him eternally. Enoch walked with God right into heaven.
These are not the only ones who dared to touch the Most High. But what of those who wanted to be touched? Multitudes lined up before Jesus, waiting for His hand, His words, to make them clean, to make them whole, to deliver them from torment. The account of Luke says “...and laying his hands on each one, he healed them [all].” Luke 4:40
We have come to a time again when God begins to move again and people throng to be touched by Him. They come seeking revival. They come seeking miracles. They come seeking spiritual intervention.
I have been there. I have walked through the doors of a sanctuary where the Spirit is manifesting in the most incredible ways and wanted to be part of it. To be washed away, drenched in the fragrance of the Holy Spirit. And I have been touched. I have experienced His hand healing wounds, His words offering comfort and direction, prophecy springing forth to change lives.
I was touched. Like many. And like many, I went away “touched,” glistening with the oil of His anointing; fragrant to those around me looking on in wonder and even skepticism. But the oil wears off. The scent of His presence fades. To an extent, it is external. Lives return to the mediocrity they were before, only marked by the coming of God into the presence of mere humans, once upon a time.
Like King Saul in the assembly of the prophets, when an outpouring erupts into the midst of His followers, many will walk in the shadow of those already called out and say they are blessed. Saul prophesied not because he was a prophet but because the Spirit of God was moving among them and he was caught up in their midst. Anointing by proxy, perhaps.
This did not change the heart of Saul. And like him, so many will come seeking the manifestations that will become trappings that keep them from the true heart of the Father.
It may be no coincidence that He has been working away at something within me, a truth that He is slowly revealing like handfuls of sand pulled back from a buried treasure chest. Dig deeper. It’s there.
There are glimpses of those who go all in, bar-none. They are the reachers, the desperate, the driven. Like the woman with the issue of blood, wounded by society, rejected by the religious order, physically expended, reached for the hem of His robe. Why? Promise? Prophecy? Desperation? Rumors of the miraculous? Perhaps all. But my gut is going with desperation. Yes, the scriptures promised “healing in his wings” and by wings, His tallit (His “robe”). Yes, scriptures testify of His coming and yes, rumors were abundant of the myriad of miracles he had already done.
But only desperation would drive her to force her way against the religious gatekeepers and the verbal spears of the community denouncing her at every glance, every step in their direction. She didn’t just want healing - she wanted to touch the Healer. She was driven to grab a hold of the Lord that saves, the One that restores. Words weren’t enough. No words would suffice.
***
We don’t know how long the son of Timaeus was blind. We only know he was and, like many invalids, he sat at the gates begging. Without sight, he did what any like him would - use his voice to cut through the noise of the crowd. How can a man so blind navigate a multitude, press through the bodies? Knowing his plight, he used the greatest tool he had - words. “Son of David, have mercy on me!” So deep was his heartcry that when the crowd tried to shut him down, he threw even more into his vocal chords, pleading for the Master. His voice reached the One who heals. Even as Jesus called for him, the man estranged from his earthly family, rejected and ostracized by the public, threw off his cloak and hurled himself towards the Healer. Again, reaching for the miracle maker.
***
What the vial held cost a fortune. A bitter-sweet treasure saved for some inevitable day. We aren’t told how she came to acquire it or how long she possessed the precious ointment or for whom it was originally intended. We only know she invested it all on the One person who could free her, save her, forgive her from an unknown, but dire past. She broke all etiquette, shredded social restrictions and leapt over religious boundaries; all to lay herself at his feet - giving everything.
Commended for her faith, but He did even more. He forgave. He washed the stains of her past away like so much grime scoured by the sea. Washed with words, she was reclaimed, renewed, reborn. And the vial was just a pittance to what she owed this Savior.
***
He heard the stories, the rumors and tales. People gushed about the amazing things this man from Galilee did, those He had chosen; riff-raff and common. Even one like him was called to be a disciple; the lowliest of the Chosen people walking with the greatest they had ever seen. The throng of gawkers and followers and skeptics stood hands taller than his little frame could stretch to. No basket or crate, no mound of straw or pile of goods gave him more than a fleeting glimpse. He must see more. More of the one some called Messiah. More of the one others called Son of David, king to come.
The tree cast scattered shade over passersby and rubbing-necking merchants. It was close and tall. Taller than the masses, taller than he could ever be. Scrambling like a monkey performing for some bizarre entertainment, he hooked a leg and then an arm, pulling, grunting, hefting himself to a wide fork split over the teeming crush of bodies. There, shading his eyes from the dappled sunlight piercing the canopy above, he saw Him, Him! His bright, piercing eyes shot in his direction. He would give anything to meet this holy one, this one who forgives the worst and delivers the tormented with a word. And He looked right at him. And called him. By nameI This One knew him and asked to dine with him - a ridiculed, rejected, ostracized tax-man reputed for extortion, greed, and treachery. More than that; He proclaimed His salvation would be his, his! Four-fold of all he ever defrauded his countrymen, and half of everything to those who had nothing was a small price to pay to break bread with the One who Saves.
***
For months, years perhaps, he walked with this Rabbi. He saw the lame walk. He witnessed the Rabbi’s direct confrontation with the religious leaders and political rabble. He ate and drank and walked and talked side-by-side with this Rabbi. More than most of the others, he was close to this Teacher; part of the inner inner circle. In a way, he lived in the Holy of Holies with the presence of God on earth regularly before him.
Still, he sank like a rock as was his namesake. The Rabbi was again doing what no one else could do, what no-one expected. He walked on the surface of the surging seas. And He called him, a man intimately familiar with the bounty and treachery of the seas, the paradoxical nature of the winds and waves, to step into the surf. To walk where water would not hold, waves would not bear. Obedient, he stepped. He reached. And he sank. With his hand outstretched, he reached, fear swallowing him as fast as the black waters crashing about him. Still he reached until the Rabbi reached back and pulled him from the chaos above and below.
***
The end had come. The coming Kingdom ground to a halt and snuffed out like a candle flame. Everything they heard, all they believed, washed over by waves of doubt and confusion. The Messiah had come, but He didn’t do what they thought He would. No gold crown was placed on His head. No throne was filled with His presence. Instead, nails were driven through His flesh. Muscle and skin ripped and torn from His body leaving jagged bloody gashes to the bone.
And here he wept. Grieving the loss of the Greatest Gift. They were told the body was gone. Some rumored that fanatics or critics stole the remains. All he knew is the One he came to love and trust and believe was absent. The Light had gone out. Only tears, only grief were known to him as his brothers and sisters in ministry condescended to tell him to cheer up, the Rabbi lived! Confusion mixed with disbelief were closer companions than the other disciples for eight excruciating days. Eight long days and dark nights until He appeared and charged the doubtful disciple to touch, to feel, to reach into the gaping wound-that-was and know his Rabbi lived!
There are other reachers throughout the Story. The paralytic’s companions, lepers, and more. Those who threw off constraints, challenged taboos. Those who knew they needed something more. Maybe it was desperation. Maybe pure desire for something more, to be different. We don’t have any feedback. There were no interviews. And the disciplines recorded what they believed was essential to the Story of Messiah.
Today we are left with much the same plight - chase the miraculous, the anointing, the blessing and hope He chooses to touch us. Or reach.
For myself, this world has offered a padded and plush place to kick my feet up and let the mind wander from the hard facts and truths and challenges; to be swept away in entertainment or idle activity. I’ve all but forgotten how to reach, to stretch out my hand to God Most High and dare to grab a hold of His divine robe. To touch His presence even though I know it will wreck me, shred structures of my life I have built with my own hands until only what He has established remains.
I am weak minded in many ways. And weak willed. But there is this growing sense of desperation rising up. Swelling deep inside. I want to be like Zacheaus, like Peter, like the woman bleeding her life away. I want that compunction to reach when all else and everyone scoffs and shakes their heads and clucks their tongues in pity and disdain. Not because of them. But because of Him. I don’t want just a momentary change. I don’t want a trophy of His miraculous grace. It’s not enough to be touched by the Master if the touch doesn’t undo me. And remake me.
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