The following dramatic reading is based on the story in Mark 5:21-43 and was written for the Morning Worship service this Sunday morning, with the aim of bringing the passage to life (if you'll excuse the pun!).
Words in normal type: to be read by Jairus
Words in italics: to be read by The Woman
Words in bold: to be read together
*****
It's amazing how quickly things can go downhill. One minute all seems well, you have your family, your work - life is good, and then, BAM, out of nowhere, your daughter is sick, and before you know where you are she is fighting for her life.
It's a strange thing to suddenly feel powerless when you are used to being in control. Head of the family, one of the synagogue leaders - taking charge is part of who I am and I take pride in being someone who makes sure everything is in order, one on whom others can depend. I like to think that if my name, Jairus, is known and respected, it is for good reason. But somehow, suddenly, I was out of my depth, and no matter how much I wanted to make it right for her with her sick little body, for the family in their terror, for the community reeling in shock, I couldn't. That's the thing about death I guess: it knows no prejudice. A good name, a respected family, religious standing - that which seems to hold so much sway in other matters is powerless against its grasp. It even prowls at the door of a little girl. My little girl.
They say 'time is a healer', but whoever 'they' are have obviously never had a chronic disease. Twelve long years I suffered. And suffer I did.
It wasn't just the bleeding, although that was bad enough. It was everything else that came with it. The endless doctors, one after another, prodding and poking and promising one more treatment that should do it, but never did. The first time I felt completely humiliated, exposed, but after a while you get used to the indignity of it. Not that it becomes any less degrading - its more that bit by bit the inner protest drains out of you like the blood you are losing, and you simply become resigned that this is the lot which you have been dealt and must accept.
There's the money too, of course. Treatment does not come cheap, and its not like you get a refund when something doesn't work. I spent every last penny I had, and all I had to show for it was a body more bust than when I had started.
But the worst thing about it is was the isolation. All around you life goes on, but you can't take part anymore...because you're sick. And all your identity fades away until all you are left with is that one defining factor: The woman with the issue of blood. A burden to society, an embarrassment to polite company, and contagiously unhygienic.
And so I came to Jesus.
And so I came to Jesus.
Desperate.
(Pause)
I would beg him to come.
I would hide in the crowd.
If he could just lay his hands on her...
If I could just touch his cloak...
He could make her
me
well.
(Pause)
But things didn't go to plan.
It wasn't until he turned around and asked who had touched him that the audacity of my actions had hit me. I shouldn't be here - I had no right to be in this crowd, let alone reach out to a holy man with my contaminated touch. It was almost ironic - I had spent the last 12 years wishing that someone would just see me, and now suddenly He had, and I was terrified.
Jesus might have come with me, but he didn't seem to understand my sense of urgency. And so when a sick woman touched him on the way, he stopped and spoke with her. Frustration buzzed within me - but somehow I knew he was not one to be interrupted and hurried along. And then word came, and my worst fears were realised. We were too late.
(Pause)
'Do not be afraid', he said.
'Do not be afraid', he said. 'Go on believing.'
'Go in peace and good health', he said.
And he called my daughter out from slumber.
And he called me 'Daughter'.
(Pause)
I learned a lesson that day: no matter how bad things seem, with Jesus there is always hope.
No matter how invisible you feel, with Jesus you are not alone.
With Jesus, life is restored.
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