'While He spake these things unto them, behold, there
came a certain ruler, and worshipped Him, saying, My
daughter is even now dead: but come and lay Thy hand
upon her, and she shall live. 19. And Jesus arose,
and followed him, and so did His disciples. 20. And,
behold, a woman, which was diseased with an issue of
blood twelve years, came behind Him, and touched the
hem of His garment: 21. For she said within herself,
If I may but touch His garment, I shall be whole.
22. But Jesus turned Him about, and when He saw her,
He said, Daughter, be of good comfort; thy faith hath
made thee whole. And the woman was made whole from
that hour. 23. And when Jesus came into the ruler's
house, and saw the minstrels and the people making a
noise. 24. He said unto them, Give place: for the maid
is not dead, but sleepeth. And they laughed Him to
scorn. 25. But when the people were put forth, He went
in, and took her by the hand, and the maid arose.
26. And the fame hereof went abroad into all that land.
27. And when Jesus departed thence, two blind men
followed Him, crying, and saying, Thou Son of David,
have mercy on us. 28. And when He was come into the
house, the blind men came to Him: and Jesus saith unto
them, Believe ye that I am able to do this? They said
unto Him, Yea, Lord. 29. Then touched He their eyes,
saying, According to your faith be it unto you. 30. And
their eyes were opened; and Jesus straitly charged them,
saying, See that no man know it. 31. But they, when they
were departed, spread abroad His fame in all that
country.'--MATT. ix. 18-31.
The three miracles included in the present section belong to the
last group of this series. Those of the second group were all
effected by Christ's word. Those now to be considered are all
effected by touch. The first two are intertwined. The narrative of
the healing of the woman is embedded in the account of the raising
of Jairus's daughter.
Mark the impression of calm consciousness of power and leisurely
dignity produced by Christ's having time to pause, even on such an
errand, in order to heal, by the way, the other sufferer. The father
and the disciples would wonder at Him as He stayed His steps, and be
apt to feel that priceless moments were being lost; but He knows His
own resources, and can afford to let the child die while He heals
the woman. The one shall receive no harm by the delay, and the other
will be blessed. Our Lord is sitting at the feast which Matthew gave
on the occasion of his call, engaged in vindicating His sharing in
innocent festivity against the cavils of the Pharisees, when the
summons to the death-bed comes to Him from the lips of the father,
who breaks in on the banquet with his imploring cry. Matthew gives
the story much more summarily than the other evangelists, and does
not distinguish, as they do, between Jairus's first words, 'at the
point of death, and the message of her actual decease, which met
them on the way. The call of sorrow always reaches Christ's ear, and
the cry for help is never deemed by Him an interruption. So this
'man, gluttonous and a wine-bibber,' as these Pharisees thought Him,
willingly and at once leaves the house of feasting for that of
mourning. How near together, in this awful life of ours, the two
lie, and how thin the partition walls! Well for those whose feasts
do not bar them out from hearing the weeping next door.
As the crowd accompanies Jesus, His hasting love is, for a moment,
diverted by another sufferer. We never go on an errand of mercy but we
pass a hundred other sorrowing hearts, so close packed lie the griefs
of men. This woman is a poor shrinking creature, broken down by long
illness (which had lasted for the same length of time as the joyous
life of Jairus's child), made more timid by disappointed hopes of
cure, and depressed by poverty to which her many doctors had brought
her. She does not venture to stop this new Rabbi-physician, as He
goes with the church dignitary of the town to heal his daughter, but
lets Him pass before she can make up her mind to go near Him; and
then she comes creeping up behind the crowd, puts out her wasted,
trembling hand to the hem of His garment,--and she is whole.
The other evangelists give us a more extended account, but Matthew
throws into prominence, in his condensed narrative, the essential
points.
Notice her real but imperfect faith. There was unquestionable
confidence in Christ's power, and very genuine desire for healing.
But it was a very ignorant faith. She believes that her touch of the
garment will heal without Christ's will or knowledge, much more His
pitying love, having any part in it. She thinks that she may win her
desire furtively, and may carry it away, and He be none the wiser nor
the poorer for the stolen blessing. What utter, blank ignorance of His
character and way of working! What gross superstition! Yes, and withal
what a hunger of desire, what absolute assurance of confidence that
one finger-tip on His robe was enough! Therefore she had her desire,
and her Healer recognised her faith as true, though blended with much
ignorance of Him. Her error was very like that which many Christians
entertain with less excuse. To attach importance to external means of
grace, rites, ordinances, sacraments, outward connection with Christian
organisations, is the very same misconception in a slightly different
form. Such error is always near us; it is especially rife in countries
where there has long been a visible Church. It has received strange
new vigour to-day, partly by reaction from extreme rationalism, partly
by the growing cultivation of the aesthetic faculties. It is threatening
to corrupt the simplicity and spirituality of Christian worship, and
needs to be strenuously resisted. But the more we have to fight
against it, the more do we need to remember that, along with this
clinging to the hem of the garment instead of to the heart of its
Wearer, there may be a very real trust, which might shame some of
those who profess to hold a less sensuous form of faith. Many a poor
soul clasping a crucifix clings to the Cross. Many a devout heart
kneeling at mass sees through the incense-smoke the face of Christ.
This woman's faith was selfish. She wanted health; she did not care
much about the Healer. She would have been quite contented to have
had no more to do with Him, if she could only have stolen out of the
crowd cured. She would have had little gratitude to the unconscious
Giver of a stolen good. So, many a Christian life in its earlier
stages is more absorbed with its own deep misery and its desire for
deliverance, than with Him. Love comes after, born of the experience
of His love. But faith precedes love, and the predominant motive
impelling to faith at first is distinctly self-regard. That is all as
it should be. The most purely self-absorbed wish to escape from the
most rudely pictured hell is often the beginning of a true trust in
Christ, which, in due time, will be elevated into perfect consecration.
Some of our modern teachers, who are shocked at Christianity because
it lays the foundation of the most self-denying morality in such
'selfishness,' would be none the worse for going to school to this
story, and learning from it how a desire for nothing more than to
get rid of a painful disease, started a process which turned a life
into a peaceful, thankful surrender of the cured self to the love
and service of the mighty Healer.
Observe, next, how Christ answers the imperfect faith, and, by
answering, corrects and confirms it. Matthew omits Christ's question
as to who touched Him, the disciples' reply, and His renewed
asseveration that He was conscious of power having gone forth from
Him. All these belong to the loving method by which our Lord sought
to draw forth an open acknowledgment. Womanly diffidence, enfeebled
health, her special disease, all made the woman wish to hide herself.
She wanted to steal away unnoticed, as she hoped that she had come.
But Christ forces her to stand out before all the crowd, and there,
with all eyes upon her,--cold, cruel eyes, some of them--to conquer
her shame, and tell all the truth. Strange kindness that; strangely
contrasted with His ordinary desire to avoid notoriety, and with His
ordinary tender consideration for shrinking weakness! He did it for
her sake, not for His own. She is changed from timidity to courage.
At one moment she stretches out her wasted finger, a tremulous
invalid; at the next, she flings herself at His feet, a confessor.
He would have us testify for Him, because faith unavowed, like a
plant in the dark, is apt to become pale and sickly; but ere He bids
us own His name, He pours into our hearts, in answer to our secret
appeal, the health of His own life, and the blissful consciousness
of that great gift which makes the tongue of the dumb sing.
His words to her are full of tenderness. She receives the name of
'daughter.' Gently He encourages her timidity by that 'Be of good
cheer,' and then He sets right her error: 'Thy faith'--not thy
finger--'hath made thee whole.' There was no real connection between
the touch of the robe and healing; but the woman thought that there
was, and so Christ stooped to her childish thought, and allowed her
to prescribe the road which His mercy should take. But He would not
leave her with her error. The true means of contact between us and
Him is not our outward contact with external means of grace, but the
touch of our spirits by faith. Faith is nothing in itself, and heals
only because it brings us into union with His power, which is the
sole cause of our healing. Faith is the hand which receives the
blessing. It may be a wasted and tremulous hand, like that which
this woman laid lightly on His robe. But He feels its touch, though
a universe presses on Him, and He answers. Not the garment's hem,
but Christ's love, is the cause of our salvation. Not an outward
contact with it or with Him, but faith, is the condition on which
His life, which knows no disease, pours into our souls. The hand of
my faith lifted to Him will receive into its empty palm and clasping
fingers the special blessing for my special wants.
The other evangelists tell us that, at the moment of His words to
the woman, the messengers came bearing tidings of the child's death.
How Jairus must have grudged the pause! A word from Christ, like the
pressure of His hand, heartened him. Like a river turned from its
course for a space, to fill some empty reservoir, His love comes
back to its original direction. How abundant the power and mercy, to
which such a work as that just done was but a parenthesis! The
doleful music and the shrill shrieks of Eastern mourning, which met
them as they entered Jairus's house, disturbed the sanctity of the
hour, and were in strong contrast with the majestic calmness of
Jesus. Not amid venal lamentations and excited cries will He do His
work. He bids the noisy crowd forth with curt, almost stern, command,
and therein rebukes all such hollow and tumultuous scenes, in the
presence of the stillness of death, still more where faith in Him
has robbed it of its terror, in robbing it of its perpetuity. It is
strange that believing readers should have thought that our Lord meant
to say that the little girl was not really dead, but only in a swoon.
The scornful laughter of the flute-players and hired mourners
understood Him better. They knew that it was real death, as men
count death, and, as has often been the case, the laughter of His
foes has served to establish the truth. That was not worthy to be
called death from which the child was so soon and easily to be
awaked. But, besides this special application to the case in hand,
that great saying of our Lord's carries the blessed truth that,
since He has come, death is softened into sleep for all who love
Him. The euphemism is not peculiar to Christianity, but has a deeper
meaning on Christian lips than when Greeks or Romans spoke of the
eternal sleep. Others speak of death by any name rather than its
own, because they fear it so much. The Christian does so, because he
fears it so little,--and, as a matter of fact, the use of the word
death as meaning merely the separation of soul and body by the
physical act is exceptional in the New Testament. This name of
sleep, sanctioned thus by Christ, is the sweetest of all. It speaks
of the cessation of connection with the world of sense, and 'long
disquiet merged in rest.' It does not imply unconsciousness, for we
are not unconscious when we sleep, but only unaware of externals. It
holds the promise of waking when the sun comes. So it has driven out
the ugly old name. Our tears flow less bitterly when we think of our
dear ones as 'sleeping in Jesus.' Their bodies, like this little
child's, are dead, but _they_ are not. They rest, conscious of
their own blessedness and of Him 'in whom they live, and have their
being,' whether they 'move' or no.
Then comes the great deed. The crowd is shut out. For such a work
silence is befitting. The father and mother, with His foremost three
disciples, go with Him into the chamber. There is no effort, repeated
and gradually successful, as when Elisha raised the dead boy; no
praying, as when Peter raised Dorcas; only the touch of the hand in
which life throbbed in fulness, and, as the other narratives record,
two words, spoken strangely to, and yet more strangely heard by, the
dull, cold ear of death. Their echo lingered long with Peter, and
Mark gives us them in the original Aramaic. But Matthew passes them
by, as he seems here to have desired to emphasise the power of
Christ's touch. But touch or word, the real cause of the miracle
was simply His will; and whether He used media to help men's faith,
or said only 'I will,' mattered little. He varied His methods as the
circumstances of the recipients required, and in order that they and
we might learn that He was tied to none. These miracles of raising
the dead are three in number. Jairus's daughter is raised from her
bed, just having passed away; the widow's son at Nain from his bier,
having been for a little longer separated from his body; Lazarus
from the grave, having been dead four days. A few minutes, or days,
or four thousand years, are one to His power. These three are in
some sense the first-fruits of the great harvest; the stars that
shone out singly before all the heaven is in a blaze. For, though
they died again, and so left to Him the precedence in resurrection,
as in all besides, they are still prophetic of His power in the hour
when they 'that sleep in the dust' shall awake at His voice. Blessed
they who, like this little maiden, are awakened, not only by His
voice, but by His touch, and to find, as she did, their hand in His!
The third of these miracles, which Matthew seems to reckon as the
second in the group, because he treats the two former as so closely
connected as to be but one in numeration, need not detain us long.
It is found only in this Gospel. The first point to be observed in it
is the cry of these two blind men. There is something pathetic and
exquisitely natural in the two being together, as is also the case in
the similar miracle, at a later period, on the outskirts of Jericho.
Equal sorrows drive men together for such poor help and solace as
they can give each other. They have common experiences which isolate
them from others, and they creep close for warmth and companionship.
All the blind men in the Gospels have certain resemblances. One is
that they are all sturdily persevering, as perhaps was easier for
them because they could not see the impatience of the listeners, and
possibly because, in most cases, persistent begging was their trade,
and they were used to refusals. But a more important trait is their
recognition of Jesus as 'Son of David.' Blind as they are, they see
more than do the seeing. Thrown in upon themselves, they may have
been led to ponder the old words, and by their affliction been made
more ready to welcome One who, if He were Messiah, was coming with a
special blessing for them--'to open the blind eyes.' Men who deeply
desire a good are quick to listen to the promise of its accomplishment.
So these two followed Him along the road, loudly and perseveringly
calling out their profession of faith, and their entreaty for sight.
The next point is our Lord's treatment. He let them cry on, apparently
unheeding. Had, then, the two miracles just done exhausted His stock
of power or of pity? Certainly His reason was, as it always was, their
good. We do not know why it was better for them to have to wait, and
continue their entreaty; but we may be quite sure that the reason for
all His delays is the same,--the larger blessing which comes with the
answer when it comes, and the large blessings which may be gathered
while we wait its coming. Christ's question to them, when at last
they have found their way even indoors, holds out more hope than they
had yet received. By it, Christ established a close relation with them,
and implied to them that He was willing to answer their cry. One can
fancy how the poor blind faces would light up with a flush of eager
expectation, and how swift would be the answer. The question is not
cold or inquisitorial. It is more than half a promise, and a powerful
aid to the faith which it requires.
There is something very beautiful and pathetic in the simple brevity
of the unhesitating answer, 'Yea, Lord.' Sincerity needs few words.
Faith can put an infinite deal of meaning into a monosyllable. Their
eagerness to reach the goal made their answer brief. But it was
enough. Again the hand which had clasped the maiden's palm is put
out and laid gently on the useless eyes, and the great word spoken,
'According to your faith be it unto you.' Their blindness made the
touch peculiarly fitting in their case, as bringing evidence of
sense to those who could not see the gracious pity of His looks. The
word spoken was, like that to the centurion, a declaration of the
power of faith, which determines the measure, and often the manner,
of His gifts to us. The containing vessel not only settles the
quantity of, but the shape assumed by, the water which is taken up
in it from the sea. Faith, which keeps inside of Christ's promises
(and what goes outside of them is not faith), decides how much of
Christ we shall have for our very own. He condescends to run the
molten gold of His mercies into the moulds which our faith prepares.
These two men, who had used their tongues so well in their persistent
cry for healing, went away to make a worse use of them in telling
everywhere of their cure. Jesus desired silence. Possibly He did
not wish His reputation as a mere worker of miracles to be spread
abroad. In all His earlier ministry He avoided publicity, singularly
contrasting therein with the evident desire to make Himself the
centre of observation which marks its close. He dreaded the smoky
flame of popular excitement. His message was to individuals, not to
crowds. It was a natural impulse to tell the benefits these two had
received; but truer gratitude and deeper faith would have made them
obey His lightest word, and have shut their mouths. We honour Christ
most, not by taking our way of honouring Him, but by absolute obedience.
The final miracle of the nine (or ten) marshalled in long procession
in chapters viii. and ix. is told with singular brevity. There is
nothing individual in our Lord's treatment of the sufferer, as there
was in the previous healing of the two blind men, and no details are
given of either the appeal to His pity or the method of His cure.
The dumb demoniac could lift no cry, nor exercise any faith, and all
the petitions and hopes of his bearers were expressed in the act of
bringing the sufferer thither, and silently setting him there before
these eyes of universal pity. It was enough. With Jesus, to see was
to compassionate, and to compassionate was to help. In the other
instances of casting out demons, the method is an authoritative
command, addressed not to the possessed, but to the alien personality
that has seized on him, and we conclude that such was the method
here. Jesus undoubtedly believed in demoniacal possession, if we can
at all rely on the Gospel narratives; and it may be humbly suggested
that there are dark depths in humanity, which had need to be fathomed
more completely, before any one is warranted in dogmatically
pronouncing that He was wrong in His diagnosis. There are ugly facts
which should give pause to those who are inclined to say--'There are
no demons, and if there were, they could not dominate a human
consciousness.'
But the effects of the miracle are emphasised more than itself. They
are two, neither of them what might or should have been. The dumb
man is not said to have used his recovered speech to thank his
deliverer, nor is there any sign that he clung to Him, either for
fear of being captured again or in passionate gratitude. It looks as
if he selfishly bore away his blessing and cared nothing for its
giver. That is very human, and we all are too often guilty of the
same sin. Nor was the effect on the multitudes much better, for they
were only struck with vulgar wonder, which had no moral quality in
it and led to nothing. They saw 'the miracle,' that is, the
wonderfulness of the act made some dint even on their minds, but
these were either too fluid to retain the impression, or too hard to
let it be deep, and so it soon filled up again. We have to think of
Christ's deeds as 'signs,' not only as 'wonders,' or they will do
little to draw us to Him. Wonder is a necessarily evanescent
emotion, which may indeed set something better stirring in us, but
is quite as likely to die barren.
The Pharisees did not wonder, and did look into the phenomenon with
sharp eyes; and in so far, they were in advance of the gaping
multitudes. They were much too superior persons to be astonished at
anything, and they had already settled on a formula which was
delightfully easy of application, and had the further advantage of
turning the miracles into evidences that the doer of them was a
child of the Devil. It appears to have been a well-worked formula
too, for it is found again in chap. xii. 24, and in Luke xi. 15, in
the account of another cure of a dumb demoniac. It is possible that
the incident now before us may be the same as this, but there is
nothing improbable in the occurrence of such a case twice, nor in
the repetition of what had become the commonplace of the Pharisaic
polemic. But what a piercing example that explanation is of the
blinding power of prejudice, determined to hold on to a foregone
conclusion, and not to see the sun at noon! Jesus in league with
'the prince of the devils'! And that was gravely said by religious
authorities! They saw the loveliness of His perfect life, His gentle
goodness, His self-forgetting love, His swift-springing pity, and
they set it all down to His commerce with the Evil One. He was so
good that He must be more than humanly bad.