Magdala

I first saw the incredible painting when my husband and I visited the ancient town of Magdala located on the shore of the Sea of Galilee. The painting, named ‘The Encounter’, spans an entire wall in the Duc in Altum spiritual center. As I sat on the rough hewn stone bench across from the painting, I was transported to a time over two thousand years ago.

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When the bleeding first began she didn’t worry. Like all women her menses arrived regularly. As required by law she gathered up her mat, some clothes, water, and food and bade farewell to her husband and children. She walked outside the gates of Capharnaum and joined the other women gathered in tents on the outskirts of the city. They shared this in common: they were all considered unclean so long as their menses continued. Once the bleeding stopped they would complete the ritual purification rites and rejoin their families in town. The women were far from bemoaning their temporary exile, however. In fact, they thanked Adonai for the respite from their daily responsibilities, enjoying the time of community and rest with the other women.

She anticipated returning to town after seven days, the normal duration of her cycle and the required time by law. When the bleeding did not cease after seven days she refused to worry. A woman’s body was an unpredictable thing. She would enjoy the extra day of rest and return home soon. After ten days she began to worry. Her young daughter brought more food and asked when she would return home. She tried to reassure her, “soon.” Surely the bleeding would stop tomorrow.

Another week passed and then another. It was torture to see the other women come and go, their bodies dependable and self-healing. Her body seemed broken. She cried out to Adonai to stop the flow of blood. Her husband and sons sent messages to her or stood at a distance from the tents, their conversation disjointed and awkward. She tried not to cry when her daughter visited. Each time she seemed a little older, a little more resigned to the fact that her mother now lived outside the gates. Many nights the woman cried herself to sleep, craving her husband’s arms around her, longing to touch her sons’ faces.

Months passed, then years. The woman’s daughter soon joined the women who came to the tent every few weeks. The woman grieved the years the bleeding had stolen from her. Every morning and evening she removed and replaced the bloody cloths that evidenced her uncleanness. She had become numb to the physical pain in comparison to the emotional pain that tore at her heart. Her husband had commissioned many doctors to try to heal her over the years, yet none had been successful. Where was Adonai? What had she done that she was being punished so?

One day a friend arrived in the tent bearing news of a traveling rabbi. The man spoke like no other teacher and healed the sick and lame. The woman begged those who came to the tent for news of the great rabbi. She sat enraptured, listening to the accounts. At night she dreamed that the rabbi came to the tent and healed her, but when she awoke she knew it was impossible. Those in the tent were unclean. No man would ever enter the tent.

It had been twelve years since the bleeding began. The woman had missed the marriages of her children. She hadn’t been home to share in daily intimate conversations with her husband, or touch the softened wrinkles that time had worn in his face. She was in the tent when her daughter gave birth to her first child, and had listened, tears streaming down her face, as her daughters-in-law described her grandchildren. She had missed so much. In that moment she wished the bleeding would consume her.

When she heard that the rabbi was in Capharnaum that day, the woman made a decision. It was unlawful for her, an unclean woman, to leave the tent. If she were discovered she would be publicly humiliated, forced outside the city, and bring shame and dishonor on her family. But she was desperate. From what she had been told, large crowds followed the rabbi everywhere he went. If she could simply touch the hem of his garment, perhaps then…

She crept from the tent and covered her head with her cloak. She kept her face to the ground and joined those entering the city, glancing up furtively every so often. It wasn’t difficult to find the rabbi as the streams of people surrounding her carried her to where he stood, surrounded by his disciples. But how was she to get close enough to touch him? Years of pain and desperation had worn away her pride. She began pressing through the crowd, one hand grasping her shawl over her face, so that only her eyes were visible. If anyone discovered who she was she would be removed from the crowd, this she knew. The people stood thickly and complained as she pressed past them, hunched over against the physical pain. Soon she stood just feet from the rabbi, but here the people jostled one another, each wanting to be as close to the man as possible. She sank to her knees and crawled around the leather-thonged feet. She was kicked and stepped on, but still she pressed forward, her eyes fixed on the white linen tunic only a couple of steps from her. Finally she was close enough. She reached her hand out, stretching desperately to touch the cloth of his tunic.

A jolt of pain wrenched through her, and then left entirely. She sank back on her heels and delighted in the complete absence of cramps. She was healed. She could feel it. Tentatively she stood to her feet. Her back hunched forward, her body instinctively trained from years of pain. Yet now she felt nothing, no spasms or pangs. She drew her shoulders back, forcing herself to stand tall. Still no pain. A sigh of relief slipped from behind lips still covered by her cloak. She had forgotten what it felt like to be well.

Suddenly the Rabbi in white tunic turned and looked straight at her.

“Who touched me?” He questioned, looking into her eyes.

One of his disciples gestured to the masses surrounding them, “Master, this whole crowd is pressing up against you.”

“Someone deliberately touched me, for I felt healing power go out of me.” The Rabbi replied. His eyes continued to hold hers, and the woman began to tremble. She fell to her knees. Those surrounding her drew back, hundreds of eyes now looking at her and the Rabbi. Voices quieted.

“I...I’m sorry Rabbi.” The woman pulled back the shawl covering her head and face and heard some around her voice their recognition.

“I have been bleeding...for years now. None were able to heal me. I have been separated from my family…” Salty tears ran down her cheeks; she could taste them. She glanced up and saw her husband’s face in the crowd.

“I heard about you...about the miracles you do. I had to see if you could heal me. I touched your garment and immediately I felt the bleeding stop.”

Tears flowed down her husband’s face. The woman wanted to stand and throw herself into his arms, but she restrained herself. What was the Rabbi going to do? She hadn’t asked him to heal her before touching his robe. She, an unclean woman, had touched a holy man without his permission. Would he withdraw the healing? Would he make her pay for her disobedience to the law?

Trembling, she looked up into the Rabbi’s face. Rather than condemnation, she saw kindness.

“Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace.”

The crowds around her surged back to life, surrounding her. She shakily stood to her feet and tried to locate the Rabbi among the people, but he was already blocked from her view. Still no pain. The rabbi had healed her. And yet surely he was more than a rabbi. She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned. Her husband stood before her. Without waiting a moment longer she fell into his arms. Peace.

Ref: Luke 8:43-48 NLT