Where Does It Hurt?
I’ve Been Meaning to Ask… | June 13, 2021
1 Samuel 1:1-18
Mark 5:21-43
“Where does it hurt?” It’s a deceptively simple question. Doctors might ask this question of someone, helping them determine the nature, severity, and location of the injury. But when it’s something you can’t see, that’s so much more difficult. And the answers aren’t always clear.
Today’s passages bring us three women with a variety of pain. Hannah is barren—wanting and praying for a child. And yet, year after year, she remains without. Year after year, she is mocked by the other wife. “Look at you. I have many beautiful and remarkable children. You have nothing. What have you done to anger God? You’re not even a real woman. You’re a worthless wife. You’re less than nothing—just a burden on the family. If you can’t produce, then what good are you?”
And Hannah’s husband isn’t much better. Like everyone who can’t understand what someone is going through, he dismisses her. “What’s the problem? You’ll feel better if you eat something. Aren’t I enough for you?” He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t want to. Even as she prays silently outside the temple, Eli berates her and misunderstands her. “You’re drunk. Go home. There’s nothing for you here.”
No one listens. No one understands. No one even wants to. No one dares to ask, “Where does it hurt?” Perhaps, in addition to the shame culture we create as human beings, there’s also the fear that once the question is asked, there’s an expectation to proceed to fixing the problem. Like the doctor, when you ask “Where does it hurt,” you then work to make it better. What if we don’t know how to make it better? What if we don’t want to make it better? Perhaps it’s best just not to ask. Not to seek understanding. Not to bother them at all. Or even better, perhaps I’ll feel more secure if I berate the one who can’t get their lives together.
Like all those lazy unemployed. Like the whores who sell their bodies. Like the homeless holding signs, making a bundle off of well-meaning folks. Like the druggie or the thug or the illegal alien. Why should I ask where it hurts? They did it to themselves…didn’t they?
Where does it hurt? It’s a humanizing question. It recognizes the other as a person—not just a stereotype. And that makes it scary. Because it means asking a question to which we’re not sure we want to know the answer. Because it means that we might begin to care. And if we start to care, we’ll feel obligated. Or worse, guilty.
The woman had been dealing with the same problem for twelve years. Her menstrual period started, but it never stopped. In those days, the presence of blood meant that a person was unclean. They had to be removed from the regular goings-on of society until the bleeding had been address—until their period was over. Then, they would do a ritual cleansing and return to their normal duties—return to society—return to family and community. For most women, this was a time of rest. They weren’t allowed to cook or serve or shop at the market so that they didn’t spread their impurity to others. But it’s temporary. A few days each month. Then back to work.
But the woman we hear about from Mark never had the chance to return—not to work, not to family, not to community. She remained excluded. She remained pushed aside. And I can only imagine the various ‘treatments’ the doctors of the day may have tried. The shame she must have felt receiving such treatments. These men doing things to her, trying to make her bleeding stop. I’m not surprised that her condition worsened. She must have been in great pain—both in her body and in her spirit.
But her desperation and hope drove her into the crowd that day. She heard that Jesus was passing through. But she wouldn’t be able to get close with all the elbows and shoulders. And what if someone noticed her? They would push her away. So instead, she crawled on hands and knees, weaving her way past sandaled feet and knobby knees until she could just reach a tassel hanging from Jesus’ cloak. And in a moment, everything stopped. For the woman and for Jesus, the world stood still. Something had changed. Jesus felt it. The woman felt it.
“Who touched me?” Good grief. Look around, Jesus. Everyone is touching you. He had been getting jostled right and left. But this was different. It was intentional. It was holy. It was faith. Not just a bunch of fans reaching for his autograph. And she came forward, fell down at his feet, and confessed her truth. She told him her story—her whole story. And he stopped. And listened—for as long as it took. And in the end, she was no longer ‘that woman.’ He had called her ‘Daughter.’ He had seen her and heard her and bothered to stop for her. This woman who defiled everything in her wake was worthy of his time and attention.
Which is no small matter because he had been on his way to the house of an important person for an important mission. The leader of the synagogue’s daughter was dying. Time was short. Why waste precious moments on this woman? And the fact that he did stop meant that the daughter died before he got there. I can only imagine how Jairus must have felt in the moment he got the news. He had come to Jesus first. He was so much more important. He was wealthy and could give Jesus money for his time. But now, it’s too late. All because of ‘that’ woman. That loathsome, dirty woman.
But Jesus did stop. He did listen. He did take the time. Nothing else mattered while he gave his whole attention to the woman. And then, he gave all again to Jairus and his daughter. Instead of dismissing them as lost, he went to the child’s bed and gave her life. She was just a 12-year-old girl, possibly just entering puberty. She would soon be married off. And, her parents hoped, she would give them grandchildren. But she was just a girl—not a son. Still, she had purpose. She had opportunities. And they all died when she died.
But even death can’t keep Jesus away. He not only healed the child; he healed her parents and their brokenness, as well. Because it’s more than the physical pain that holds us hostage. So much more.
I appreciate that all three stories tell us of women. Over the centuries of medical practice, new developments, and research, it’s only very recently that the medical field has considered that women may have different symptoms and react differently to medication than men. It was always assumed that what worked for men worked for women. It’s been assumed that anything women experienced differently from men was of less importance. Anything emotional had to do with the fact that women have a uterus. At one time, female symptoms were assumed to be caused by the uterus moving around the body and causing the woman problems. That’s why they came up with the term hysterics and hysterical.
Even now, far less research is done on women of color than Caucasian women. And less credence is given to symptoms being experienced. This is why the death rate in pregnant women of color is far higher than white women and women in other countries. In this country of supposedly superb healthcare, we still treat people based on our assumptions of them rather than what they say—what they experience. We’re still struggling to ask, “Where does it hurt?” We still struggle to be seen and heard as people and not just ‘that woman’ or ‘just a child.’
But Jesus doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t mock. He doesn’t dismiss. He doesn’t chide. He doesn’t ignore. We also know that Jesus doesn’t always cure our ailments. Unlike the stories that we heard today, we aren’t miraculously healed so that we can live happily ever after. And if we dig a little deeper, that’s not really what happens in Scripture, either. Hannah makes a promise to God that if she conceives and bears a son, she will dedicate him to God. Once Samuel is old enough, she gives him to Eli, the priest, to raise. She parts with her miracle baby, only seeing him once a year when she comes to make sacrifices. And Samuel becomes a shoot of hope in a desolate Israel. When faith and faithfulness has all but died out in God’s chosen people, Samuel becomes the one to anoint Saul and later David as kings.
We don’t hear more about the woman called Daughter or the girl who died, but Jesus’ intervention in their pain doesn’t mean that they won’t experience life’s challenges again. And they do die, eventually. God doesn’t stop life from happening. And life is filled with both joys and challenges. What God does is enter into life. God stops the world in order to listen to one person’s pain. God turns, looks us straight in the eyes, and dares to ask, “Where does it hurt?” And then God gives us God’s full attention as we pour our souls out to the one who loves each of us beyond measure.
Pastor Tobi White
Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church
Lincoln, NE
