NOTES for Mat 9:18-34

The story of the woman who suffered from a flow of blood and was healed by touching the edge of Jesus' garment differs somewhat from other stories of healings. First of all, what stands out here is that the woman does not address Jesus at all, asks Him for nothing, but only silently touches Him. In another version of this account, however, Jesus does notice her, but He does so on His own initiative, while the woman, on the contrary, tries as far as possible to remain unnoticed.

It would appear that such a desire to obtain what one wants as if secretly, without asking anything of the One from whom one expects help, should rather speak against such a person. But on closer examination everything turns out not to be so simple: the woman who suffered from a flow of blood was considered unclean, and by touching anyone at all she inevitably defiled the one she touched. It is quite understandable how a person defiled in this way would react. The risk was great and was justified only by the woman's hope for a miracle, for healing. In the case of healing there would no longer be any question of defilement: the disease had retreated, the bleeding was gone, and therefore there was nothing defiling. The healed woman would only have to perform the purification ritual and offer the prescribed sacrifice. But if healing had not occurred, the woman could have been accused of a rather serious offense.

Despite this, she resolved to act without asking permission. She evidently understood very well that by her request she would have placed the One to whom she appealed in an ambiguous position: He quite likely would not have wanted to refuse her, but by agreeing He risked defiling Himself if the healing did not take place, which would have been at least unpleasant for Him. And He could still, as the woman probably thought, simply refuse, not wanting extra problems. So she resolves to act at her own risk, fully trusting the One from whom she sought healing, and yet wanting to reduce possible problems for Him to a minimum. As we can see, she fully trusts this stranger, believes in His power, and receives her reward, being healed of the disease from which she had suffered for many years.

The woman suffering from a flow of blood is healed by touching Christ. She is healed in passing, while Christ is on His way elsewhere, to the place where a man who believed Him had called Him. And then, when every minute is precious, the bleeding woman touches Christ.

To appreciate the degree of her boldness, one should remember that any bodily contact with someone bleeding was considered defiling. A person defiled by such a touch would not have been able to enter the house without purification procedures, so the woman's action looked not only insolent but selfish, for she could have disrupted the healing of the dying girl. And yet the woman risked publicly admitting that she had committed a forbidden act. And Christ not only does not rebuke her, but encourages her boldness as a manifestation of faith.

Apparently, there are situations when we have to take actions that contradict established ideas and norms of behavior. But the Lord can support our boldness if it is born of faith.

And no touch can defile Him who is Purity itself. Therefore the touch of Christ, who bore on Himself all the sins of the world, raised the ruler's daughter from her bed of illness, and raises us to life as well.

The healing of the woman with the flow of blood is a very impressive miracle. The point is not even that, according to the rules, she was not supposed to touch anyone, yet dared to do so. In any case, we should not always use this example to justify our disregard for rules. This is not why the evangelist records the story, nor is this what Christ approves in her actions. What contrasts most sharply with the behavior familiar to us is that she truly needs the Lord desperately. All her hope is concentrated in Him, and all the strength of her spirit is directed toward attaining this touch. She truly can no longer live unless she touches the Lord Jesus.

It was precisely this need for God that earned the Lord’s praise. Compared with it, much in our “religious practice” will seem weak and, to use the term from Revelation, lukewarm. Perhaps what matters to the Lord above all is the strength and all-embracing nature of this need, burning within an ordinary person just like each of us.

A striking feature of the Gospel in many different languages is the use of perfective verbs (though in some languages this is expressed by other verb forms). What matters is that in a number of cases the Lord speaks of accomplished facts. "Your faith has saved you" (Matt 9:22). "The one who hears My word has passed from death into life" (John 5:24). "All of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ" (Gal 3:27). In meaning, though not grammatically, this same series includes: "the gates of Hades shall not prevail against it" (Matt 16:18).

The fact that all these things are already accomplished facts is striking and beautiful. This is what gives firmness to life in faith. This is the source of Christian joy, a joy completely incomprehensible to the unbelieving world. If this were not so, life would be a very frightening and, in essence, hopeless undertaking. But, thankfully, the salvation offered by Jesus Christ - healing, liberation, resurrection - happens. Et salva facta est, as the Latin version of Matt 9:22 says. There is a key moment, a turning point in the history of the world and in the personal biography of every human being, when all this is accomplished, when it becomes fact. This moment is the source of our life. "It is finished," Jesus says as He dies on the Cross (John 19:30). It is precisely as an accomplished fact that the Church in all her life has recourse to salvation.

The blind men took the initiative themselves by appealing to Christ. Nevertheless, He asked them once more whether they believed that He was able to heal them. Apparently, in this episode it was important to Christ that faith not manifest itself as an emotional impulse alone, but be a considered confession, a conscious choice.

By all appearances, the blind men truly made such a choice. Unfortunately, an emotional impulse could not be avoided, and they immediately disobeyed Christ’s request not to spread the word. Well, in human terms this is quite understandable, especially since there were two of them, which under Jewish law made their words lawful testimony...

Nevertheless, even though He knows that people find it difficult to carry out what He tells them and to comprehend what He does, Jesus continues to act in the human world. But the Pharisees’ tendentious prejudice is also increasing. Significantly, the accusation that He used the powers of the prince of demons was voiced after a demon was cast out of a mute man: the Pharisees would like to monopolize the right to speak. But the One who created the world by His Word wants people too to share in word and reason.

Matthew describes the healing of the two blind men very briefly, one might say sparing the details. And because of that the Lord's words look a little mysterious. Two men had followed Jesus for quite a while, loudly demanding or begging for healing, as though for alms. They may have annoyed Him a little, yet He does not drive them away; He begins the conversation only after reaching the house. Jesus seems to want not only to restore their lost physical sight, but also to change something in their soul. And the first question He asks them, "Do you believe that I am able to do this?" seems strange. Would they have pursued Jesus if they did not believe that He could heal them? But the question the Lord asks the blind men may turn out to be quite important for everyone who reads the Gospel.

Much in life seems self-evident to us, and therefore inertia often becomes the main driving force within us. We go to church, repeat familiar forms of prayer, ask God for something, seek help from Him, but how often do we think about why and for what purpose we do all this? Is it because we believe in Him and trust Him, or are we simply repeating a set of magical actions in the hope that life will become a little easier because of them?

And in this story the Lord seems to return each of us to this main question: do we entrust our life to Him, are we ready to meet Him face to face not for the sake of health or well-being, but simply for His own sake?

There is an inner logic of its own in the Pharisees' reasoning about Christ. Indeed, if this Carpenter from Nazareth casts out evil spirits and heals the sick, then there must be some explanation for it. What power is at work in Him? Why is His will to heal ("I am willing; be cleansed," "Be silent, and come out of him"...) so effective?

Unbiased people say, "A great prophet has arisen in Israel," supposing that God's will is acting through Jesus - and this is a completely natural hypothesis. But the Pharisees do not agree that God's will can act without informing them, that God can allow Himself to do something unexpected for the Pharisees. And therefore their assessment naturally follows from denial: He casts out demons by the power of their own prince.

It is characteristic, first, that the impulse of denial, generally speaking, develops by itself in the direction of cursing. Second, it is clear that in taking Jesus for an impostor, a false messiah, the Pharisees are extremely inattentive: false messiahs (and there are plenty of them even today), when doing something unusual, always use it to confirm their own prestige. The Pharisees, hearing about Jesus' miracles, presume that He acts the same way. They simply do not trouble themselves to find out the matter to the end, and they pass judgment without learning that Jesus constantly forbids people to spread the news of such miracles.

That is how we sometimes drive ourselves into a trap and fail to meet God solely because of our own prejudice.

Every time a healing takes place in the Gospel, a miracle occurs. It is not merely a miracle of a medical or psychological nature; rather, it is a miracle of revelation about God, showing that He is not as we imagined Him. In nearly all the healings described, Christ truly acts by destroying existing religious notions: He touches the uncleanness of illness and death, He accepts outcasts and the disabled, and He makes not a person's righteousness but their faith the condition for the miracle... Therefore Jesus' Good News concerns not only what God does, healing, forgiving, and raising the dead, but, more importantly, what He is like. For on the path of faith and hope in God, what most often stands in our way are our distorted notions about Him: that He will not rummage in our earthly filth, that He will not want to deal with people like us, and that if He does, He will act according to our ideas of good and evil. Yet we have Good News: there is hope that He is different.

So, after all, does a miracle convince? As it turns out, not everyone and not always. Faced with manifestations of God's power, the power of the Kingdom, that Jesus made entirely obvious to everyone, it would seem impossible not to believe in the miracle. But apparently one can bear witness to the Kingdom, yet it is impossible to prove its reality to someone who does not want to believe. The Pharisees, for example, invent ever new explanations for something that, in essence, needs no explanation at all but only needs to be accepted. They have no wish to accept it, and therein lies the whole problem.

One might think that the Pharisees, of all people, since they professed messianic hope, should only have rejoiced at the appearance of the Messiah and the Kingdom in the world. And they probably would have, had Jesus acted as the Messiah was supposed to act according to those same Pharisees' ideas. But the problem was precisely that Jesus did not conform to those ideas and had no intention of doing so.

Then what could not fail to happen did happen: the logic of opposition demands escalation, and eventually escalation came. Previously the leaders of the Pharisaic movement had tried to explain Jesus' miracles and healings in more or less neutral terms. Now they move to direct and very serious accusations, in effect accusing the Savior of paganism and demon worship. The calculation is simple: if you strike, strike with all your strength and without restraint; if you accuse, make the accusation as difficult as possible to answer.

Nor is this merely a desire to rid themselves of Jesus. His accusers, it seems, are trying to convince not only others but themselves that they are right. To do so they need the gravest possible accusations, and it no longer matters how plausible those accusations are. In such a situation the mind will accept any argument as long as it justifies rejecting what cannot reasonably be rejected. They seek to frighten not only others but themselves, and to frighten themselves so thoroughly that there can be no road back and no one will even dare think that this Man might be from God.

Such intimidation requires a taboo that blocks, even at the subconscious level, every attempt to view the situation differently. The accusation of demon worship was just such a taboo—a taboo that became the last refuge of religiosity opposed to the Kingdom.

The healing of the blind men spoken of in today's Gospel reading is, in a certain sense, very typical. As they approach, the blind men call Jesus the Son of David, offering their initial confession. As happens almost always, He asks a question about faith, and then says, according to your faith be it done to you. As in other cases, He asks them not to spread word of the miraculous healing. This is important because, as the Lord performs more and more miracles, people face a growing temptation to make Him an earthly ruler, so this request is entirely clear.

But what does it mean for the blind men themselves, who, incidentally, were not able to fulfill it? What does it mean in the broader context of a person's calling to proclaim and glorify the great works of God? What is it like for a person to become a participant in a miracle of God's mercy and then receive a command to be silent about it? We, of course, do not know the true motives of what happened, but, looking in the mirror, we can guess something. In particular, perhaps the matter is simply ordinary boasting. This is how we take pride in knowing some famous person. We collect completely useless autographs of rather dubious celebrities. Why? To boast. If a celebrity paid attention to me, then there is something in me. And we imagine the Creator as a kind of super-celebrity. Since He healed us of blindness, it means we are good in some way, better than others. How simple. And how foolish. For God is not a celebrity; He is not trying to appear before people's eyes more often, nor is this needed by the One who created heaven and earth. But the main thing, and the hardest thing for us, is that His mercy has no cause in us. He healed the blind men not because they were better than others, but because each of us is unique to Him.

An undisclosed miracle can become the content of deeply personal, secret relations with God. There is something that only You and I know, and by this we become so close. To possess this is vitally important. The day will come when He says to you, as to Nathanael, "...when you were under the fig tree, I saw you," and your very metabolism will become life. But if you publicize the miracle, violating Christ's request, then there are no personal relations, and the miracle becomes the autograph of a celebrity, grows dim, and is forgotten.