Last night I was reminded of the woman who had the issue of blood again.
As I reflected on her story, I could taste the dust of the streets and feel the shoving of the crowd as they pressed towards a man with eyes that were tired, yet intensely alive. Sandals slapping on the dirt. Smells of market and animals and food and sweat and refuse. Shouting and laughing and scolding and high children's voices. The rumble of men in conversation and the creaking of wagon wheels. Hot dry air. Beggars crying out.
Risk.
Flip the page. Is the church in Cape Town that woman? That woman/daughter/wife/mother/grandmother/child who has hidden away for the last twelve years? Safe in her house, yet bleeding? Separated from people?
I am wrestling with how often I (the church) retreat to my (our) safe spaces. To my (our) quiet places of order.
Healing was not found in the quiet order of this woman's home. She found Jesus on the noisy, smelly, pushing, changing, turbulent, emotional streets. And seeing Him, had to push into that living swirling mass of life to get close enough to actually touch Him.
#whotouchedme
#risk
#healing
#thechurchisabride
<Are we bleeding in our safe spaces while our healer and lover is walking past on the street outside? Maybe?>
#engagelifeengagepeople
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