Lenten Reflection – Day 33 of the Great Lent
The Interruption and the Resurrection: St. Matthew 9:18-31
“But Jesus turned around, and when He saw her He said, ‘Be of good cheer, daughter; your faith has made you well.’ And the woman was made well from that hour.” (9:22)
Yesterday Christ walked on the water in the fourth watch. The I AM on the storm. The hem that healed everyone who touched it. The calloused hearts that did not understand about the loaves.
Today Matthew gives us something the series has not yet seen. Two miracles woven into one story. A dead girl and a bleeding woman. A father who kneels and a woman who reaches from behind. A journey to death interrupted by a touch of faith. And at the end, a room where everyone is weeping and a voice that says: get up.
This is the first time in thirty-three days that Christ raises the dead.
The fast has been about many things. Repentance. Forgiveness. Stewardship. Grace. Authority. Rest. Running. The potter and the clay. But it has not yet been about the thing the fast is ultimately pointing toward. The power of Christ over death itself. Not just spiritual death. Not just metaphorical death. A girl lying on a bed with no breath in her lungs. And a man who says: get up.
We are thirty-three days in. Passion Week is approaching. The Cross is visible. And before we arrive at the place where Christ dies, we need to see what He does to death when He meets it. He reverses it.
A Ruler Came and Worshipped Him (vv. 18–19)
“While He spoke these things to them, behold, a ruler came and worshipped Him, saying, ‘My daughter has just died, but come and lay Your hand on her and she will live.’ So Jesus arose and followed him, and so did His disciples.” (9:18–19)
A ruler. Matthew does not give his name. Mark and Luke tell us he is Jairus, a ruler of the synagogue. A man of standing. A man of authority in the religious community. The kind of man who would not normally kneel before an itinerant preacher.
But his daughter is dead.
Death changes everything. Death strips away pretence. The titles, the positions, the social standing that keep a person upright in public collapse when death enters the house. Jairus does not care who is watching. He does not care what the other rulers will think. His daughter is dead. And he falls at the feet of Jesus.
“Come and lay Your hand on her and she will live.”
This is extraordinary faith. Not the carefully reasoned faith of the theologian. The raw, desperate, boundary-breaking faith of a father who has lost his child. He does not say “perhaps” or “if You are willing” or “if it is possible.” He says: come. Lay Your hand on her. She will live. The faith is absolute. The child is dead and the father believes Jesus can undo it.
On Day 14 (Mshariyo Sunday), four friends carried a paralytic through the roof because they believed Christ could heal. On Day 21 (Knanayto Sunday), a Canaanite mother argued past every barrier because she believed Christ could free her daughter from a demon. Today a father kneels because he believes Christ can reverse death.
The faith of parents for their children has been one of the strongest threads in the series. And the stakes keep rising. Paralysis. Demonic possession. Death. Each parent’s faith reaches further than the last. Each parent asks for something more impossible than the one before.
“So Jesus arose and followed him.”
Christ does not hesitate. He does not ask questions. He does not evaluate the ruler’s theology or test his worthiness. A father says “my daughter is dead” and Jesus stands up and goes.
St. John Chrysostom, in his Homily 31 on Matthew, observes that Christ’s willingness to follow the ruler is itself a teaching. The ruler believed Jesus needed to be physically present to raise the dead. He said “come and lay Your hand on her.” He did not yet understand that Christ could heal at a distance (as He would with the centurion’s servant, as He did with the Canaanite woman’s daughter). Christ accommodated the ruler’s faith. He went where the ruler’s faith led. He did not correct the theology. He honored the trust. Chrysostom says this is how God works with imperfect faith. He does not demand perfect understanding before He acts. He meets you where your faith is, not where it should be.1
The Woman with the Issue of Blood (vv. 20–22)
“And suddenly, a woman who had a flow of blood for twelve years came from behind and touched the hem of His garment. For she said to herself, ‘If only I may touch His garment, I shall be made well.’ But Jesus turned around, and when He saw her He said, ‘Be of good cheer, daughter; your faith has made you well.’ And the woman was made well from that hour.” (9:20–22)
And here is the interruption.
Jesus is on His way to the dead girl. The father is walking beside Him. The disciples are following. The urgency is total. A dead child is waiting. Every second matters.
And a woman touches His hem from behind.
She has been bleeding for twelve years. Mark’s account tells us she had spent everything on physicians and only gotten worse. Under the Levitical law (Leviticus 15:25–27), a woman with a continuous flow of blood was ritually unclean. Everything she touched became unclean. Everyone who touched her became unclean. For twelve years she had been untouchable. Excluded from worship. Excluded from community. Excluded from human contact. Her illness had made her invisible.
She comes from behind. Not from the front. She does not stand in Christ’s path. She does not make a scene. She does not announce herself or make a request. She comes from behind, in the crowd, unseen, and reaches out her hand.
“If only I may touch His garment, I shall be made well.”
She does not even say this out loud. She says it to herself. Elegen gar en heautē. She spoke within herself. The smallest, most interior, most private act of faith in the entire Gospel. No words spoken. No petition made. No kneeling. No crying out. Just an internal conviction and a hand extended toward the hem.
Yesterday at Gennesaret, as many as touched the hem were healed. Today we see the first person who touched the hem. She is the original. The one who discovered that the edge of Christ’s garment carried the same power as His hand. And she discovered it not by theology but by desperation. Twelve years of bleeding. Twelve years of spending. Twelve years of isolation. And a hand that reached out because there was nothing left to try.
“But Jesus turned around.”
He was walking toward the dead girl. The urgent mission. The ruler’s daughter. And He stopped. He turned. He interrupted His own journey to the dead to attend to the living.
This is the moment the passage becomes something more than two separate miracles. It becomes a statement about how God works. The interruption is not an obstacle to the plan. The interruption is the plan. The woman who stopped Christ on the way to the dead girl was not a delay. She was a destination. God’s itinerary includes the interruptions.
“Be of good cheer, daughter.”
Tharsei, thugatēr. Courage, daughter. The same word He spoke to the terrified disciples on the water yesterday. Tharsei. Courage. And the word “daughter.” Not “woman.” Daughter. The ruler came asking for his daughter. Christ finds a daughter in the crowd. The father’s dead daughter and the bleeding woman are connected by the word “daughter.” Both are children of God. Both are being reached by the same healer. The interruption and the destination are part of the same family.
“Your faith has made you well.”
Not “My power has made you well.” Your faith. The internal conviction spoken to no one. The hand extended from behind. The silent, invisible, desperate reaching. That is what Christ calls faith. And that is what He says healed her.
St. Ephrem the Syrian, in his Commentary on the Diatessaron, writes that the woman’s healing reveals the nature of Christ’s power more clearly than any other miracle. He says that Christ’s power does not require His conscious direction. The woman touched the hem without His permission, without His awareness (in His human nature), without His command. And the power flowed. Ephrem compares it to the sun. The sun does not decide which plants to warm. It shines and everything within its reach is warmed. Christ is the sun. His presence is the warmth. And anyone who reaches into His presence, however tentatively, however silently, however secretly, is healed. The power is not rationed. It flows. All it needs is contact.2
St. Cyril of Alexandria, in his Commentary on the Gospel of Luke (on the parallel passage in Luke 8:43–48), adds a different dimension. He notes that Christ turned and asked “who touched Me?” not because He did not know but because He wanted the woman to come forward. She had been healed in secret. Christ wanted her healed in public. Not to embarrass her. To restore her. Twelve years of uncleanness meant twelve years of social death. The healing of her body needed to be witnessed so that the healing of her social life could begin. The public acknowledgment was part of the cure. Cyril says Christ brought her out of hiding because hiding was part of her disease. The disease had taught her to be invisible. Christ taught her to be seen.3
The Dead Girl Raised (vv. 23–26)
“When Jesus came into the ruler’s house, and saw the flute players and the noisy crowd wailing, He said to them, ‘Make room, for the girl is not dead, but sleeping.’ And they ridiculed Him. But when the crowd had been put outside, He went in and took her by the hand, and the girl arose. And the report of this went out into all that land.” (9:23–26)
Jesus arrives at the house. The mourners are already there. In first-century Palestine, professional mourners were hired within hours of a death. Flute players. Wailers. The house is full of noise. The noise of death. The community’s way of processing the loss.
“The girl is not dead, but sleeping.”
They laugh at Him. Ridicule. They have seen the body. They know death when they see it. This man is delusional or cruel. The girl is dead. Everyone knows it.
And Christ does something He does nowhere else in the Gospels. He puts the crowd outside. He clears the room. He removes the mourners, the musicians, the noise, the ridicule, and the unbelief. He puts them all out. And He goes in with only the parents and His closest disciples.
Why?
Because resurrection does not happen in a crowd of mockers. The crowd that laughs at the possibility of life cannot be present when life returns. Unbelief and resurrection cannot occupy the same room. Christ does not perform for skeptics. He does not prove Himself to those who have already decided the situation is hopeless. He puts them out. And He enters the room where death is lying on a bed.
“He went in and took her by the hand, and the girl arose.”
He took her hand. The same physical touch that healed the leper (Day 7), straightened the bent woman (Day 28), and that the bleeding woman reached for (today). The hand of Christ on the hand of the dead girl. And the dead girl got up.
Mark’s account gives us the Aramaic words: Talitha cumi. Little girl, get up. The tender, familiar, domestic language a parent would use to wake a child in the morning. Not a magical incantation. Not a thunderous command from the Lord of the universe. The quiet voice of someone standing beside a bed at dawn saying: time to get up.
This is the first resurrection in the series. And it is not dramatic. It is domestic. It happens in a bedroom with the door closed and the crowd outside. It happens through the touch of a hand and the sound of a voice. The same hand and voice that have been at work throughout the entire fast. Touching lepers. Speaking to storms. Calling tax collectors. Straightening spines. And now raising the dead.
St. Athanasius the Great, in On the Incarnation, teaches that every act of healing in the Gospels is a preview of the resurrection. Every leper cleansed, every blind eye opened, every paralytic walking, every demon expelled is a partial demonstration of the power that will fully manifest on Easter morning. But the raising of the dead is the most direct preview. Here the preview becomes nearly identical to the final product. Death is reversed. Life returns. The body that was still is moving. The lungs that were empty are breathing. Athanasius says: this is what the Cross accomplishes. This is where the fast is heading. Not death. Resurrection.4
The Two Blind Men (vv. 27–31)
“When Jesus departed from there, two blind men followed Him, crying out and saying, ‘Son of David, have mercy on us!’ And when He had come into the house, the blind men came to Him. And Jesus said to them, ‘Do you believe that I am able to do this?’ They said to Him, ‘Yes, Lord.’ Then He touched their eyes, saying, ‘According to your faith let it be to you.’ And their eyes were opened.” (9:27–31)
After the interruption and the resurrection, two more people. Blind men. Following Jesus by sound. They cannot see Him. They can only hear Him. And they follow the voice, crying out: Son of David, have mercy on us.
Jesus does not heal them in the street. He waits until He is inside a house. The blind men come to Him there. And He asks them a question.
“Do you believe that I am able to do this?”
Not “do you deserve this?” Not “have you earned this?” Do you believe I am able? The question is about Christ’s capacity, not theirs. The question is about who He is, not who they are. Can He do this? Is He able?
“Yes, Lord.”
Two words. The simplest confession of faith in the passage. Yes. You are able. We believe it.
“According to your faith let it be to you.”
This sentence has not appeared in the series. It introduces a new principle. Not “according to your merit” or “according to your fasting record” or “according to how many days you have prayed.” According to your faith. Faith is the measure. Faith is the capacity. Faith is the container that determines how much you receive.
The woman’s faith made her well. The ruler’s faith brought Christ to his daughter’s bedside. The blind men’s faith opened their eyes. In each case, the power was Christ’s. But the measure was faith.
St. Macarius the Great, in his Spiritual Homilies, teaches that faith is not the cause of the miracle. It is the opening through which the miracle enters. A window does not cause the sun to shine. But without a window, the sunlight cannot enter the room. Faith is the window. Christ is the sun. The larger the window, the more light enters. “According to your faith” means: the light is unlimited. The only limit is the size of your opening.5
What This Means for Day 33
Three miracles. Three dimensions of faith. One afternoon.
The ruler’s faith: bringing death to Christ. He knelt and said: my daughter is dead. Come and lay Your hand on her. He brought the worst thing in his life to the feet of Jesus and believed that even the worst thing was not final. This is the faith that carries the impossible into the presence of God.
The woman’s faith: reaching from behind in silence. She did not kneel. She did not speak. She reached out one hand from behind and touched the hem. The most interior, most invisible, most quiet act of faith in the Gospel. This is the faith that does not need words. The faith that acts before it understands. The faith that reaches when there is nothing left to try.
The blind men’s faith: answering the question. “Do you believe I am able?” Yes, Lord. This is the faith that confesses. The faith that speaks. The faith that answers the question Christ asks every person during the fast: do you believe I can do this? Do you believe I can change you? Do you believe I can raise the dead thing in your life?
Three kinds of faith. All of them honored. All of them met with healing. The father’s public faith. The woman’s hidden faith. The blind men’s spoken faith. None of them perfect. None of them fully informed. All of them sufficient.
Thirty-three days of the fast. The question is not which of these three your faith most resembles. The question is: is our faith open? Is the window letting in the light? The light is unlimited. The power is unlimited. The compassion is unlimited. The only limit is the size of the opening.
And today, the passage reveals one more thing. The interruptions are part of the plan. The woman who stopped Christ on the way to the dead girl was not a delay. She was a destination. If the fast has been interrupted by unexpected suffering, unexpected need, unexpected detours from the spiritual programme we have planned, do not resent the interruption. The interruption may be where the healing happens. The journey to one miracle was interrupted by another. Both were completed. Both were necessary. Both were the work of the same hands.
For Our Journey Today
Bring the dead thing. The ruler brought his dead daughter to Jesus. He did not pretend she was sleeping. He did not minimize the situation. He said: she is dead. Come. Is there something in your life that is dead? A relationship. A hope. A calling. A part of yourself that stopped breathing years ago. Today, do not minimize it. Name it. Bring it. Lay it at the feet of Christ and say: come. Lay Your hand on it. It will live.
Reach from behind. If our faith is not strong enough for a public confession, it does not need to be. The woman touched the hem from behind, in silence, without a word. Our faith does not need to be loud. It needs to be real. Today, reach. Silently. Internally. From behind. Touch the hem. The power does not require our eloquence. It requires our contact.
Answer the question. Christ is asking us today: do you believe I am able to do this? Whatever “this” is. The habit we cannot break. The grief we cannot carry. The sin we cannot forgive ourselves for. The dead thing we have given up on. Do we believe He is able? The answer does not need to be confident. It needs to be honest. “Yes, Lord.” Two words. And the eyes open.
Lord Jesus Christ, who raised a dead girl with a touch and healed a bleeding woman with a hem and opened blind eyes with a word, we bring our dead things to You today. The hopes that have stopped breathing. The relationships that have gone cold. The parts of ourselves that we buried years ago and stopped visiting. Come and lay Your hand on them. We believe You are able. Not because our faith is strong. Because Your power is unlimited. The window may be small. But the sun is infinite. Open our eyes. Stop our bleeding. Raise what is dead. Not at the end of the fast. Now. Today. In the middle of the interruption. In the bedroom with the door closed. In the silence where no one else can see. By the prayers of the Most Holy Theotokos, the holy Evangelist Matthew, and all the saints, have mercy on us and save us. Amen.
Patristic References
- St. John Chrysostom (c. 349–407). Homily 31 on Matthew, on Matthew 9:18–26. ↩︎
- St. Ephrem the Syrian (c. 306–373). Commentary on the Tatian’s Diatessaron. ↩︎
- St. Cyril of Alexandria (c. 376–444). Commentary on the Gospel of Luke, on Luke 8:43–48 (the parallel passage). ↩︎
- St. Athanasius the Great (c. 296–373). On the Incarnation (De Incarnatione), particularly chapters 17–19 and 30–32. ↩︎
- St. Macarius the Great (c. 300–391). Spiritual Homilies (Homiliae Spirituales) ↩︎
