The Interruption of Grace Text: Luke 8:40-56
Introduction: Two Kinds of Desperation
We come today to a story nested within a story, a miracle inside a miracle. At first glance, it appears to be a story about two very different people in two very different situations. We have Jairus, a man of standing, a ruler of the synagogue, a respected community leader. His need is public, respectable, and urgent. His daughter, his only daughter, is at the point of death. Then we have an anonymous woman, an outcast. Her need is chronic, shameful, and ceremonially defiling. For twelve years, she has been hemorrhaging, which under the Mosaic law made her perpetually unclean. Everything and everyone she touched became unclean. She was a social and religious leper.
Jairus comes to Jesus publicly, falls at His feet, and begs Him openly. The woman comes to Jesus secretly, from behind, hoping to steal a blessing without being noticed. And yet, both are driven by the same engine: desperation. Both have come to the absolute end of their own resources. Jairus, for all his influence, cannot stop death. The woman, for all her efforts with physicians, is not only no better but is now broke and worse off. Both have nowhere else to turn. And this is precisely the place where God loves to meet us. God is a God for the desperate. He is a physician for the sick, not the healthy. Grace is not for the self-sufficient; it is for the empty-handed.
This passage is a beautiful diptych, a two-paneled portrait of faith. But it is more than that. It is a calculated assault by Jesus on the twin powers of uncleanness and death. These are the two great consequences of the fall, the two great enemies of mankind. Uncleanness represents our defilement by sin, our separation from God's holy presence. Death is the final, wages of that sin. In this one, compact narrative, Jesus demonstrates His absolute sovereignty over both. He doesn't just heal; He cleanses. He doesn't just resuscitate; He conquers death. And He does it in a way that shows that no one is too high and no one is too low to be outside the reach of His grace. Whether you are a synagogue ruler or an untouchable woman, the ground is level at the foot of the cross, and the only posture is one of desperate faith.
The Text
And as Jesus returned, the crowd welcomed Him, for they had all been waiting for Him. And behold, there came a man named Jairus, and he was an official of the synagogue. And falling at Jesus’ feet, he began to plead with Him to come to his house, for he had an only daughter, about twelve years old, and she was dying. But as He went, the crowds were pressing against Him. And a woman who had a hemorrhage for twelve years, and could not be healed by anyone, came up behind Him and touched the fringe of His garment, and immediately her hemorrhage stopped. And Jesus said, “Who is the one who touched Me?” And while they were all denying it, Peter said, “Master, the crowds are surrounding and pressing in on You.” But Jesus said, “Someone did touch Me, for I knew that power had gone out of Me.” And when the woman saw that she had not escaped notice, she came trembling. And falling down before Him, she declared in the presence of all the people the reason why she had touched Him and how she had been immediately healed. And He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has saved you; go in peace.” While He was still speaking, someone came from the house of the synagogue official, saying, “Your daughter has died; do not trouble the Teacher anymore.” But when Jesus heard this, He answered him, “Do not be afraid any longer; only believe, and she will be saved.” So when He came to the house, He did not allow anyone to enter with Him, except Peter and John and James, and the girl’s father and mother. Now they were all crying and lamenting for her, but He said, “Stop crying, for she has not died, but is asleep.” And they began laughing at Him, knowing that she had died. He, however, took her by the hand and called, saying, “Child, arise!” And her spirit returned, and she stood up immediately. And He gave orders for something to be given her to eat. And her parents were astounded, but He directed them to tell no one what had happened.
(Luke 8:40-56 LSB)
A Father's Plea (vv. 40-42)
The scene opens with Jesus returning from His excursion to the country of the Gerasenes, and the crowd is eager for Him. In the midst of this throng, a man of importance steps forward.
"And behold, there came a man named Jairus, and he was an official of the synagogue. And falling at Jesus’ feet, he began to plead with Him to come to his house, for he had an only daughter, about twelve years old, and she was dying." (Luke 8:41-42a)
Jairus was a man with a title. As a ruler of the synagogue, he was responsible for the order of worship and the administration of the local Jewish community. He was a pillar of the establishment. And yet, when death comes knocking at his door, his title, his position, and his reputation are all utterly useless. So he does the only thing he can do. He humbles himself. He, a respected official, falls down in the dirt at the feet of this itinerant preacher. Desperation has a way of stripping us of our pretensions. He doesn't send a servant; he comes himself. He doesn't make a polite request; he pleads. His love for his daughter overwhelms his concern for his own dignity.
His faith is real, but it is also limited. He believes Jesus can heal, but he thinks Jesus has to be physically present to do it. "Come to my house." This is a common feature of early faith. We often try to dictate to God not only what we need, but how He ought to go about providing it. But Jesus, in His grace, condescends to our weak faith. He agrees to go. And as He goes, the crowds are "pressing against Him." The Greek word here suggests they were suffocating Him, crushing in on all sides. This detail is not incidental; it sets the stage for the miracle that is about to interrupt the first one.
A Stolen Blessing (vv. 43-48)
In the middle of this suffocating crowd, on the way to deal with an emergency, a second emergency, a secret one, intrudes.
"And a woman who had a hemorrhage for twelve years... came up behind Him and touched the fringe of His garment, and immediately her hemorrhage stopped." (Luke 8:43-44)
Notice the parallel. Jairus's daughter is twelve years old, on the cusp of womanhood. This woman has been suffering for twelve years, her womanhood defined by this defiling issue of blood. For twelve years, she has been an outcast. According to Leviticus 15, she was in a constant state of ceremonial uncleanness. Anyone she touched became unclean. Any chair she sat on became unclean. She was barred from the synagogue, barred from the Temple, and barred from normal human fellowship. She was isolated, impoverished, and incurable.
Her faith is a raw, desperate, superstitious-looking faith. She thinks, "If I can just touch His clothes..." But Jesus doesn't grade on the elegance of our theology; He responds to the desperation of our faith. She fights her way through the crowd, a crowd she is legally forbidden to touch, making every person she bumps into unclean. And in a final act of faith-filled thievery, she touches the fringe of His garment. In the Old Testament, Israelites were commanded to wear tassels, or fringes, on their garments to remind them of God's commandments (Numbers 15:38-39). She reaches out to touch the very symbol of the law that condemns her.
And the result is immediate. The flow of blood stops. But notice the reversal of the law. According to the law, her uncleanness should have flowed to Jesus, making Him unclean. But with Jesus, the law of contagion is reversed. His cleanness, His power, His life flows to her, making her clean. Jesus is not defiled by our sin; He is the one who cleanses us from it.
Jesus then stops everything. "Who touched Me?" Peter, ever the pragmatist, points out the absurdity of the question. "Master, everyone is touching you." But Jesus makes a crucial distinction. "Someone did touch Me, for I knew that power had gone out of Me." There is a world of difference between the casual press of the crowd and the intentional touch of faith. Many people jostle Jesus. Many people are "around" Jesus, in church, in Christian families, but they never touch Him with the hand of faith. They are part of the crowd, but they never draw power from Him because they never come to Him in their desperation. This woman did not just bump into Him; she reached for Him as her only hope.
He forces her to come forward, not to shame her, but to honor her. He makes her give a public testimony, so that everyone would know she was healed and therefore clean. He restores her not just physically, but socially and religiously. And then He gives her the most beautiful words: "Daughter, your faith has saved you; go in peace." He calls her "Daughter," adopting this outcast into the family of God. He clarifies that it wasn't magic in His clothes, but her faith that was the instrument of her healing. And He sends her away not just healed, but in "peace," in shalom, in a state of wholeness and right-relationship with God.
From Bad to Worse (vv. 49-56)
But while Jesus is dealing with this interruption of grace, the original crisis has escalated. For Jairus, this delay must have been agonizing. And then, his worst fears are realized.
"While He was still speaking, someone came from the house of the synagogue official, saying, 'Your daughter has died; do not trouble the Teacher anymore.'" (Luke 8:49)
This is the voice of reason, the voice of despair. "It's too late. The window of opportunity has closed. Don't bother Jesus anymore." This is the voice the world speaks to us in our darkest moments. It's over. Give up. But Jesus overhears this message of hopelessness and immediately counters it with a word of command and promise.
"Do not be afraid any longer; only believe, and she will be saved." Jesus confronts Jairus's fear directly. The choice is binary. You can either fear, or you can believe. You cannot do both. Faith is not the absence of questions or anxieties, but it is a resolute choice to trust God's word over the evidence of your senses and the whispers of despair. "Only believe."
When they arrive at the house, the scene is one of pagan, hopeless grief. The professional mourners are already there, wailing and lamenting. Jesus clears the room, allowing only the parents and His inner circle, Peter, James, and John, to remain. He confronts their despair head-on: "Stop crying, for she has not died, but is asleep."
And what is their response? "They began laughing at Him." This is the scorn of the world. They are the experts in death. They know a dead body when they see one. Their laughter is the laughter of cynical unbelief. But for the Christian, because of Christ, death has been transformed. It is no longer a final enemy, but merely a sleep from which we will be awakened. Jesus is not denying the biological reality of her death; He is redefining it from His sovereign perspective.
Then, in stark contrast to their noisy grief and cynical laughter, Jesus acts with quiet, authoritative power. "He, however, took her by the hand and called, saying, 'Child, arise!'" He touches the dead girl, an act that would have made any other Jew unclean, but again, His life overcomes the contagion of death. And He speaks. Just as He spoke light into existence in the beginning, He speaks life into this child. "Talitha cumi," as Mark records it. A simple, gentle command.
And her spirit returned. She stood up. And Jesus, in a beautiful touch of practical compassion, "gave orders for something to be given her to eat." He restores her not just to life, but to normal life. Resurrection is not a ghostly, ethereal thing. It is robust and real. She needs a sandwich. The parents are astounded, but Jesus commands them to be silent. The time for the full revelation of who He is has not yet come. But for those with eyes to see, the evidence is overwhelming. He is the Lord of life, the conqueror of death, the cleanser of the unclean.
Conclusion: The Only Touch That Matters
This story is our story. We are all, in one way or another, Jairus. We have things in our lives that are precious to us, things that are dying, over which we have no control. We must come, like him, and fall at Jesus' feet, abandoning our pride and our plans.
And we are all, in a more profound way, the woman with the issue of blood. We are all born with a fatal hemorrhage of sin. It defiles us, it isolates us from God, and it is incurable by any human means. We can spend all our living on physicians, on self-help, on religion, on morality, but none of it can stop the flow. There is only one cure. We must press through the crowd of our fears and our excuses and touch Jesus in faith.
And when we do, His life flows into us. His cleanness covers our uncleanness. His righteousness is imputed to our account. He calls us "son" and "daughter." He tells us that our faith has saved us. And even when we are confronted with the finality of death, He speaks His authoritative word. "Do not be afraid; only believe." He takes us by the hand and says, "Arise." For the one who has touched Jesus in faith, death is not a period, but a comma. It is but a sleep, from which we will awaken into a life so real, so robust, that the first thing we will do is sit down to a feast.