I believe!

 Way back in Seminary, back in a time when dinosaurs ruled the earth, we had to read a book called 'the hammer of God' by Bo Giertz.  He was a Swedish clergyman, who wrote the novel at least semi based on his experiences as a clergyman in Sweden.  Most of what was in that book has long since left me, but I do remember a passage that was especially resonant with a classmate of mine.  It was where a character named Fridfeldt has this conversation with a much older rector:

"I just want you to know from the beginning, sir, that I am a believer," he said. His voice was a bit harsh. He saw a gleam in the old man's eyes which he could not quite interpret. Was approval indicated, or did he have something up his sleeve? The rector put the lamp back on the table, puffed at his pipe, and looked at the young man a moment before he spoke. 

 "So you are a believer, I'm glad to hear that. What do you believe in?" 

 Fridfeldt stared dumfounded at his superior. Was he jesting with him? "But, sir, I am simply saying that I am a believer." 

 "Yes, I hear that, my bon. But what is it that you believe in?" 

 Fridfeldt was almost speechless. "But don't you know, sir, what it means to be a believer?" 

 "That is a word which can stand for things that differ greatly, my boy. I ask only what it is that you believe in."

Very simple, very straightforward, but laced with meaning. What does it mean to be a believer?  Great question.  For, you must understand, that you cannot simply be a believer.  You must, by definition, believe in something.  And in this case, Fridfeldt was gobsmacked.  He assumed, incorrectly, that being a believer would be, in and of itself, sufficient.  He was very wrong.  

For belief is like love - it cannot be unattached. It cannot be disinterested.  It must be attached to something specific.  You cannot love in a vacuum, your love must be attached to something, lest it be vapor and smoke.  You can love a person, a thing, a country or an idea, but you cannot love into the vapor.  That sort of love cannot exist.  It is much the same with belief.  You can believe in God, believe in yourself, believe in the power of prayer and whatnot, but you cannot simply believe.  It must be attached to something.  It's like that same riddle from professor egghead: How is a reptile like a number?  Neither one is real.  Oh certainly, you can have a box turtle or a garter snake, but take away the snake or the turtle, and what happens to the reptile? It doesn't exist.  It's a classification.  Similarly, if you have six boxes, and you take away the boxes, what happens to the six? It doesn't exist.  If you love a woman, and you take away the woman, what happens to the love?

And that's precisely what makes the Gospel reading so interesting for today.  The woman who had been bleeding for essentially the entire time that Jairus' daughter was alive was told by Christ upon her healing that her faith had made her well.  But faith isn't a thing that exists in a vacuum. You have to have faith in something. Now, these days, we tend to get a bit confused about faith.  This woman wasn't healed by her faith that Jesus existed, you know, nor by touching his cloak.  For at that moment, Jesus was surrounded on all sides, pressed in upon by a massive crowd who all a) could clearly see that he was right in front of them, and b) were touching his cloak all the time.  The bigger the crowd, the less personal space we all have, and the more likely we are to rub up against one another.  So, you have to understand that it's not just that this woman grasped a hold of the clothes of Jesus, but rather that she grabbed a hold of them in faith.  And that's a big deal.  

There's a difference, you see, in grasping the cloak of Christ, and grasping it in faith.  Anyone can grasp his tunic, some soldier even ended up keeping his tunic permanently, you know, and I highly doubt that he ended up immortal at that point just by virtue of having that cloak.  But there's a big difference between grasping it, and grasping it in faith.  Faith in what? Faith in Christ as the one who undoes the curse.

The Gospel accounts of the miracles of Jesus are beautiful, partially because they are stories that show the magnificence of Jesus not just as a healer, but as the one who undoes the curse placed on Adam and Eve after their first sin.  At the moment of their sin, Adam and Eve were not only cast from the garden, but they had a curse laid on them.  From that moment on, they would only eat from the sweat of their brow. Thorns and thistles would sprout up because of them, and eventually they would return to the dust, for they are dust, and to dust they will return.  That curse has dogged humanity from the time of that curse, and had that inevitability attached to it: Sickness and death will plague us always.  As certainties.  But when Jesus passes through the world, all of a sudden, there is evidence of the curse being undone. 

The scarcity and effort that governs eating by the sweat of your brow - undone at the feeding of the five thousand.  The sickness that plagues humans because of sin - dismantled when He heals the woman's hemorrhage.  The return to dust promised as the finality of the curse - smashed when Jesus says to the girl 'Talitha Coumi,' Little girl, I say to you, arise.

Faith isn't empty, it can't be.  For it to be faith, it has to be attached to something, and to something specific.  And you can't just say 'I have faith in Christ.' Faith in Christ to do what or to be what?  And the answer to that great question is to say that you have faith in Christ to undo the curse.  The woman who approached him didn't have faith in him as a doctor, but as the great physician who undoes the curse.  And when Jesus says to her 'your faith has made you well,' it's faith in him not as a doctor, or as a miracle worker, or a prophet, or a good man, but faith in Him as God himself, deciding to roll back the curse, and showing with every miracle that God is now on your side.