Who Touched Me

Welcome to Scattered Moments. These are brief reflections on faith, adversity, and the quiet places where grace appears. There is a curious question in the Gospel of Mark that has always arrested my attention. Jesus is surrounded by people. The streets are crowded. Every step is interrupted. Hands reach toward him from every direction. The disciples are doing their best simply to keep him moving. Then Jesus stops. He turns. And he asks, Who touched me? Well, the disciples are bewildered. You see the people crowding against you. They answered, and yet you ask, Who touched me? Of course someone touched him. Everyone was touching him. Shoulders brushed against him, children pressed near, voices called his name. The crowd was everywhere, but Jesus knew there was a difference between brushing against him and reaching for him in faith. That story has often made me wonder not only about the woman who touched the hem of his garment, but about us, especially on Sunday mornings, every week. Somewhere on this spinning globe, the people of God begin to gather. As dawn breaks across the Pacific, voices rise in worship every Sunday morning. Hours later, churches in Asia sing his praise, then Africa, Europe, South America, and North America. From sunrise to sunset, an unbroken chorus circles the earth. Millions pray, millions sing, millions open scriptures, millions gather in his name. And sometimes I wonder if the angels watch all of it and hear Jesus quietly ask, Who touched me? And Jesus looks through the mass of believers, millions speaking, singing, and seeking, as the world spins from sunrise to sunset. Who touched me? He asks. And the angels watch as his gaze moves across the Sandhi horizon. Do you see the millions? Yes. But who touched me? Do you hear the music and see the offerings? Yes. But who touched me? Do you feel their passion? Yes. But who touched me? Until one trembling hand reaches through the crowd again, not to impress, not to perform, not to be noticed, only to believe, and heaven grows still because faith has a touch all its own. Perhaps that question is not meant to make us uncomfortable. Perhaps it is meant to invite us closer. The woman in Mark's gospel did not possess great influence. She wasn't a teacher, she wasn't wealthy, she wasn't powerful, she didn't even have permission to be in the crowd. She simply believed that if she could reach him, that would be enough, and it was. Real worship has never been measured by volume, not attendance, not polished music, not eloquent prayers, not full calendars. Real worship is measured by a heart that reaches for Christ. There's a difference between being near Jesus and trusting Jesus, between attending church and encountering Christ, between brushing against Him and touching Him by faith. So perhaps this is the question worth carrying with us this week as we close the week out and approach Sunday. Not did I go to church? No. Not did I sing, but did I reach for Jesus? Because long before we ever reach him, he already knows the touch of faith. May we come to Christ with the quiet confidence of the woman who believed that even the hem of his garment was enough. This is scattered moments. Until next time, take care. Notice the scattered moments and share the grace.