Peter Marshall may well be the most significant Presbyterian preacher of this century. During the 1940s he was pastor of the prestigious New York Avenue Presbyterian Church in Washington, DC. During those years he was also chaplain of the, U.S. Senate. This sermon was broadcast on radio, and his wife, who had been suffering from a long illness, heard the sermon, and as she listened to the description of this ancient miracle found strength to get out of bed and begin her road to full recovery.

"And his disciples said unto him, Thou seest the multitude thronging
thee, and sayest thou, who touched me?"
Mark 5:31

THAT IS AN electrifying question when you realize who asked it, and under what circumstances. You cannot escape the thrill of it-the tingle of excitement that grips you when you think of Christ stopping in response to the touch of a poor nameless woman.
The words of this question are not cold abstract inanimate dead words. They do not form a hook on which one could hang theories or finely spun philosophies. No, they are too vital for that. They march into the vestibule df your heart and knock on the door.
They suggest all kinds of daring thoughts to your weak faith. They are like sparks falling into dry grass.
The setting of this text is a vivid picture-colorful, appealing, and of absorbing interest.
The incident takes place in a city street. It is a narrow twisted street packed with a crowd of gesticulating, excited people, surging past its bazaars and pavement stalls with all the noise and confusion of an eastern market place.
A murmur of conversation grows louder as the procession pushes its way through the narrow street, There is a sound like the chanting of some mysterious dirge that frequently rises to an excited crescendo. Here and there a voice rises distinctly out of the medley in what might have been a prayer; but it is lost in crackling laughter, rudely interrupted and drowned in the barking of dogs and the argument and discussion of a crowd that loves to talk.
They are caught up in the infection of curiosity, and walking along in their very midst, wedged in the tightly packed procession is Someone.
It is His face that will hold your gaze and will haunt you long after the sun has gone down, and the purple night, cool and starlit, has stilled every noise in the city, while only the Syrian stars wink unsleeping.
One is aware of that face even in such a crowd. Having once seen it, one sees it everywhere, for it is a haunting face-an expression that will not fade . . . eyes whose fires never die out . . . a face that lingers in memory. Farmers were to see it as they followed the swaying plow, and fishermen were to watch it dancing on the sun-flecked water.
This One who walks like a king is named Jesus. They called Him the Nazarene or the Galilean. He called Himself the Son of man.
The common people speak of Him softly, with deep affection, such as the shepherds know, who carry the little lambs in their bosoms.
The beggars whisper His name in the streets as they pass, and the children may be heard singing about Him. His name has been breathed in prayer and whispered at night under the stars. He is known to the diseased, the human flotsam and jetsam that shuffles in and out of the towns and drifts hopelessly along the dusty highways of human misery.
His fame has trickled down to the streets of forgotten men, has seeped into the shadowed refuges of the unremembered women. It is Jesus of Nazareth.
Any outcast could tell you of Him. There are women whose lives have been changed who could tell you of Him-but not without tears.
There are silent men walking strangely as if unaccustomed to it-who speak of Him with lights in their eyes.
It is Jesus whom they are crowding to see. They want to look on His face to see the quality of His expression that seems to promise so much to the weary and the heavy-laden; that look that seems to offer healing of mind and soul and body; forgiveness of sin; another chance-a beginning again.
His look seemed to sing of tomorrow-a new tomorrow-in which there should be no more pain, no more suffering, nor persecution, nor cruelty, nor hunger, nor neglect, nor disillusionment, nor broken promises, nor death.
At the request of one Jairus, a ruler. of the synagogue, He is on His way to restore to complete health a little girl.
He is on a mission of restoration, and the crowd is following him in order to see Him perform this miracle.
Speculation is rife. Opinion is divided. There is argument and excited discussion.
Some are declaring that He can do it; Others are doubtful. Some frankly say the attempt is bound to fail.
However, their curiosity is aroused, and it promises to be an interesting experiment.
There is in the crowd another face-the face of a woman. Strange that it should be so noticeable-yet not strange, for it is a face that portrays great depth of human emotion.
There is so much in it-pale, pinched, and wan. Great lines of suffering mar its beauty and sweetness, and even now her lips are drawn in a thin line of agony. The face is streaked with pain. Her body is racked with acute suffering.
Who is she? Well, some say her name is Martha and some say Veronica. Tradition gives her various names, but I cannot tell who she was.
It does not matter. Is it not enough that she was a woman in pain? Call her Martha . . . or Mary . . . or Margaret . . . or mother . . . or sister . . or wife.
She is typical of countless cases of endless pain and suffering. For twelve years she had suffered and twelve years is a long time!
Her malady seems to have been a pernicious hemorrhage or a form of bleeding cancer.
She had gone to many physicians and was none better - but rather worse.
She had spent all that she had, and every new day was another hopeless dawn. Every sunset was stained with the blood of her pain.
She is typical of human despair-not only physical; despair but spiritual despair as well. For her the world could offer no healing-so she represents all the. people who look everywhere for peace of mind and heart-for hope and comfort-and find none. She represents them all whatever their wants, their fears, their hopes, their pains.
For her apparently, there was no relief, no human aid. Hers was a hopeless case-incurable!
After twelve years of treatment-she was no better,.
What would we do?
We would probably send her to some home for the incurables, and visiting clergymen would be embarrassed to know what to say to her.
Now, this woman had heard of the Great Teacher, of His wonderful works. She had heard the lepers talk and them that had been blind from birth and now had thrown away their sticks, and looked around them with eyes that flashed or filled with tears as they spoke His name.
She had heard what He had done for others. Surely He. had power to bring into the haven of health the lost explorers of the vast treasuries of pain Surely, He had power to lift from the dust of disease the flowers whose stems had been crushed or withered in the mildews of human misery!
As this thought burned itself into her mind her faith was curiously stirred as it wrestled in the birth-throes of a great resolve.
It was daring-fantastic... perhaps. Her heart thumped, but it was worth trying. It could only fail and she was no stranger to failure.
There came to the woman the assurance that if she could but touch Him-even only the hem of His garment-she would he healed of her awful malady.
Cannot you imagine her nervous reasoning?
"Touch Him . . . yes .. . just to touch Him - there would be no harm in that!
"I do not think He will harm me . . They say He is so kind and gentle, so full of sympathy.
"Besides, here is my great chance. He is coming this way, soon He will be gone. Why not touch Him as He passes?"
"On the head!-no, that would be irreverent! I would not dare! Well, on the hand-no, that would be too familiar! But there cannot be any harm in touching His robes as He passes. It would be enough-just to touch the border of His robes. I must touch Him. I must get some of that power"
Thus reasoning, she pushes her way through the crowd and with the pertinacity of despair she struggles in that dense throng nearer and nearer, pushing and crushing. People get in the way --- not knowing her need.
Now she is desperate. He must not pass so near and yet so far away. Was she to lose this opportunity ? She must touch Him.
Now just a little farther. He is drawing nearer. Now she can almost touch Him --- another moment --- at last just as He passes, she is able to reach out her hand, and with the tip of her finger touch His robe.
It was enough ! She had actually touched the Great Doctor !
With a trembling finger she had touched Him with the touch of a nighty faith ! Like an electric shock there surged back into the shrunken veins, the withered muscles, and the bloodless flesh the rich glow of health and vitality. Once again a body had been redeemed and given life.
She had touched Him with secret and trembling haste and thrilled with the change that had come to her, she retreated back into the crowd, unnoticed, she thought.
No one had recognized her --- no one --- but Christ !
Recognizing the one magnetic touch of faith amid the pressure of the crowd, He stopped and asked that terrific question; "Who touched me?"
The question seemed absurd to those who heard it.
Impatiently, brusquely, almost with sarcasm, the disciples asked: "How should we know? There are hundreds of people here - pushing all about you. Look at the crowd - and yet you ask 'Who touched me?' "
But, looking around Him, Christ stood stock still - His kind, but searching, glance fell at last on the face of the woman who had done it.
His gaze held hers. Something passed between them, and she told Him her story while His eyes were fixed upon her; His eyes gave her confidence. They seemed to promise all that she desired. Her fear disappeared.
Then He answered her: not in scorn at her action, not in resentment, not in anger at her presumption, not in ridicule at her faith, not in indignation at her audacity, but in the sympathetic tones of understanding love.
"Daughter, thy faith hath made thee whole. Go in peace.... and be healed of thy plague."
That is the record. These are the facts. It is a matter of history.
She had no money - only faith. She did not meet Him in a house of worship. She met Him on the street. She had no private audience with the Lord. She touched Him in a crowd.
She touched Him in faith - in desperate believing faith and He stopped!
The touch of one anonymous woman in a crowd halted the Lord of glory. That is the glorious truth of this incident: She touched Him. So can we.
Let us take it into our apathetic hearts, let its glorious significance thrill our jaded souls.
The human touch has the power to arrest God, Yes, to stop Him, to halt to make Him aware or your problems, your. pain, your petition.
Oh you say, "that's impossible. God is not interested in me: what does He care what happens to me - one tiny individual in all this creation?
"Who am I or what am I that God should take special notice of me?"
Well, there is the record. There you have it in black and white that, stopped by the touch of a sick woman. He turned about. He who conquered death, He who defeated Satan, He whom all the legions of hell cannot rob, He who is King of kings'. He stopped just because a sick and nameless woman touched the hem of His garment.
We need to touch Him-O how much we need to touch Him !
Most of us are thronging Him-just like the crowd … It is easy to throng the Lord and never touch Him. A great many people in the churches, and perhaps a great many outside the churches, are thronging Jesus, seeking Him, coming close to Him, but never actually touching Him.
In this matter of eternal importance, coming close is not enough. It is like missing a train . You may miss it by one minute-and that's pretty close-but you have lost the train . . It is gone, and you are left behind.
Thronging saves nobody. coming near to Jesus will not bring healing. We have to touch Him for ourselves.
One can feel close in the crowd without touching the Lord. And that is exactly the trouble with most of us. We are following the crowd, thronging the Lord, but not many of us are actually in touch with the Master.
And because we are not in touch, there is no vitality in our spiritual life. There is no thrill in our prayers, no tingle of contact with the infinite resources, no flush of reality about our religion.
Because we are out of touch with the Lord, we are lost in the crowd, have become separated from the Master.
We preach the Immanence of God. Our creeds set forth our belief that the Lord is with us, near us in this very place. The Old Book records for us some amazing promises, some startling assurances if we would only believe them.
He promised that we should have power, power-to do amazing things; grace- to do unnatural things, such as to harbor no grudges and to forgive those who hurt us, to love even those who treat us unjustly; unkindly, to pray for those who give us pain and grieve us, to confess on own private and secret sins, to try to make right situations that have been wrong, even if it means humbling ourselves, swallowing our pride, and risking a snub or a slight. We can have grace to do these things, and we know perfectly well that it takes a lot of grace to do them.
He Who made these promises is here with us now.
But you 'may ask: "How can I touch Christ?" -It was one thing for, that woman long ago, for she saw Him with her eyes, and could touch Him with her fingers. She heard His voice, saw the sunlight dance on His hair.
He was in the flesh then, and she could touch Him.
How can I, today, touch Him with the same results?
Some of you may. seek healing of body or mind or of soul. Some of you may seek guidance on some. problem. Some of you need faith to stand up under the tensions and suspense of life, Some of you seek forgiveness and a new beginning.
All of us need to touch Christ for some reason or other.
As the Church offers this wonderful new life-this peace of mind and heart-this healing of mind and soul and body in Christ's name- perhaps she ought more and more to give instructions with her soul medicine.
You are justified in looking for directions on the lid or some instructions for taking, a manual of operation.
Perhaps I can make some suggestions which will be helpful.
First, give God a chance. Take your problem, whatever it may be, to Him in prayer. Tell Him all about it-just as if He didn't know a thing. In the telling be absolutely honest and sincere. Hold nothing back.
Our minds are sometimes shocked when we permit our hearts to spill over; but it is good for our souls when we do.
If we would only have the courage to take a good look at our motives for doing certain things we might discover something about ourselves that would melt away our pride and soften our hearts so that God could do something with us and for us.
Then the second step is to believe that God will hear you. Remember that He heard the poor woman who only touched the hem of His garment. Believe with all your faith that He cares what happens to you. You must believe that. You. can't doubt it when you look at the cross.
Next, you must be willing to wait patiently for the Lord. He does not answer every prayer on Sunday afternoon. You may have to wait until Friday. But wait. God is never in a hurry.
Then when He speaks to you-as He will-do what He tells you. He may not tell you audibly. You may not hear voices - as did Joan of Arc. You may not see any writing in the sky and have any unusual experience. God could, if He wanted, send you messages in that way, but that is not His usual method.
It generally comes through your own conscience - a sort of growing conviction that such and such a course of action is the one He wants you to take. Or it may be given you in the advice of friends of sounds judgment - those who loves you the most.
God speaks sometimes through our circumstances and guides us, closing doors as well as opening them.
He will let you know what you must do, and what you must be, He is waiting for you to touch Him. The hand of faith is enough. Your trembling fingers can reach Him as He passes. Reach out your faith - touch. He will not ask, "who touched me?" He will know.

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