Reaching for His Faithfulness

There are certain stories in Scripture that never leave you the same. You can read them a hundred times and still find yourself undone by the beauty of Jesus in the middle of them. For me, the story of the woman with the issue of blood in Mark 5 is one of those.

It is a story of desperation, of courage, of vulnerability. But most of all, it is a story of faith. And not the kind of faith that strives, works harder, or conjures up belief out of sheer willpower. Her story reveals a deeper truth: faith is not something we manufacture. It is a gift. It flows out of Him. And it is His faithfulness that we cling to.

Mark tells us: “And there was a woman who had had a discharge of blood for twelve years, and who had suffered much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had, and was no better but rather grew worse” (Mark 5:25–26).

Pause and let those words sink in. Twelve years. Twelve years of weakness, pain, and disappointment. Twelve years of being declared unclean. Twelve years of being pushed to the margins of society, unable to touch or be touched. Twelve years of hope rising every time she tried another doctor or another treatment, only to be crushed when it failed.

I cannot imagine the loneliness of those years. The crushing weight of being told repeatedly, “You are still unclean.” I wonder how many nights she cried herself to sleep. How many mornings she wished not to wake up. How many times she asked the question we all whisper when the waiting feels too long: “God, do You even see me?”

And yet her loneliness mirrors something deeper in us. It is what happens when we live under striving or religion. She was cast out because she was not “clean enough.” That is the same voice striving whispers to us. “You are not enough. You do not measure up. You are failing again. Try harder.” Religion creates an endless treadmill where we are always working but never arriving. It holds out the promise of belonging if we just get it right, but always moves the finish line further away. And like her, the harder we try, the worse it often gets.

Mark says she “spent all she had” on physicians, but “was no better, only grew worse.” That is exactly what striving does. We spend ourselves, our energy, our joy, our peace, on endless efforts to heal ourselves. More rules. More disciplines. More rituals. More “fixing.” But it does not stop the bleeding inside. Instead of making us whole, self-effort leaves us emptier. Instead of drawing us closer, religion isolates us further. Instead of quieting our shame, striving amplifies the lie: “You will never be enough.”

But something shifted the day she heard about Jesus. Maybe she had heard stories of His miracles. Maybe whispers reached her about the blind seeing, the lame walking, the lepers cleansed. Whatever it was, something stirred deep inside her, a fragile, trembling hope. She thought to herself, “If I touch even His garments, I will be made well” (Mark 5:28).

Do you see the audacity in that thought? She was not supposed to be in the crowd at all. Her condition made her ceremonially unclean. By law, if she touched anyone, they too became unclean. To push her way through a crowd was a massive risk, not only to her safety but to her dignity. If anyone recognized her, she could be shamed publicly, maybe even punished. But desperation has a way of silencing fear. She had nothing left to lose. She had tried everything. And so she came, trembling, pushing through the sea of bodies, each step heavy with weakness but carried by hope.

Mark says she touched “the hem of His garment.” The “hem” of a Jewish man’s garment was not just fabric, it was where the tassels (tzitzit) were sewn. God had commanded Israel to wear tassels on the corners of their garments, woven with a blue thread, as a constant reminder: “You shall look at them and remember all the commandments of the Lord, and do them.” The tassels represented covenant faithfulness, visible signs of God’s word, His promises, His holiness.

So when the woman reached for the hem, she likely reached for the tassels. She was not just grasping fabric, she was laying hold of covenant faithfulness. But even more than that, she was reaching for something she knew she did not have within herself. She was not saying, “If I can just believe hard enough, I will be healed.” She was saying, “I have nothing left in me, so I will cling to what He carries.”

This is the key: her miracle was not the result of her own faith but of her desperate dependence on His. She had tried every avenue, spent everything she had, and come to the end of her own strength. That is when true faith is born—not from within us but from Him. Faith is not self-generated. It flows from Jesus Himself, the author and finisher of faith.

The prophets even pointed to this moment. Malachi 4:2 says, “But for you who fear My name, the Sun of Righteousness shall rise with healing in His wings.” The Hebrew word for “wings” (kanaph) is the very same word used for the corners of a garment, the place where the tassels were sewn. Do you see it? She was literally reaching for the wings of His garment, the very place the Word said healing would flow. Her trembling hand found the fulfillment of prophecy. She laid hold of His faithfulness, His healing, His sufficiency.

When Jesus said, “Daughter, your faith has made you well,” He was not applauding her ability to muster belief. He was celebrating the beauty of her surrender. Her “faith” was not a heroic effort but a desperate recognition of her lack, a reaching beyond herself into Him. And that is where the miracle always happens.

Because sometimes we have no faith left. Sometimes our prayers feel hollow. Sometimes all we can do is whisper, “Jesus, I need You.” And that is enough. In those moments, it is not our faith that sustains us but His. Galatians 2:20 reminds us that the life we now live is not by faith in the Son of God alone, but by the faith of the Son of God—the faithfulness He carries and imparts to us.

So when you feel like you cannot believe enough, when your heart feels too weary to muster trust, remember this: you are invited to reach for His faith. He is not waiting for you to prove yourself. He is waiting for you to collapse into His sufficiency. It is not the strength of your grip that heals you, but the strength of the One you are holding onto. Of allowing Him to hold you.

“And immediately the flow of blood dried up, and she felt in her body that she was healed of her disease. And Jesus, perceiving in Himself that power had gone out from Him, immediately turned about in the crowd and said, ‘Who touched My garments?’” (Mark 5:29–30).

Can you picture the moment? She felt it instantly. The bleeding stopped. Strength began to flow back into her frail frame. Hope, long buried, rushed like fire through her veins. But Jesus did not just let her sneak away. He stopped. He turned. He searched until His eyes met hers. She came trembling, fell before Him, and confessed everything. And instead of scolding her for breaking the rules, He lifted her with His words: “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease” (Mark 5:34).

He called her daughter. Not unclean. Not shameful. Not a burden. Daughter. Beloved. Seen. Restored.

At first glance, His words might sound like He was pointing back to her, your faith did this. But when we look closer, it is more like He was saying: “Your faith, your trust in reaching out to Me, has connected you to My faithfulness.” Her faith was not perfect, but it was real. It was desperate enough to lean on Him. And that is all faith really is: reaching out when you have nothing left and clinging to the One who is everything.

This is why Scripture reminds us that faith itself is a gift from God. We do not work it up, we receive it. It flows from Him, and it points back to Him. So when Jesus affirmed her, He was not celebrating her ability to conjure belief, He was celebrating the beauty of her trust. The beauty of her surrender. The beauty of her willingness to place her frailty in His hands.

The law had cast her out. Religion had left her isolated, condemned, and alone. And that is what striving does to us too. It pushes us out of intimacy, telling us we are disqualified until we can prove otherwise. But Jesus is different. Where religion says, “Unclean!” Jesus says, “Daughter.” Where striving says, “Never enough,” Jesus says, “My grace is sufficient.”

She was healed not just physically, but relationally. Restored to community. Restored to dignity. Restored to belonging. And that is what Jesus still does today.

I do not know where you are as you read this. Maybe you feel a little like her, tired, worn out, out of options. Maybe your prayers feel weak. Maybe you have tried everything and nothing has changed. Maybe you feel like your faith is too small to matter. If that is you, I want you to hear this: your miracle does not depend on how strong your faith feels. It depends on the One you are reaching for.

You do not have to muster up more belief. You do not have to fix yourself before you come. You do not have to carry the weight of performance. You just have to reach. Even if it is a trembling, shaky reach, it is enough. Because it is not about your faith being perfect. It is about His faithfulness being unshakable.

The woman’s faith was not loud. It was not eloquent. It was not polished. It was messy, hidden, desperate, and trembling. But it was real. And it was enough to connect her to Jesus. Sometimes faith does not look like bold declarations. Sometimes it looks like crawling through a crowd just to brush the edge of His robe. Sometimes it looks like weak prayers whispered through tears. Sometimes it looks like showing up one more time, even when you are not sure you can. That is faith. Not the absence of fear, not the absence of weakness, but the choice to reach anyway.

If I could sit across the table from you, I would tell you this: You do not have to hold it all together. You do not have to impress God with your faith. He is not asking you to conjure something you do not have. He is inviting you to reach for Him. The tassels are still there. The covenant faithfulness of Jesus still holds. His finished work is still enough. His power still flows. And His voice still calls: “Son. Daughter. Your faith has made you well. Go in peace.”

So come as you are. Trembling, weak, worn out, it does not matter. Reach anyway. You will find that it was never about how strong your grip is. It is about how strong His faithfulness is to hold you.

Prayer

Jesus, thank You that You are the faithful One. Thank You that when my strength is gone, when my faith feels small, You remain unshakable. Thank You for the cross, for the finished work, for the covenant You keep. Teach me to reach for You, not in striving, but in trust. Call me daughter. Call me son. And let Your power flow into the places of my deepest need. Amen.