Touched

Matthew 8:1-3

When He came down from the mountainside, large crowds followed Him. A man with leprosy came and knelt before Him and said, “Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean.”

Jesus reached out His hand and touched the man.

“I am willing,” He said. “Be clean!”

Immediately he was cured of his leprosy

The crowd is thick. So thick, I hardly see Him.

All I get are glimpses here and there as the swell of the crowd shifts.

Those glimpses compel me on.

As I weave my way forward, I take painstaking care not to touch anyone. Not to let anyone touch me.

Because I am unclean.

I am untouchable.

But I am not unfeeling.

I should be used to it by now. After years of being covered with both leprosy and shame, I should have grown accustomed to it. But somehow, I never can.

The horrified looks, the pitying glances–I’ve learned to ignore those.

The feeling of loneliness, the craving for human touch, the longing to belong–those feelings are harder to ignore.

The years of isolation have made me empty. It’s like there’s a part of me that is always reaching out and constantly begging for recognition. I am starving for love, but I am never filled. I feel like a shell of a man. But the saddest thing is that even my shell is not appealing.

I realize with some astonishment that I have come very close to the front of the crowd. It makes sense, I guess. People always tend to back away from me. This is just the first time it’s come in handy.

The closer I get to Him, the more I sense a swelling realization inside me that I cannot ignore. This man, this Jesus, is pure good. I can see it in His face, and feel it in the air. He is kindness and power and holiness. He is beautiful.

And I am ugly.

My skin is mottled with bumps and deformities and scars. But what scares me the most is that I know those aren’t my only flaws. Inside me, there are deeper imperfections. They are less visible, but no less real. Leprosy eats me alive from the outside in. Bitterness, envy, shame, and heartache eat me alive from the inside out.

This is who I am.

Broken.

Ashamed.

Dirty.

Standing face to face with the One who can make me clean.

He looks at me, and I know He sees it all. Not only my outward disfigurement, but also the inner flaws that no one else can see.

I thought that I wanted Him to heal my skin. But now that I’m here, I realize that my deepest desire is to be clean inside, where it really matters.

I fall to my knees before Him. Desperately, filled with panic that He will look away and move on, like everyone else would, I blurt out the first thing I can think to say.

“Lord, if You’re willing, You can make me clean.”

Clean. Something I haven’t felt in years.

I wait, breathless, for His answer.

Half expecting it to be no. Half hoping it can be yes.

Instead of answering, Jesus does something else.

He lifts His hand from where it rests at His side, and begins to extend it.

Towards me.

Me.

Me, the unclean.

Me, the untouchable one.

Me, the one that people would rather die than come in contact with.

But Jesus, He reaches towards me.

And He touches me.

The feeling of human touch on my aching skin feels foreign and unfamiliar. But at the same time, it feels comforting and loving.

It fills vacant spaces that have been hauntingly empty for far too long.

And then He speaks.

“I am willing,” He says. “Be clean.”

And instantly, in that moment, both my body and my soul respond to His command. The constant marks of disfiguration that have only ever worsened suddenly disappear. But even more amazingly, the constant ache in my heart finds the Person who can fill it.

I am clean.

Whole.

Touched.

Changed.

Never to be the same again.

His touch did not heal me. His words did. But He chose to touch me.

And that is something that I will never forget.