It’s kind of surprising, I guess, that Jairus approaches Jesus and asks for help. Jairus was a leader of the synagogue, and Jesus doesn’t seem to have been a big hit with the “leader of the synagogue” types, but we can feel Jairus’ utter desperation as this no-doubt dignified man falls at Jesus’ feet and begs him (begs him!) not just once but over and over: “My little girl is at the point of death. Come save her. Please. Please, come save her. Please.”

So Jesus goes with him. Better hurry! — a little girl is dying. And the throng of curious people comes along, probably quick-stepping it. There are too many for the narrow road. They are a sea of bobbing heads — people jostling, trying not to step on the heel of the person in front of them, pressing in on Jesus, brushing him, bumping him.

Suddenly, Jesus stops. The people behind him have to pull up hard. He turns around, and says, “Who did that? Who touched my clothes.” His disciples roll their eyes. “‘Who touched my clothes?’ We’re getting jostled and bumped around in this crowd and you ask, ‘Who touched my clothes?’”

Jesus ignores them. He had felt power flow out of him; he couldn’t explain it to them now (and besides, they probably wouldn’t get it anyway). He looks all around him. It is like being inside an aquarium surrounded by quizzical expressions pressing against the glass: “Why have we stopped? What are you doing? What are you up to? What’s going on?”

Then she comes forward. Her head is down; she won’t look at him. She is trembling; she falls at his feet. She knows she has broken the rules, knows she has been wrong, bad, knows she is unclean. Unclean. And yet she came near the men. Unclean. And yet she touched his garment. Wrong. Bad. Unclean.

But brave. It would have been so easy to just disappear in the crowd, but this unnamed, unsung woman, she’s got guts. Courage. And so, falling before him, trembling, she tells him the truth, the whole truth. About how she had a flow of blood for twelve years, and no one could heal her. About how she tried everything, spent all her money, and it was only worse. About no hope. About being sick all the time. About being weak and anemic. About the devastating experience of being ritually unclean for twelve years because of the flow. About not being able to worship. About being ostracized, an outcast.

And then, about hearing about Jesus, the great healer, and about breaking all the rules. Going into the crowd where she wasn’t supposed to be. About sneaking up on Jesus and touching his garment, knowing that doing that was a grave violation. And, then, about being healed, knowing it, being able to feel it inside. She knelt before him and confessed that she had broken all the rules of her culture, her faith, and that after twelve years, she had been healed.

Great! That’s wonderful! Good outcome. Glad for you, really, but we’re in a hurry here — a little girl is dying. Let’s go!

Not yet. Jesus knows that the woman has been healed of her disease, her physical condition, but that something is lacking. She has been ostracized for twelve years. Twelve years. What does it do to a person to be considered unclean for twelve years? Jesus brings her back into the fold, restores her sense of self, respects her dignity. “Daughter,” he says. “Daughter.” Not “Woman,” or “Ma’am,” or “Lady,” but “Daughter,” a member of the family. “Daughter,” he says, “your faith has made you well.” The Greek word is sõzõ, and it means “made well” or “saved.” She has been healed of her physical disease. She needs more. “Your faith has saved you. Now go with more than a physical cure. Go in peace. Go with shalom. Go with wholeness, health, not just of body, but of spirit. And be healed.”

Okay! Okay! Interruption over! Let’s go! Let’s go! A little girl is dying! Come on!

But it’s too late. People come from Jairus’ house and tell him that his little girl is dead. Jesus says, “Do not fear, only believe. She’s only sleeping. Let’s go.” And the people outside the house laugh at him. He puts the nay-sayers out, and taking the parents and Peter, James, and John, goes inside, takes the girl’s hand, and says, “Talitha, cum,” (“Little girl, get up”). And she does. She does. “Give her something to eat,” he says, and then he goes on his way.

These are wonderful stories of Jesus’ compassion and healing. With the woman with the flow of blood, I love the way he attends not only to her physical healing, but also to her emotional and spiritual well-being. And I love the small details of compassion as he takes the girl’s hand, and as he tells the girl’s parents to give her something to eat. And, although I don’t quite know what to make of it, I’m intrigued by the connection between the older woman and the younger girl. The woman had been sick for twelve years. The girl was twelve years old. The woman got sick the year the girl was born. She had essentially lost her life as the girl received hers. And now Jesus was giving them both new life.

There’ a lot of richness in these stories, but what I’d like to focus on for just a minute is interruption. The commentators make a big deal out of how the story of the healing of the woman with the flow of blood is an interruption of the story of the healing of Jairus’ daughter. The placement of the episode with the woman serves to heighten the tension in the Jairus story: Jesus is hurrying to Jairus’ house when he stops in his tracks to listen to her and bless this woman. It is an interruption, and whether the timing happened that way or is Mark’s device, it serves as a powerful literary tool. Open any commentary and you’ll read all about it.

But what none of the commentaries I’ve seen discuss is this: both stories are interruptions. The healing of the woman is an interruption of the story of the healing of the girl, but the healing of the girl is also an interruption in Jesus’ day. I mean, I really doubt Jairus had an appointment to come and fall at Jesus’ feet and beg him to save his little girl. We don’t know what Jesus had planned for that day, but we know that Jairus’ plea was an interruption, and the woman with the flow of blood was an interruption within an interruption.

You know, I like to plan my day, my weeks. I like to plan my life. It is comfortable to know what’s ahead, to know that I’m making the plans, calling the shots, that I’m in control. There are times when interruptions drive me crazy. They mess up my plans. “I’m too busy for that,” I think.

Maybe you like to plan your days, your weeks. Maybe you like to plan your life. Maybe there are times when interruptions drive you crazy. Maybe they mess up your plans. Maybe you sometimes think, “I’m too busy for that.”

Maybe both of us should reflect a little more on how our planning might do what planning so often does — get in the way of our ministry. Sure, you have to plan and everything is not an emergency, and you can’t wander aimlessly through life living from moment to moment.

But if you’re like me, maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to reflect on these encounters and on how God sometimes sends us such powerful, healing opportunities without an appointment. Jesus responds to an interruption, and then to an interruption within an interruption, and there is healing, and there is new life.

My prayer for me and for you is that we may be flexible enough, and trusting enough, to allow God to mess up our plans and to send us days full of such blessed interruptions.