Homilies
Your Faith Has Made You Well
Holy Spirit take my words and speak to each of us according to our needs.
Today Matthew shows us three deeply human encounters with Jesus, which at first glance, may seem like totally separate stories; a dinner table conversation, a frightened ill woman reaching out in secret, and a grieving family facing death but when looked at together they reveal something amazing about who Jesus is and what it means to follow him.
In each moment, Jesus meets people exactly where and as they are: in failure, in suffering, and in hopelessness. And into each moment he brings healing, gives back dignity and restores life.
The first scene begins with a meal around a table. Jesus is eating with tax collectors and sinners. To many religious people of the time, this was scandalous. Tax collectors were seen as dishonest collaborators who had abandoned their Jewish roots and were now in league with the Roman occupiers. “Sinners” was a broad label used for those considered morally or religiously unclean in some way. Respectable rabbi’s, teachers of the faith did not mix with such people socially, let alone sit down with them to share a meal.
But Jesus does. And when challenged about it, he replies: “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick.” What a remarkable metaphor. His followers and the Pharisees would easily understand what he meant by this. In layman’s terms he is basically saying that healthy people do not go to a doctor, sick people do, to be made well. But Jesus also implies that he could describe himself as a doctor with his mission being to heal the world. A doctor goes where the wounds are. Where the pain is. Where the need is.
Another notable point is that Jesus also doesn’t say that religious people don’t need healing. He challenges those who think they are spiritually healthy, like the Pharisees do, and he calls out their lack of awareness about their own need for grace. This is what upset them most
In the ancient world, sharing a meal was not casual act. To eat with someone was to recognise them, to accept them, to treat them as worthy of fellowship. Think of how many of our own festivals and celebrations are marked with a special meal.
So when Jesus sits at table with people rejected by society, he is not merely tolerating them. He is restoring them to the community, giving them a place and their worth. This is important because shame isolates people. Once society decides someone is beyond respectability, it becomes easy to treat them as less than human.
We saw this happen at the start of World War two, with segregation and ghettos, pitting people against each other, marking them out as different.
We still do this today, though perhaps in different ways. We see it when people are reduced to labels: “The addict.” “The ex-prisoner.” “The immigrant.” “The traveller” “The difficult neighbour.” “The person who made a terrible mistake.”
Social media especially can create a culture where one error, one failure, or one unpopular opinion becomes enough to define a whole person forever. We see this in the phenomenon of Cancel Culture, where once popular well known stars, celebrities or influential, powerful people take a rapid fall from popularity to being forgotten or ignored after a misplaced comment or action,
But Jesus refuses to reduce people to their worst moments. He meets people, every day, afresh.
Imagine, for example, a person leaving prison after years inside, trying to rebuild their life, yet unable to find work because no one will trust them. Or someone recovering from addiction who still senses suspicion every time they walk into a room. Or perhaps a young person struggling with mental health who feels judged rather than understood.
Often society keeps people at arm’s length as if whatever has happened to them might taint us by association. But Jesus readily moves toward them.
And perhaps that is the good news for us. Because most of us know something about brokenness. We know about regrets, anxieties, selfishness, strained relationships, disappointments and hidden struggles. We know the parts of ourselves we would rather keep out of sight. Yet Jesus does not turn away from human weakness. He moves toward it.
That means the Church is not meant to be a showroom for perfect people. It is meant to be a place of grace, where people are learning to be healed. We are the sick, seeking help from the physician, knowing that we need healing and cannot do it on our own.
Sometimes we can still fall into the trap of dividing people into “good” and “bad,” “worthy” and “unworthy,” insiders and outsiders. But Jesus constantly crossed those boundaries. He saw people not as labels but as beloved children of God, each with a worth beyond measure.
So, let us consider: Who might we be avoiding, silently judging, or quietly excluding and how would we feel if that were us?
Can we allow ourselves to admit our own need of healing? Because humility is often the beginning of grace.
The second encounter is quieter. A woman who has suffered from haemorrhages for twelve years approaches Jesus secretly from behind. According to the laws and customs of the time, her condition would have made her ritually unclean and she would likely have lived on the edge of society in isolation, with shame and exhaustion for years. For twelve years she would have been avoided by others. Twelve years of being treated as a problem for others in society rather than as a person.
It is difficult for us to fully appreciate how lonely that existence would have been. She was considered unclean and if she touched anyone, or anything they owned, then they too were considered unclean and had to go through the purification rites. This meant that she wouldn’t have been able to get work, go out with people, eat and drink publicly…
She does not ask Jesus for help. She wrestles with her conscience, in touching him she would make him unclean too but her need is so great and her anguish so overwhelming that she simply reaches out and touches the fringe of his cloak, believing somehow that this small contact might heal her, without him knowing or having to do anything for her. Jesus feels it, he turns to find out who it was and what had just happened. He isn’t angry or condemning, he simply says: “Take heart, daughter; your faith has made you well.”
He calls her “daughter.” Not a problem. Not a burden. Not an outsider. Daughter. Jesus restores not only her body, but her dignity and belonging. And her faith is not presented as perfect theology. It is simply courageous trust. Small, hopeful trust.
There is another significant and beautiful detail I this story too. Jesus stops. In the middle of a crowd pressing around him, with urgent demands all around, he notices one person’s suffering, reaching out quietly in desperation. That tells us something profound about the heart of God. No suffering, no person, is invisible to Christ.
We live in a world where many people still suffer silently. There are those carrying grief they barely speak about. Those living with chronic illness or invisible disabilities. Those exhausted by caring responsibilities. Those struggling with depression while appearing perfectly fine outwardly. Those who feel forgotten because the world moves too quickly to notice quiet pain.
We hear about the elderly widow who goes days without meaningful conversation. Or the young person hiding anxiety behind humour for fear of appearing weak. Or the parent overwhelmed by caring for a child with additional needs while trying to appear as though everything is under control.
Today, there are still so many people quietly reaching out in hope. And this Gospel passage reminds us that no reaching out to Christ is ever unnoticed. Even the quietest prayer matters. Even the smallest hope matters. Even the faintest touch of faith matters.
And perhaps we are also called to become more attentive ourselves, to notice those whose suffering is hidden behind polite smiles and everyday routines. Or perhaps it gives us the courage to reach out ourselves in hope and to stop hiding our own pain. Sometimes healing begins simply because someone finally feels seen.
And then comes the final scene. Jesus arrives at the house of a girl who has died. Mourning has already begun. The crowd is convinced the story is over. In the parallel gospel accounts of this story we are told that the father of the girl is Jairus, a respected leader in the synagogue. A devout Jewish family, where faith is seen to be all wrapped up, but in this instance Jairus recognises that he does not have all the answers and he reaches out to Jesus, acknowledging his own need for healing.
Jesus says: “The girl is not dead but sleeping.” And they laugh at him. It is the laughter of people who believe hope is naïve. The laughter of certainty that death cannot be undone. The laughter that says, “Nothing can change now.” Yet Jesus goes into the room, takes the girl by the hand, and she rises. And reports of it spread throughout the district.
This miracle is not simply about one child restored to life. It points us toward the heart of the Gospel itself: that in Christ, death and despair never have the final word. But we should notice something else too. Jesus walks directly into grief. He does not avoid mourning houses. He does not stand at a distance offering easy words. He enters fully into human sorrow.
And that matters because grief can make people feel abandoned; abandoned by others, abandoned by hope, even abandoned by God. Jesus steps into the room which everyone else believes is beyond help.
There are many kinds of “death” which people can experience long before physical death arrives. Deadened hope. Dead relationships. Deadened compassion. Dead dreams. Communities worn down by division and fear.
We see it today when people say: “That marriage will never recover.” “That community is too divided.” “That young person will never change.” “My life will never improve.” “The Church is dying.” So often the world laughs at hopefulness. Cynicism is considered more realistic. Compassion is dismissed as weakness. Forgiveness is treated as foolishness.
We might recognise this today as someone who has lost all sense of purpose after redundancy or bereavement, convinced there is no future left for them. Or a family relationship broken for years where nobody believes reconciliation is possible. Or perhaps in communities fractured by anger and mistrust, assuming healing can never happen.
Yet Jesus continues to take people by the hand and raise them into new life. The resurrection begins long before the grave. Every act of kindness pushes back against despair. Every act of reconciliation pushes back against bitterness. Every moment of courage pushes back against fear. Every gesture of mercy becomes part of God’s work of resurrection in the world.
So today’s Gospel invites us into three ways of discipleship.
Firstly: to recognise our own need for grace and to extend that same grace to others.
Secondly: to reach out to Christ in trust, however fragile our faith may feel in the moment. Thirdly: to live as people of hope, even when others laugh in the face of hopefulness.
Because the same Jesus who sat among sinners, who stopped for the suffering woman, and who took the dead girl by the hand, still moves among us now.
Still healing. Still restoring. Still raising people to life.
And the good news is not simply that these things happened once long ago. It is that Christ still does them now; in hearts, in communities, and in lives willing to be touched and changed by his grace. It is not the healthy who are in need of a doctor….
Amen.