You have laid hold of a sure word, and you do well to speak it back to the Lord who gave it. "With his stripes we are healed." That is no thin hope, no maybe-mercy, it is the very purchase of Christ’s own suffering, bought with the blood of the Son of God. When the fever burns and the rash spreads its fire across the skin, the Accuser would whisper that the promise is too high, too spiritual, too far away. But the promise is nearer than the fever itself, for it is fastened to the flesh and blood of Jesus, who took our infirmities and bore our sicknesses. He knows the heat of a body in distress; he wore our frame, and his stripes are the receipt for a full discharge.
Picture the Master standing over you now, as he stood over that dear woman in Simon Peter’s house. They told him of her fever, and he came. He did not stand aloof in the doorway, as if contagion could touch him; he drew near, he stood over her, he rebuked the fever, he took her by the hand and lifted her up. That same tender authority has not waned. The fever is a thing that must obey its Maker. It is a dark servant sent for a season, but it is not the master of the house. Christ is Master, and his presence changes every room into a place of healing.
You may feel as if you lie on a mattress in the street like those who were brought to him at evening, helpless and waiting for the sun to go down. Yet it is in just such lowly places that the Beloved Physician walks. He has not changed his practice. He still comes where faith makes a gap in the roof. He still speaks the word: “Be of good cheer; your sins are forgiven you,” and in that same breath he commands the inward malady to depart. The pardon and the healing are never far apart in his kingdom. There is a tree of life whose leaves are for the healing of the nations; it grows on either side of the river that flows from the throne. Your portion is not a withered leaf but a living promise, green and full of sap, meant for you to take and find strength.
Let the medicine be swallowed down with praise. Even while the fever aches, you may say, “Thank you, God,” and that thanksgiving is a sweet-smelling incense before him. He does not reckon your words by their loudness but by the faith that whispers them. The stripes are real; the healing is real; the Savior who bore both is real. He will lift you up in due time, and you will rise to serve, just as that dear woman rose from her bed to minister to her Lord. Until then, rest in the shadow of the cross, for no sunstroke of affliction can reach you there.
Lord Jesus, Beloved Physician, we bring this dear one before you now. You know where the fever burns and where the skin pricks with its trouble. You know the weariness and the long watches. Stand over this bed, we pray, and speak the word of rebuke to the sickness. Lay your hand with its ancient gentleness upon your suffering child, and lift up this frame into wholeness and strength. Let the healing flow from your stripes as freely as blood and water flowed from your side. Grant quiet rest, calm trust, and a swift recovery, that lips now parched may praise you in the congregation. Amen.