A certain man was there who had been sick for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there, knowing that he had already been there a long time,
he asked him, “Do you want to get well?” The sick man answered him, “Sir, I
don’t have anyone who can put me in the water when it is stirred up. When
I’m trying to get to it, someone else has gotten in ahead of me.” Jesus said to
him, “Get up! Pick up your mat and walk.” Immediately the man was well,
and he picked up his mat and walked. Now that day was the Sabbath. (John 5: 5-9 CEB)
In Jerusalem, near the Sheep Gate in the city wall, was a pool called Bethsaida—House of Mercy, a hospital. It had five covered porches crowded with people who were sick, blind, lame or paralyzed. Sitting among them was this invalid, sick 38 years, longer than most men lived in those days, an old friendless man.
It was festival time; maybe the Feast of Purim, 14th of Adar (March), celebrating the deliverance of the Jews from the plots of Haman, one of the most popular feasts, characterized by festive rejoicings, presents, and gifts to the poor.
Jesus came to this hospital, not to the party places in Jerusalem. So often he went where people were, where hurting people happened to be. And among all the people there he saw one man. Really saw him. And already knew what was hurting him. Not just the paralysis, not just the aged, but the friendless, the uncared for. And he asked, “Do you want to get well?” not “what’s wrong,” or “how can I help?” or “why are you here?” He saw and knew and acted. God knew and acted. All he wanted was permission.
What the man answered was his excuses, he blamed others. How often do we do the same?
But Jesus ignored that answer. He commanded, “Get up! Pick up your mat and walk.” Immediately the man did it. I’ll bet he was shocked. I’ll bet the people lying there were shocked.
And in the passages that followed this excerpt, Jesus is gone, no one knew who he was. The establishment questioned how the man could be out carrying his bed. It was the Sabbath; no work was to be done. But he walked away, healed, and answered “the man told me to.”
If today someone asked you, as Jesus did, “Do you want to be made well?” would you be offended? Would you give him/her your excuses?
Sundays, pairs of your fellow parishioners stand ready to ask, “How may we pray with you?” With the scales on our eyes and deaf human ears we often have no idea of the pain in you or in another. We’re human, not divine, but seeking healing for our own. Will you come? As Father Tom sometimes says, “All should, some will, none must.” Will you?
Perry White
In Jerusalem, near the Sheep Gate in the city wall, was a pool called Bethsaida—House of Mercy, a hospital. It had five covered porches crowded with people who were sick, blind, lame or paralyzed. Sitting among them was this invalid, sick 38 years, longer than most men lived in those days, an old friendless man.
It was festival time; maybe the Feast of Purim, 14th of Adar (March), celebrating the deliverance of the Jews from the plots of Haman, one of the most popular feasts, characterized by festive rejoicings, presents, and gifts to the poor.
Jesus came to this hospital, not to the party places in Jerusalem. So often he went where people were, where hurting people happened to be. And among all the people there he saw one man. Really saw him. And already knew what was hurting him. Not just the paralysis, not just the aged, but the friendless, the uncared for. And he asked, “Do you want to get well?” not “what’s wrong,” or “how can I help?” or “why are you here?” He saw and knew and acted. God knew and acted. All he wanted was permission.
What the man answered was his excuses, he blamed others. How often do we do the same?
But Jesus ignored that answer. He commanded, “Get up! Pick up your mat and walk.” Immediately the man did it. I’ll bet he was shocked. I’ll bet the people lying there were shocked.
And in the passages that followed this excerpt, Jesus is gone, no one knew who he was. The establishment questioned how the man could be out carrying his bed. It was the Sabbath; no work was to be done. But he walked away, healed, and answered “the man told me to.”
If today someone asked you, as Jesus did, “Do you want to be made well?” would you be offended? Would you give him/her your excuses?
Sundays, pairs of your fellow parishioners stand ready to ask, “How may we pray with you?” With the scales on our eyes and deaf human ears we often have no idea of the pain in you or in another. We’re human, not divine, but seeking healing for our own. Will you come? As Father Tom sometimes says, “All should, some will, none must.” Will you?
Perry White
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