Stand

Stand

Some time later came one of the Jewish feast-days and Jesus went up to Jerusalem. There is in Jerusalem near the sheep-gate a pool surrounded by five arches, which has the Hebrew name of Bethzatha (the Pool of Bethesda). Under these arches a great many sick people were in the habit of lying; some of them were blind, some lame, and some had withered limbs. (They used to wait there for the “moving of the water,” for at certain times an angel used to come down into the pool and disturb the water, and then the first person who stepped into the water after the disturbance would be healed of whatever he was suffering from.) One particular man had been there ill for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there on his back — knowing that he had been like that for a long time, he said to him, “Do you want to get well again?” “Sir,” replied the sick man, “I just haven’t got anybody to put me into the pool when the water is all stirred up. While I’m trying to get there somebody else gets down into it first.”

“Get up,” said Jesus, “pick up your bed and walk!” At once the man recovered, picked up his bed and walked. (John 5:1-9)

This story didn't make a lot of sense to me at first. It's about a man who barely has enough faith to stand, but Jesus treats him like he’s an Abraham who put his son on a sacrificial altar for God. Maybe martyrs and apostles deserve that kind of honor, but not some pauper who doesn't even know Jesus when he sees him. Or, at least that’s what I thought. I thought the story was too good to be true. Then I realized that the story isn't just about some invalid in Jerusalem. It’s actually a story about me, and maybe you, too. Because that man isn't some nameless disabled person. He has a name – it’s mine. He has a face – maybe it’s yours. And he has a problem – just like us.

Jesus encounters the man near a large pool north of the temple in Jerusalem. It's 360 feet long, 130 feet wide, and 75 feet deep. A colonnade with five porches overlooked this body of water. It was a monument to wealth and prosperity, but its occupants were the sick and the diseased. It's called Bethesda. But it could be called “Central Park,” or “Metropolitan Hospital,” or “Joe's Bar & Grill,” for that matter. It could be the homeless huddled beneath a freeway overpass. It could be any collection of hurting people. An underwater spring caused the pool to bubble occasionally, but the hurt and hopeless believed that the bubbles were caused by the dipping of angels' wings. They also believed that the first person to touch the water after the angel did would be healed. Did healing actually occur? I don't know. But I know that crowds of invalids came to give it a try because what’d they have to lose?

Picture a battleground strewn with wounded bodies, and you see Bethesda. Imagine a nursing home overcrowded and under-staffed, and you see the pool. Picture the orphans in Bangladesh, or the abandoned in New Delhi and you’ll see what people saw when they passed Bethesda. And as they passed, what’d they hear? Probably an endless wave of groans. What did they witness? A football-sized field of faceless need. And what’d they do? Most walked past, ignoring the suffering. But not Jesus.

Jesus is in Jerusalem for a feast. He’s alone this time. He's not there to teach the disciples, or to draw a crowd. The people need him – so he’s there. Picture that. Jesus walking among the suffering. And what’s he thinking? When an infected hand touches his ankle, what does he do? When a blind child stumbles into Jesus' path, does he reach down to catch him or her? When a wrinkled hand extends for alms, how does Jesus respond? And whether the watering hole is Bethesda or Joe’s Bar & Grill, how does God feel when people hurt? Well, just watch him walk.

It’s worth re-telling this story just to know that he even came. He didn't have to. Surely there were more sanitary crowds in Jerusalem. Certainly there were more enjoyable activities that Jesus could have done while he was in town. After all, this is the Passover feast. It's an exciting time to be in Jerusalem. People have come hundreds of miles to meet God at the temple. Little did they know that God was wandering through a hospital ward. Little did they know that God was walking slowly, stepping carefully between the lame and the blind and the infirmed. Little did they know that the strong young carpenter who surveyed this ragged landscape of pain was God in the flesh. "When they suffered, he suffered also," Isaiah wrote. (Isa. 63:9) And on this day, Jesus must have suffered a lot.

On this particular day Jesus must have sighed heavily as he walked along the poolside of Bethesda. And he sighs when he comes to me and you because there we are, filling the white space between the letters of verse 5: "A man was lying there who had been sick for thirty-eight years." Now, maybe you don't like being described that way. Maybe you'd rather see yourself with the courage of a David, or the devotion of a Mary. We all would. But before you and I can be like them, we’ve got to come to grips with the fact that we’re like the paralytic – invalids out of options. Can't walk. Can't work. Can't care for ourselves. Can't even roll down the bank to the pool to cash in on the angel water. We’re powerless. We’re flat on our backs, and we’ve been this way for longer than we can remember.

Granted, maybe you walk bolt upright, have 20/20 vision and can't imagine what you and this forty-something invalid have in common. How could he be you? What do we possibly have in common with that guy? Simple. Our predicament. The predicament? It’s described in Hebrews 12:14: "Anyone whose life is not holy will never see the Lord." That's our predicament – only the holy will see God. Holiness is a prerequisite to heaven. Perfection is a requirement for eternity. I wish it weren't so, and most of the time we act like it isn't. We act like those who are "decent" will see God. We suggest that those who try hard enough will see God. We act as if we're good if we never do anything too bad, and that goodness is enough to qualify us for heaven. Sounds right to us, but it doesn't sound right to God.

God sets the standard. And the standard’s pretty high. "You must be perfect, just as your Father in heaven is perfect." (Matt. 5:48) You see, in God's plan, God is the standard for perfection. We don't get to compare ourselves to others; they’re just as messed up as we are. The goal is to be like Him; anything less is inadequate. That's why we’re like the invalid. We’re paralyzed. We’re trapped. We’re stuck and we have no solution for our predicament. That's you and me lying on the ground. That's us – wounded and weary. When it comes to healing our spiritual condition, we don't have a chance. We might as well be told to pole-vault the Grand Canyon. We don't have what it takes to heal ourselves. Our only hope is that God will do for us what he did for the man at Bethesda – that he will step out of the temple and step into our hospital ward of hurt and helplessness. Which is exactly what he’s done.

Read Paul's description of what God has done for me and you: "When you were spiritually dead because of your sins and because you were not free from the power of your sinful self, God made you alive with Christ, and he forgave all our sins. He canceled the debt, which listed all the rules we failed to follow. He took away that record with its rules and nailed it to the cross. God stripped the spiritual rulers and powers of their authority. With the cross, he won the victory and showed the world that they were powerless." (Col. 2:13-15)

And as you look at what God’s done, who’s doing the work here? You or God? Who’s active? You or God? Who’s doing the saving? You or God? Who’s the one with strength? And who is the one paralyzed? Just look at our condition: "When you were spiritually dead … and … you were not free." The invalid was better off than we are. At least he was alive. Paul says that if you and I are outside of Christ then we’re dead. Spiritually dead. Corpses. Lifeless. Dead. And what can a dead person do? Not much.

But look at what God can do with the spiritually dead. "God made you alive." "God forgave." "He canceled the debt." "He took away that record." "God stripped the spiritual rulers." "He won the victory." "[He] showed the world." Again, the question is: Who’s active in this imagery? You and I – or God? Who’s trapped and who comes to the rescue? God’s thrown life jackets to every generation.

Look at Jonah in the belly of the fish. For three days God’s left him there. For three days Jonah pondered his choices. And for three days he’d come to the same conclusion: he didn’t have one. From where he sits there’s only two exits, and neither are very appealing. But then again, neither is Jonah. He blew it as a preacher. He was a flop as a fugitive. At best he's a coward, and at worst a traitor. So Jonah does the only thing he can: he prays. He says nothing about how good he is, but a lot about how good God is. He doesn't even ask for help, but that’s exactly what he gets. Because before he can say “Amen,” the fish belches and Jonah lands face first on the beach with a renewed conviction to preach to the lost.

Or, look at Daniel in the lions' den; his prospects aren't much better than Jonah's. Jonah had been swallowed, and Daniel is about to be dinner. Flat on his back with the lions' faces so close he can smell their breath. The biggest one puts a paw on Daniel's chest and leans down to take the first bite and . . . nothing. The lion's lips are snarling, but his mouth isn't opening. That's when Daniel hears the snickering in the corner of the lion’s den. He doesn't know who the fellow is, but he sure is bright and he sure is having fun. In his hands is a roll of bailing wire, and on his face is one of those gotcha-while-you-weren't-watching expressions.

How about Joseph in the pit, which was nothing but a chalky hole in a hot desert? The lid has been pulled over the top and the wool has been pulled over his eyes. Those are his brothers up there, laughing and eating as if they’d done nothing more than tell their little brother to get lost. Those are his brothers, the ones who have every intention of leaving him to spend his days with the spiders and the snakes, and then die in the pit. Like Jonah and Daniel, Joseph is trapped. He’s out of options. There’s no exit. There’s no hope. But because Jacob's boys were as greedy as they were mean, Joseph’s sold to some southbound gypsies and he changes history. Though the road to the palace takes a detour through a prison, it ends up at the throne. And Joseph eventually stands before his brothers – this time with their asking him for his help. And he’s wise enough to give them what they ask, and not what they deserve.

Or, look at Barabbas on death row. The final appeal has been heard. The execution has been scheduled. Barabbas passes the time playing solitaire in his cell. He's resigned to the fact that the end’s near. He doesn't appeal, implore or demand. The decision’s been made, and Barabbas is going to die. Like Jonah, Daniel and Joseph, it's all over but the crying. And like Jonah, Daniel and Joseph, the time to cry never comes. The steps of the warden echo in the hallway and Barabbas thinks he's bringing handcuffs and a final cigarette. Wrong. The warden is bringing his street clothes, instead. And Barabbas leaves the prison a free man because someone he'd probably never met took his place.

And those are just a few of the stories in the Bible. One near-death experience after another. Just when the neck is on the chopping block, just when the noose is around the neck, Calvary comes. Angels pound on Lot's door (Genesis 19); the whirlwind speaks to Job's hurt (Job 38-42); the Jordan purges Naaman's plague (2 Kings 50); the Red Sea parts and the people are saved (Exodus 14); an angel appears in Peter's cell (Acts 12). God's efforts are strongest when our efforts are useless.

So, go back to Bethesda with me for a moment. Before Jesus heals the man, he asks him a question: "Do you want to be well?" It seems like a silly question – of course he’d want to be healed. But maybe the man had grown accustomed to his disability, preferring the pain he knew to the terror of what he hadn’t known for almost 40 years. But that’s faith – it’s confidence in the things we hope for, and the conviction that what we don’t see really exists. (Heb. 11:1). "Sir, there is no one to help me get into the pool when the water starts moving. While I am coming to the water, someone else always gets in before me." (v. 7) So, is this guy complaining? Is he feeling sorry for himself ? Or, is he just stating the facts? Who knows. But before we think about it too much, look what happens next: "'Stand up. Pick up your mat and walk.' And immediately the man was well; he picked up his mat and began to walk."

I wish we would do that; I wish we would take Jesus at his word. I wish that we would learn that when he says something, it happens. What is this paralysis that so confines us? What’s this stubborn unwillingness to be healed? When Jesus tells us to stand, let's stand. When he says we're forgiven, let's unload the guilt. When he says we're valuable, let's believe him. When he says we're eternal, let's bury our fear. When he says we're provided for, let's stop worrying. When he says, "Stand up," let's do it.

It reminds me of the story of the Private who ran after the runaway horse of Napoleon. When he brought the animal back to the emperor, Napoleon thanked him by saying, "Thank you, Captain." With one word the Private had been promoted. When the emperor said it, the Private believed it. He went to the quartermaster, selected a new uniform, and put it on. He went to the officers' quarters and selected a bunk. He went to the officers' mess and had a meal. Because the emperor said it, he believed it. The Private had been changed with a word. He was promoted. Would that we would do the same.

Is Bethesda your story? Maybe so. All the elements are the same. A gentle stranger has stepped into your hurting world and offered you a hand. Take it. Stand up and be healed.

Grace,

Randy