Stepping over the sick

 

Text John 5.1-9

There was once a little country church, very traditional, with a leaky roof and a loyal congregation of about 12. One Sunday, just as the service began, a huge clap of thunder shook the building and in through the back doors burst a man dressed head to toe in red, with horns, a cape, and a trident. It was the Devil himself.

People screamed and scattered—diving behind pews, leaping through windows, knocking over flower arrangements. Within seconds, the church was empty… except for one old fellow sitting calmly in the front row.

Satan stomped down the aisle and growled, “Do you not know who I am?”

The old man said, “Yup.”

“Aren’t you afraid of me?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?” roared the Devil.

The man leaned back in the pew and said, “Been married to your sister for 48 years.”

That’s the kind of story I like—surprising, funny, and, if we’re honest, just a little bit close to home. Because many of us have lived through a few hellish seasons ourselves. We’ve endured things that would’ve sent lesser folk running for the hills—or at least out the side door of the church. And that’s exactly the world into which today’s Gospel reading speaks.

Jesus arrives at the Pool of Bethesda, near the Sheep Gate in Jerusalem. It’s a well-known healing site—people believed that every now and then, the waters would stir, and the first person in would be healed. It was like divine hopscotch for the desperate. Around the pool lay a crowd of invalids—blind, lame, paralysed—each hoping they’d be quick enough, lucky enough, to get their turn.

And into this sea of suffering walks Jesus. He sees one man—just one—who’s been there, waiting, for 38 years. That’s not just a long time to be ill; that’s a long time to be overlooked. And Jesus asks him: “Do you want to be made well?”

The man doesn’t even say yes. He offers a well-practised complaint: “Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool. Others always get there first.” And Jesus, with no further ceremony, simply says, “Stand up, take your mat and walk.” And the man does.

But what about everyone else?

It’s a hard question, especially for those of us who have sat beside our own pools of disappointment for many years. Bad knees. Failing eyesight. Loneliness. Grief. Unanswered prayers. Why didn’t Jesus heal the others that day? Why that one man, and not the rest?

Now, as a progressive Christian, I’ll admit I don’t get too hung up on the historicity of the miracle. I’m not terribly worried about whether or not this event happened exactly as John describes it. What intrigues me more is the meaning of the story—what truth it holds for us today, especially for those of us who haven’t experienced a miracle, who’ve not leapt from our metaphorical stretchers.

First, notice this: the man is healed not because of his great faith or virtue. He doesn’t make a beautiful declaration of belief, confess his sins and ask Jesus into his life.  He doesn’t even say thank you! The healing is sheer grace. Unearned. Unexpected. And that, I think, is part of the point. God’s grace is not a reward for good behaviour. It is not limited to the fast, the strong, or the pious. It comes—even now—as a gift.

Second, John calls miracles “signs”—and signs always point beyond themselves. This one, I believe, points to something deeper than physical healing. It points to Jesus’ refusal to accept a system where healing is a competition—where the sick are left to fight each other for a single shot at wellness. Jesus doesn’t help the man get into the pool. He abolishes the need for the pool altogether.

Which brings us to Acts, and to Lydia—the first recorded convert in Europe. Lydia, a woman of means and influence, uses her new faith not to polish her spiritual credentials but to open her home. She creates space. She welcomes the apostles. She builds community. That’s the new miracle. Not water stirred by angels, but people stirred by compassion. A Church where healing is not a prize for the quickest, but a shared calling to care.

So what does this mean for those of us still waiting?

Well—perhaps healing won’t always look like a cure. Perhaps it looks like dignity. Like being seen. Like someone noticing your pain instead of stepping over it. Perhaps it looks like other church members taking the trouble to learn your name, or phoning you when you're lonely, or sitting beside you when the news is bad.  Perhaps healing means you’re not alone anymore.

And perhaps this story reminds us that even if our bodies are still aching, our spirits can be lifted. Because grace does not depend on our strength or speed or even our faithfulness. It just comes. Sometimes it comes through a friend. Sometimes through laughter. Sometimes through a moment of stillness when we realise we are loved.

So today, let’s not get stuck asking why Jesus didn’t heal everyone at the pool. Let’s ask: how can we be the sign now? How can we be the ones who stop stepping over each other and start lifting each other up?

Because the real miracle might just be this: that a tired, imperfect, leaky-roofed Church like ours could become the very body of Christ—carrying healing, not as magic, but as mercy. And the pool we’ve waited beside for so long? Maybe, just maybe, it’s already stirred.  Amen.