“Is anyone among you sick? Let him call for the elders of the church, and let them pray over
him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer of faith will save the sick,
and the Lord will raise him up. And if he has committed sins, he will be forgiven.”
—James 5:14-15
f you’ve ever had a loved one trapped in an addiction, you know that unless there’s a desire to be released from the vise grip squeezing life from one’s bones, little will change. I have a friend whose history includes a long series of awful choices: poor nutrition, no exercise, erratic sleep, and repeated engagement in stressful activities. All this has slowly deteriorated her body and soul. She’s encountered a number of health scares and stern words from doctors. For a few weeks she’ll say she’s making radical adjustments. Inevitably, though, she returns to her usual ways. The fact is, she does not truly want anything different. She wants her unhealthy life more than she wants to be well. I cannot cast stones. At times I see this pattern in my own story.
The plain truth is that if we are to be well (whether health for our body or restoration in our family or renewed vigor in our life with God), then we have to want to be well. We have to nurture our cravings for God and goodness; these deep desires aren’t ancillary—they are essential. Augustine of Hippo said, “The entire life of a good Christian is in fact an exercise of holy desire.” Jesus had much to say about the importance of paying keen attention to the affections of our heart, stoking the flames of good hunger while squelching every false fire.
The fifth chapter of John’s Gospel recounts for us the story of Jesus at the pool of Bethesda. There, the infirm hoped to receive one of the healings that reportedly transpired whenever an angel miraculously churned the waters. The name of the pool gives a hint of the encounter that was about to take place. In Aramaic, Bethesda means “house of grace” and in Hebrew, “house of mercy.” Whenever Jesus arrives, mercy and grace are sure to arrive as well.
WE OFTEN ABANDON OUR DESIRE FOR WHOLENESS BECAUSE WE ARE DEEPLY AFRAID.
A man, ill for 38 years, had long been lying beside the pool, crippled and waiting for the slim possibility that his life might change. In the first century, to be crippled meant you were unable to earn a living for your family and were often ostracized from your community. To endure chronic ailments or disabilities was not only a physical hardship, but also an impenetrable barrier to a normal life.
When Jesus arrived, He found the man and asked him the most basic question: Do you want to be well? Or as older translations put it, “Will you be made whole?” The crippled man’s response surprises me. I would expect a quick and unequivocal Yes! More than anything! Now! However, the beleaguered man’s reply gives evidence of the many years of disappointment, the decades of waiting until his optimism had been bled dry. “Sir,” he replied, “I have no man to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up, but while I am coming, another steps down before me” (v. 7). We hear little hope in the man’s sad reply. No anticipation that Jesus might help him. Decades of pain and dashed possibilities brought him to the place where all he could see was a sealed fate, a grim future.
There are many reasons why we find it difficult, in our broken places, to stay connected with our desire for something more. To hope for (to live with the deep desire for) healing can itself be an excruciating act. It is painful to hold to our desire for friendship when the lack of it only accentuates our aching loneliness. It is painful to stay attuned to our hope to be free of anger or fear or self-righteousness when it means we must dismantle our sinful behaviors or reckon with the lies we’ve employed to manage our life.
We often abandon our desire for wholeness because we are deeply afraid. While the reality of our life may be far less than what we had expected, over time we make a certain kind of détente with our brokenness. It becomes what we know. It’s a fearful thing to surrender the security of the present (no matter how disappointing or painful it may be) for the uncertainty of the future.
