AT THE POOL

My grandfather had a work ethic. He would say, God helps those who help themselves. But he liked to be wise and at the dinner table, passing food around, he would puzzle out loud, Help yourself? What does that even mean, help yourself?  If you needed help in the first place, how could you be the one to give it to yourself? My grandpa never saw Jerry McGuire kicking the bathroom wall, pulling his hair, desperately pleading, Help Me. Help Me help you. I wonder what he would have thought of that.

One of my favorite Bible passages is in John 5, where John records the story of Jesus with the man at the pool of Bethesda:

Some time later, Jesus went up to Jerusalem for one of the Jewish festivals. Now there is in Jerusalem near the Sheep Gate a pool, which in Aramaic is called Bethesda and which is surrounded by five covered colonnades. Here a great number of disabled people used to lie – the blind, the lame, the paralyzed. One who was there had been an invalid for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there and learned that he had been in this condition for a long time, he asked him, “Do you want to get well?” “Sir,” the invalid replied, “I have no one to help me into the pool when the water is stirred. While I am trying to get in, someone else goes down ahead of me.” Then Jesus said to him, “Get up! Pick up your mat and walk.” At once the man was cured; he picked up his mat and walked. (NIV)

Thirty-eight years – that’s a lot of years of hurting and waiting and trying. That’s longer than Tom Hanks was Castaway. That’s almost enough years for a mid-life crisis. You have to imagine that he would have, at some point in those thirty-eight years, spent a lot of time just teetering on the ledge of that stagnant pool, perched, listening for the sounds of rustling feathers, ready to roll – begging a stranger, When I say go, just give me a really hard push. How many times did his heart, pounding hot with adrenaline, pump false hope through his blood while his brain screamed at his legs to just move, dammit, move. But when Jesus came along, singled him out of the crowd and asked him if he wanted to be well, he never answered, Yes.

What does it matter anymore what I want? I can’t do it on my own. I have tried, but it’s impossible. And I want you to know that over and over and over again, I have had to lie here, helpless, and watch someone else receive what I need.

I know that in life you can sometimes lose the use of parts of yourself. You can take a hard, hard hit to the soul and survive, but part of you is left weakened to the point of withered. You can end up in a poverty of spirit, and be impoverished for so long that you forget what the currency is. You can grow so skilled at the art of survival that you are completely confused by words like live life to the fullest. You stop being desperate, and start to get sentimental about wholeness. It’s something for other people – people who have more strength, more will, more helpful friends. You can start to take a lot of pride in your ability to endure all things.

Sometimes I have to be really truthful with God when I’m asked and say, No, honestly, I think I’ve lost the will to be well. Maybe if you had asked me before – years ago, when I was really, really hungry for it – but I think I am comfortable here now. At least I have learned how to do this and, God, I just absolutely cannot survive any more disappointment.

And this is one of the things that make me more than a little in love with Jesus – he didn’t at all need that man to say, Yes. He wasn’t listening for a Lord, help me. He didn’t say, Man, I want to help you. I need you to help me. Help me help you. He did not say that. What he did say was, Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.