1.
And the guy’s lying hopelessly in a doorway, an archway, by a public pool. A place where the hopeless still hope. A place where the waters sometimes surprise. But this guy’s been frail, paralyzed, demoralized for a very long time. If you’ve lived with chronic pain, back pain, joint pain, depression, any kind of chronic pain, for any length of time, you know this guy. Thirty-eight years is a very long time. And Jesus sees him there and asks him: “Do you want to be well?”
And he says: “I’ve got nobody.” After thirty-eight years, he’s got no reason to fudge it, and his life boils down to three words. “I’ve got nobody,” he says. “Nobody to get me into that pool when the water’s stirred up. Nobody to talk to or lean on. And if I do summon some energy, if I even lean in that direction, somebody always steps in there ahead of me.” He’s been pushed around, intimidated by aggressive crowds. Thirty-eight years. And he’s got nobody.
So here’s what happens with me; here’s what happens after a week living with this story of illness, paralysis, and, in the end, tenderness. I realize: I’m used to reading Jesus – or seeing Jesus – or experiencing Jesus – as a kind of magician, a kind of technician. Wow! He’s healed another one. Wow! He’s raised another from the depths of despair. Wow! He’s employed all the magic at his fingertips to dazzle the masses all over again. Wow! Ever since I was a kid, I think that’s the way – subtle, unstated maybe – but that’s the way I thought of Jesus in these texts. Maybe it’s true for you too. We’ve read Jesus into these stories as a magician, a technician. A wow worker!
But these days, it strikes me that I’ve had that mostly wrong. It strikes me that this is less of a WOW story and more of a LOVE story. It strikes me that it’s not that Jesus employs some technique to heal this guy, but that he opens his heart to the paralytic’s story, to his pain, to the possibility of healing. Magic doesn’t change lives. Compassion does.
Think about it. This poor guy’s been sick; he’s been lying in the shadows of Beth-zatha; he’s been untouchable and invisible for thirty-eight years. No one notices him much; and if they do, they just pity him, thank God that they’re not so cursed, and do their best to forget about him. And I have to imagine that every one of us knows at least a little something about this. Somewhere, sometime, you’ve felt kind of invisible in the world. Like your gifts don’t amount to a hill of beans. Like your life doesn’t much matter to anybody. Or somewhere, sometime, you’ve felt kind of untouchable. Like your wounds make you unappealing to friends and neighbors. Like your pain marks you as one of the scarred and blemished in the streets. Am I right about that? Every one of us knows something of this paralytic’s sadness, something of his weariness, his aching. Could be for three years. For eight years. For thirty-eight years.
And Jesus – well, first of all, Jesus sees him. This guy’s not invisible to Jesus. He’s not just lost in the shadows of the portico. He doesn’t blend into the stained concrete, the bustling crowd roaming the busy city. Jesus sees him lying in the doorway. And Jesus loves him. Now, I have to tell you. This may be the number one reason I’m a Christian. The reason I follow. If Jesus is just a technician, if he’s just a magician, if it’s just a bunch of hocus pocus, I’m not sure he really matters much to me or to the world. But if Jesus is a lover, if Jesus is a practitioner of mindfulness and tenderness, if he’s a lover of God who sees God in the demoralized and paralyzed – well, then, now we’re on to something. Now I’m tagging along.
2.
Midweek, my friend Nick Piediscalzi shared with me a poem by the Persian mystic Hafiz. And somehow this poem is like another window out to the expansive soul of Jesus. A lover of God sees God in the demoralized and paralyzed. Listen to this.
There is a beautiful creature livingI can imagine Jesus listening in the portico, watching the sadness move like a thundercloud across the guy’s face. I can imagine him feeling something for this paralytic. Something like kinship. Something like compassion. And I can imagine Jesus’ heart filling and rising, filling and rising, filling and rising with love. “There is a beautiful creature,” he says, not a magician, not a technician, but a friend. “There is a beautiful creature living in a hole you have dug…” And isn’t it this, isn’t it this courage in seeing and honoring another, isn’t this the secret that makes healing possible? Isn’t this where human vitality, human exuberance begins? “I have fallen in love,” maybe Jesus says even more, maybe he touches the poor guy’s cheek, “I have fallen in love with someone who is hiding inside of you.”
in a hole you have
dug,
so at night I set fruit and grains and little pots of wine and milk
beside your soft earthen
mounds,
and I often sing to you,
but still, my dear, you do not come out.
I have fallen in love with someone
who is hiding inside
of you.
We should talk about this problem,
otherwise I will never
leave you
alone!
3.
So maybe the first thing to appreciate in this text this morning is Jesus’ patience, tenderness, his insight. There are beautiful creatures living in the holes we dig. There are stunning souls hiding in these soft earthen mounds. And Jesus waits around. Jesus watches for us. Jesus falls in love. God knows about the beauty curled up like a tired child in the hole you’ve been digging. God believes in the stunning soul hiding in your fatigue, in your despair. And God waits around. God watches for you. God falls in love.
And then, and then the God who’s in love with you invites you on a journey. And it’s a journey through the Sheep Gate of Jerusalem. And it’s a journey into the pools of Beth-zatha. And it’s a journey through the porticos and doorways and archways of the city. It turns out, of course, that there are many others, many other beautiful creatures living in holes they’ve dug or holes dug for them. And it turns out there are many stunning souls hiding in their own fatigue, their own despair. And Jesus calls on you, on me, on us – to wait, to watch, to fall in love. Discipleship is a journey through the Sheep Gate, a journey to the pools of Beth-zatha, a journey with Jesus through the porticos. Where beautiful creatures have been invisible for thirty-eight years. Where stunning souls have had nobody to touch, nobody to love, nobody for thirty-eight years.
Last weekend, our daughter Fiona invited us to a dance recital at the studio where she studies during the week. And there were a dozen or so wonderful, inspired dances that night. Every one of them was gorgeous. But one moved me in a special way.
Toward the end of the evening, a class of maybe 15 young adults took to the floor. Each one of them lives with some kind of disability; most of them, it seemed, were adults living with some degree of Down’s Syndrome. I’d seen them, many times, hanging around the studio. But I’d never seen them dance. And, my God, could they dance!
But what moved me most that night was watching their teacher, their choreographer. She stood just to the side, not standing really, but rocking, dancing with them, enjoying every gyration, every dip, every bounce. The dance went on for five, six, seven minutes – fifteen beautiful creatures coming out, coming out of hiding, whirling and twirling and loving life in the bright lights. When it was over, the crowd roared. And the dancers shined. And the choreographer shined with them.
4.
So maybe. maybe she’s the icon we need today, this choreographer; maybe she’s the icon of discipleship, the icon of faith and love and Christian courage. Maybe you and I are God’s partners – as she is – in discovering all those beautiful creatures out there, all the beautiful souls hidden in so many holes, all the wonderful children intimidated by aggressive crowds that pay no attention.
What if being Christian means looking for beauty, for grace, for Christ – in the streets where the gangs are gathering; in the classrooms where the kids are drifting; in the jails where the addicts are waiting; in the nursing homes where the old are weeping? What if being Christian means believing in one another? Will we wait – like Jesus – in the porticos? Will we listen – with Jesus – when the paralytic tells us his story? Will we dance when he rises to dance?
Because friends, this is what God does. She follows our broken, tired souls through the Sheep Gate, into the porticos, onto the dance floor. And she watches for the beauty, for the wonder, for the spirit living in the holes we’ve dug, the holes the world digs for us. She watches for that beauty. She believes in it. And she teases it from the soft earthen mounds of our flesh. God falls in love with the dancer hidden inside you, the dancer hidden inside me. “There are a thousand different ways to dance,” she says, she sings, she shines. “A thousand different ways to dance. So just dance. Just stand up, take up your mat, and dance.”
