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A weak, sickly man, bent with years, winded his way up the jutted path, grimacing as he took each step with the aid of crutches. His family had begged him not to make the journey to Calvary, arguing that he was much too frail for any such jaunt. He had disregarded their counsel, however, silently knowing that they could never understand why he must make this trip.

Now he had reached the crest of the hill. Breathing heavily, he leaned against the nearest boulder. His nephew’s report, which had sparked his desire to make this journey, had been all too truthful.

The strange tale the boy had brought home had stricken the older man’s heart with remorse, and a pervasive longing to see whether the story was true. It was a strange story—not so much the crucifixion, but the victim. He was known as a simple teacher who traveled about doing good, and, as many claimed, doing miracles. While many people believed these stories were little more than a conglomeration of propaganda and fantasy, others were convinced of the Teacher’s divine power. In the latter category was the bent man, who knew firsthand of Jesus’ healing ability.

As he stood on the brow of the hill, riveted in place by the picture of the Man on the center cross, his mind began to revert back to the very first time he had seen the Man from Galilee…

He was lying on his back, listening to sounds of the shepherds goading their sheep through the Sheep Gate located near the porches where he and the other invalids lay. It was a day not unlike every other that he had spent here for the past 38 years. Each day began with the hope that Bethesda’s Pool, only a few feet away from his mat, would be miraculously moved by an angel’s hand, providing him healing if he could be the first person to next touch the water. And each day ended with disappointment that it had not occurred. Of course, there were times when the water moved; but in spite of his efforts, someone was always ahead of him. He often wondered if it was worth waiting; after all, he’d never seen the people reportedly cured. And even if the stories were true, he was more likely to be smothered in the crush of humanity trying to reach the water than to be healed.

Today was the Shabbat Siloam—the Sabbath day of rest—and the sick man was further in the depths of despair than usual. The seventh day always reminded him that not only was he paralyzed physically, but spiritually as well. Everyone knew that his illness was an expression of Jehovah’s displeasure—this was the Pharisee’s position on all sickness. It was true, the man realized with regret, that he had brought much of his disease upon himself by his lifestyle. He had known better than his choices indicated, and the consequences came drastically in the prime of life. While he wished he could believe that there was some hope of his recovery, he was convinced by the evidence of thirty-eight suffering filled years that his case was sealed.

Into his dismal thoughts came a gentle voice, the embodiment of hope itself.

“Wilt thou be made whole?”

Looking up, he saw a stranger bending over him, a Man he had never met, but who seemed capable of inspiring trust by His countenance alone. For a moment, hope flared up in his heart, before quickly being squelched by doubts. He had been here 38 years without being made whole; why should he now? Explaining his troubles, he said,

“Sir, I have no man, when the water is troubled, to put me into the pool: but while I am coming, another steppeth down before me.”

The Man smiled in understanding, and then replied simply, “Rise, take up thy bed, and walk.”

Without giving heed to discouragement, he latched hold of this command as an enabling—surely there was power behind the words of this gentle yet noble Man. Immediately he felt new life rushing into his withered limbs, strength pushed its way into forgotten paths of his weakened body, and with renewed vigor he stood, gaping at the sight of his restored body.

Suddenly realizing he had not spoken with gratitude to the Man who had healed him, the cured man turned to find Him gone. He had vanished without a trace.

As the former invalid rushed into the temple to offer thanks to God, the priests accosted him, demanding the reason that he was carrying his bed on the Sabbath. He had merely picked up his mat as the Man had instructed him, without ever thinking of the religious leaders’ many rules about carrying loads on the Sabbath. Considering he had been unable to do so for 38 years, this would be logical, but the priests were not to be dissuaded. His explanation that the Man who healed him had commanded it only brought further questions as to the Healer’s identity. This the man did not know.

Worshiping in the temple, the restored man once again heard the gentle voice behind him. Turning around in delight, he saw the Man, Jesus. In reply to the man’s expression of gratitude, He said,

“Behold, thou art made whole: sin no more, lest a worse thing come unto thee.”

With this advice, Jesus left the grateful worshiper, who immediately found the priests and described with delight the Man who had healed him. His joy knew no bounds as he hurried home to his family…

The aging man looked up at his Healer, now hanging upon a wooden cross. Jesus had been condemned through the efforts of the priests who were angered by just such acts as His healing the paralytic man.

Their rage was matched, however, by the old man’s regrets; for he had not heeded the warning given him by Jesus the Healer. In his euphoria and excitement at receiving his faculties once again, he slowly slipped into the self-destructive habits that had first brought the disease upon him. Almost unconsciously, he neglected spiritual matters in exchange for temporal, sensory pleasures. And imperceptibly, the paralysis began slowly to return. He had tried to deny the lack of vigor, the difficulty of movement, but at last he had to rely on crutches in his downward slide to complete immobility. His bitter thoughts recalled Jesus’ sage advice, “Sin no more, lest a worse thing come unto thee.”  

            Jesus had been right; a worse thing had come to him. Perhaps not physically, but mentally he was in torment as he realized that he had disregarded his greatest blessing and despised his gift of healing. This condition was worse than the first, for now he feared that truly he had gone too far. Would God possibly grant a third chance after he had made a wreck of his second chance? It seemed unlikely; he had learned his lesson the hard way too late in life to be given a third chance.

            As he made his way closer to the cross, his unwilling eyes began to recognize what his heart would not accept. Reaching out to a passerby, he asked haltingly,

            “Sir, please tell me, is Jesus the Healer in great agony?”

            The reply came as he feared it would.

            “Not now, He isn’t. The One who called Himself Christ died a while ago. There was a tremendous earthquake too; on those crutches, it’s a good thing you weren’t here.”

            The old man sagged to the ground only a few yards from the cross. He had come too late. Somehow, somewhere in the deepest recesses of his heart, he had cherished the hope that Jesus might yet forgive him for his appalling treatment of grace. He had hoped yet for a third chance, because he had seen in the Healer someone who loved him. In spite of all critical comments, he had believed that the Galilean was the promised Messiah. But now he was dead. The last of his faint hope seemed crushed.

            A soldier crossed in front of the man, still crumpled on the ground, and walked to the side of the Man hanging in the stillness of death on the center cross. He raised the spear in his hand as if to plunge it into Jesus side.

            “Wait!” cried the cripple, “What are you doing? He’s already…dead.” His voice dropped in despair at the last words.

            “They’re orders, old man,” replied the soldier. “Pilate can’t believe anyone died from crucifixion so quickly, so he sent me make certain.”

            Without another word, the spear pierced the Healer’s side. The man groaned in distress, then stared with the soldier in disbelief. Out of the wound gushed forth a pure stream of water, undiluted by the stream of blood flowing as well.

            The soldier simply grunted his surprise, and walked away. The crippled man was transfixed by the meaning of what he saw. Perhaps the incident was a mystery to the guard, but it conveyed a message of hope to the sickly heap of a man looking on. The water, the pure water, was what Jesus represented Himself as—the living water. Jesus was the great Healer. Somehow the man knew the water contained hope; it said that Christ had died to heal, and His healing power still flowed to those who would believe. Even in His death His wounds were a balm for sinful souls.  His bruises had ability to mend broken hearts. The living water was still available.

This water symbolized real power—not fabled abilities of a stagnant pool called Bethesda. The crippled man took courage as a voice whispered to his mind, “Wilt thou be made whole?”

“Yes, Master.” He whispered audibly.

He did not wait for any proof of acceptance or rush of feeling. Without a backward glance, leaving his crutches at the cross, he began to walk back to Jerusalem.