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“In the porticoes was one man who had been sick for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there and knew that he had been sick for a long time, he said to him: ‘Do you wish to get well?’ The sick man answered him and said, ‘Yes, Lord. But I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred; while I am coming, another steps down before me’ ” [John 5:5–7].

Why did Jesus pass by all the others and come to this man? He did it so that he might show his power and his loving kindness.

Let us not lightly pass over either the place or the 38 years the man had been in the grip of his infirmity. Let all men listen carefully—all those who have grown old in unending poverty, all who live with the weakness of their infirmity, all who endure the crises of worldly affairs, all who have lived with the surging storms of unexpected troubles. This paralytic lies before us as a haven open to all, as a safe port from human disasters.

No one is so foolish, no one is so miserable and distressed that, if he looks at this man he would not generously and willingly endure whatever troubles may befall himself. If he were sick for twenty years or ten or only five, would not these years have been enough to destroy his strength of soul? Yet this man did not leave the pool but stayed there for 38 years and proved his great patience.

Perhaps you think the length of time he stayed there is a marvelous thing. But if you listen to what he said, then especially will you come to know the virtue and discipline of his whole way of life.

Christ stood there and asked him, “Do you wish to get well?” and who would not have known that he wished to get well? Why, then, did Christ ask him?

Christ knew what the man was going to say, but he still asked him if he wished to be cured. Christ did not ask him because he did not know the answer, but he did it so as to give the paralytic an opportunity to tell of his personal disaster in tragic terms and so to teach us a lesson in patience.

What, then, did the paralytic say? He did not take the question in bad grace, he did not become angry, he did not say in reply, “You see that I am paralyzed, and you know how long I have been sick. Do you still ask me if I wish to get well? Did you come to make fun of my misfortune and to ridicule another’s troubles?”

And you can be sure that sick men are sullen and surly even if they have been confined to bed for only a year. But when your illness has been your constant companion for 38 years, how likely could it be that your virtuous way of life and your self-discipline would not have been spent and used up in so long a span of time?

Nonetheless, the paralytic neither said nor thought any such thing. With great reasonableness, he made his reply and said, “Yes, Lord, but I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred.” See how many troubles gathered together to besiege him—he was sick; he was poor; he had no one to stand by his side.

“While I am coming, another steps down before me”—this disappointment is more pitiful than all the others. By itself, it is enough to bend and move a heart of stone. I can imagine seeing the man, each single year, crawling along and coming to the mouth of the pool. I can imagine him, each single year, hanging at the very brink of having his hope come to a happy fulfillment.

And what is worse, he endured this not for two or three or ten years but for 38 years. He showed every effort but failed to reach the reward. The race was run, but the prize went to another over these many years.

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