Fidelia's Sisters: An online publication by, for, and about young clergy women, published by The Young Clergy Women Project.

Why did Jesus even have to ask?
He’s at the pool by the Sheep Gate,
the one rumored to be stirred up by an angel of the Lord from time to time,
the one where the first person to get into the moving water gets healed.
A site of miracles? Perhaps.
Rumors of miracles, at least. And for some of these folks…well, a rumor was enough.
A neighbor’s cousin’s friend stepped into the stirred-up waters and was blind but now can see!
And when you’ve been ill for, say, thirty-eight years…well, there aren’t many options left.
A miracle pool looks pretty good.

Except, this man, who’s been ill for thirty-eight years,
isn’t physically able to get himself into the pool.
He’s alone, for whatever reason.
His family has all died,
or left him, unable to deal with his sickness.
Or maybe he left them, out of shame, or out of a sense of duty.
We don’t know.
So like Blanche, he’s “always relied on the kindness of strangers.”
Apparently, and unfortunately,
in the throng of miracle-seekers pushing toward the seldom moving waters,
the kindness of strangers is hard to come by.

So when Jesus asks him,
“Do you want to be made well…?”
I want to scream at him, “Of course he does! Why else would he be there, at that place?!”

But Jesus knows that. Jesus knows that.
“Jesus saw him lying there and Jesus knew that he had been there a long time.”
Jesus saw him.
I wonder how long it had been since that had happened last,
since someone had truly seen him.

The man’s reply to Jesus is odd.
“I have no one to put me in the pool when the water is stirred up, and while I am making my way, someone else steps down ahead of me.”
He’s defensive, it seems.
Defensive of his attempts to heal himself.
Defensive of the pool’s power.
Defensive of his desire to be made well.

The man is so used to having to explain himself,
to making excuses for his existence and state of being in this world
that he misses the question.

The world is a structured place and Jerusalem was a structured town.
People knew their place and their role,
and as long as everyone stuck to the script everything would be fine.
As long as nothing happens to the order of things, no one gets hurt.
(Well, no more hurt than they already are in their oppression/repression/obsession.)
Sound familiar?

This man’s MO is to defend and explain away.
Jesus doesn’t give a rip.

Jesus wants to know,
“Do you want to be made well?”

It’s such a big question for such a little question.

Maybe I leapt to “of course” a bit too quickly.
What would “being made well” look like for this man?

He’s been sick for thirty-eight years.
He’s alone.
He’s used to his role in society.

While none of these are really desirable characteristics, they’re easy.
He knows who he is. His illness defines him.
Where he may and may not go,
whom he may and may not talk to.
He has no need to be in relationship with anyone.
He seemingly has little to offer, and nothing is expected of him.
No one can blame him for anything.

For all we know he’s been sitting at this miracle pool,
minding his own business,
for thirty-eight years.

Is he ready for the freedom—beautiful and terrifying—that healing will bring?
Does he want the responsibilities that come with healing?
Does he want to redefine his identity, to do all the work of self-understanding?
Does he want to be completely transformed?
Does he want to be made well?

Good question.

Do you want to be made well?

Do I want to be made well? I instinctively leap to “What do you mean, be made well? I’m perfectly fine!”
Fine, compared to the man at the miracle pool.
Fine, if you don’t count the times when I’m really really busy.
Fine, if you leave out the parts where I’m still driven by my childhood need to please my parents.
Fine, except for my ongoing struggle with depression.
Fine, except for all my failed attempts to heal myself with rumors of miracles.
Fine.
Hmm.

Do I want to be made well?
Yes.
Maybe.
I think.

What would I have to give up?
Overbooking my calendar to within an inch of its life?
My need for approval?
My excuse for being only half-present with friends, family, in class, at church?
The way I validate my mistakes, explaining them away: “well, it’s not like I didn’t try”?

Do you want to be made well?

An appropriate question, at the dawn of Lent.
Jesus asks, and we consider.
That’s what lent is for, I think:
considering.

Considering our lives,
our mortality,
our choices,
our calling,
our practices,
our shortcomings.

We consider following Jesus.
Not just to Palm Sunday,
to the fun parade,
but to Thursday…
Friday…
and Saturday.

We consider what it takes to get there.
(We don’t have it.)

Jesus gives it to us, though.
At least, the chance.

Jesus sought out the man at the pool.
Jesus asked him a question
(which the man didn’t answer)
and then Jesus healed him.
“Stand up, take your mat, and walk.”
The man made no demonstration of faith, before or after he was healed.
He asked nothing of Jesus.
This was unprovoked grace.

Now, Jesus doesn’t fix everything for the man at the pool.
There is still the long, hard journey of redefining himself and his identity,
claiming responsibility and freedom,
not to mention the avalanche that will begin to rumble
with Jesus’ careless upending of the social order.
“What do you mean, you’re not sick anymore?”
“You think you’ll just be welcome in the temple, now?”
“Who do you think you are?”

Jesus asks the Ash Wednesday question: “Do you want to be made well?”
Our response,
our Lenten practice of considering,
will guide us through the next 40 days
through the desert journey
(where there are already footprints in the sand)
all the way to the cross.

We can’t prepare for it,
we don’t sit poolside, waiting to be ready.

So we consider:
Do you want to be made well?

Katie Day is Associate Pastor for Youth and Their Families at Palms Presbyterian Church in Jacksonville Beach, Florida. She preached this sermon for a chapel service while she was a student at Columbia Theological Seminary, where she also learned that burning palms for ashes is a task best not left for the morning of Ash Wednesday, as it it is smelly and time-consuming.