At the Pool of Bethesda
By Daniel March, D.D.
‘‘Now there is at Jerusalem by the sheep market a pool, which is called in the Hebrew tongue Bethesda, having five porches. In these lay a great multitude of impotent folk, of blind, halt, withered, waiting for the moving of the water.’’ John 5:2, 3. HAT a pitiable scene is presented by this house of mercy at Jerusalem, named Bethesda! The marble floors of its five colonnades are covered with a miserable multitude, whose silent aspect is a cry of wo, and whose bare presence in such a place is a confession of affliction and infirmity. The sick, the feeble, the blind, are all here for the same purpose, and hoping to receive help from the same source. Here two faithful sons have brought their poor paralyzed old father, and set him down with his feet in the edge of the pool, and they are watching eagerly at his side, ready to take him up and rush in at the first movement of the healing wave. Close by their side sits a mother, with anxiety and sorrow written in every line of her face, as she looks tenderly and caressingly upon the paler face of her infant child; and she is there hoping to secure the baptism of the agitated waters in behalf of her poor babe, that she may not be left to bear the burden and the wo of5life’s journey alone. There a young wife, with the hectic glow of consumption burning upon her wasted cheek, leans, panting for breath, upon her husband’s strong arm, feeling that but for one earthly tie, it were better for her if the bitterness of death were already past. Here an aged mother is trying to persuade her affectionate daughter to lead her home, and let her lie down upon her bed and die in peace, without seeking to prolong a life that has already had too many sorrows. Here the blind have been led by friendly hands, and seated on the margin of the pool, with their sightless eyeballs seeking in vain for light in the noontide blaze of the sun. Here the wretched paralytic lies helpless, with the half of himself already dead, and wishing that the other half would die, too, or that both might live together. Here are some so withered, and old, and poor, that one would wonder what life could be worth to them, unless indeed the healing waters can give them back the days of their youth. Some are attended by many friends, who cheer them with words of hope, and relieve their sufferings with every possible attention. Some have exhausted their utmost strength in dragging themselves to the house of mercy alone. Some are uttering cries of impatience and pain; some are sinking and fainting with exhaustion; some are waiting in calm and trustful silence for the rippling of the water when it shall be swept by the viewless angel’s wing. The long colonnade is crowded through its whole extent, and the wants and woes of the human race are represented by the multitude drawn together by the mysterious power of that healing fountain. Among the friends of the afflicted and the throng of idle spectators, a Stranger enters the portico unobserved. He passes along with a quiet step and a pitying look, till His eye falls upon the most helpless and wretched of all the company. For thirty-eight years that miserable man has been bound to a crippled and suffering body, and the long and dreadful servitude has crushed his spirit and broken his heart. The luster of life has faded from his eye, and the expression of interest from his face. His whole personal appearance is most wretched and revolting, and the rest of the company shrink from approaching or addressing him. He is shunned the more carefully for the reason that his infirmity is known to have been caused by his own sin, and he is looked upon as smitten of God, and accursed. He has no one to help him when the favored moment comes to enter the water. The troubled wave betrays the presence of a new life that never quickens him. For years he has spread his miserable mat upon the stone floor at the very edge of the pool, waiting for the all-healing angel to descend; but never has he been able to enter the troubled water in time to be made whole. And he has grown so old and impotent, and his long misery has so nearly crushed the life out of him, that many wonder why he need exhaust his little remaining strength in creeping down to his old place, when his continual coming has done him no good. Many wish he would not come to shock the sensibilities of others with the sight of his wretchedness. On him the quiet Stranger looks with a pitying eye, till his attention is arrested, and then He puts the startling question, ‘‘Wilt thou be made whole?’’ Made whole! For what other purpose has he dragged his crippled frame to that healing fountain? For what else has he longed and groaned in spirit for thirty-eight years? What other blessing could he crave so earnestly, while the faintest gleam of hope continued to shine in his enfeebled and darkened mind? But now it seems almost like mockery to ask him the question; for there is no eye to pity, and no arm to help him. The healing movement of the waters is all for others, not for him. But the wretched man has not half uttered his despondency, before the eye that is fixed upon him seems to kindle with a benignant and divine light. The countenance of the Stranger assumes a most fascinating and commanding majesty which nothing can resist. The helpless creature already feels that he could travel to the ends of the earth at one word from such a face as that. And no sooner thought than uttered; the quickening and creative word comes; ‘‘Jesus saith unto him, Rise, take up thy bed, and walk.’’ There is no delay, no doubt, no question. The diseased and despondent listener feels new life rushing through every fiber of his frame. Hope flashes like a new heaven upon his darkened mind. He can, he will, he must obey that voice; and in the act of obedience, he becomes at once the strongest and soundest man in the multitude. He who it was thought would be the last to receive aid from the healing fountain, is the first to be made whole without its help. The eyes of all are fixed upon him with astonishment as he springs to his feet, throws the matting on which he was lying across his arm, and walks forth with the firm and elastic step of youth. Excited spectators crowd around him; the colonnade is filled by additional numbers attracted from without; the sick forget to watch for the movement of the water; the Sabbath stillness that reigned through all the porticoes a moment before is broken by the clamor of many voices; every one is asking who has done this mighty work; and in the meantime, the mysterious Stranger, whose word alone has made the man whole, disappears, and is nowhere found.