Anyone who has ever tried to start exercising again after months or years of neglect knows this. The first day you say, “Tomorrow I will start.” Tomorrow comes, and suddenly your body invents fifty reasons why today is not the day. The strange thing is that the longer we stay stuck, the more normal the ‘stuckness’ begins to feel.
There is a man lying near the pool in Jerusalem. Thirty-eight years. Just think about that. Some of you here have not been alive that long. Thirty-eight years. That's longer than most marriages. Longer than most careers. Imagine you've been sick for thirty-eight years. Not with a cold. Not with a bad back, not even a fractured hand. And every single day, you drag yourself to a pool and you wait. And wait. And wait some more. Thirty-eight years is long enough for a person’s entire identity to become wrapped around a single sentence: “This is just how my life is.”
Notice he had a system, a routine, even a small explanation ready: “Whenever the water is stirred, someone else gets there before me. I have no one to carry me." Notice how practiced the sentence sounds. After decades, the man had perfected his reasons. Thirty-eight years of rehearsing that line. He has practically got a TED Talk prepared. We smile, but hand on heart, haven't we all been that man? Haven't we rehearsed our reasons why not to change, why the timing is wrong, why I am right and the other is wrong, why the pool is too crowded?
And then Jesus walks in and asks a question that sounds almost ridiculous: “Do you want to be well?” Of course he does! But Jesus is gently asking something deeper: Are you ready to leave the story you have been telling yourself for thirty-eight years?
The first reading from Ezekiel speaks of water flowing from the temple, a tiny trickle of water flowing from under the Temple, becoming ankle-deep, then knee-deep, then a river so wide.
I know it is St. Patrick’s Day today and, before you start wondering if the "living water" Ezekiel describes is actually a pint of Guinness, or a plumbing issue at the temple basement let me tell you that in Scripture, living water always means God’s life breaking into places that had quietly accepted dryness.
Today, of all days, Saint Patrick would have something to say about that. He was born in Roman Britain in the late fourth century, probably with the name Maewyn Succat, kidnapped at sixteen, enslaved in Ireland for six years, cold, hungry, talking to God on a hillside because there was nobody else left to talk to, Patrick didn't wait for someone to carry him to the pool. He jumped in. Twice, actually. He escaped once, came back voluntarily, and proceeded to convert an entire island. With a shamrock. That is a man who said yes when Jesus asked the question.
Father Patrick Peyton, that other great Patrick from County Mayo, Ireland whose voice once reached millions on radio with his rosary crusades, said "The family that prays together, stays together." But I suspect he also knew this secret: that the soul that steps into the water, gets carried away. He had the Irish wit to know that if you want to change the world, you don't wait for the pool to stir; you bring the prayer to the people. It begins with a small rosary in the living room, a moment of faith in an ordinary home.
So, on this Saint Patrick's Day, whether you're celebrating with a pint of Guinness or just quietly surviving Lent here in New England, here is the question Jesus is asking you, personally, warmly, with a slight Irish twinkle in his eye:
"Do you want to be well? "Not "Do you have a plan?" Not "Can you explain your circumstances?" Just “do you want it?” Step in. The water is rising.