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John 5.1-16
 
After this there was a festival of the Jews, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem. Now in Jerusalem by the Sheep Gate there is a pool, called in Hebrew Beth-zatha, which has five porticoes. In these lay many invalids—blind, lame, and paralyzed. One man was there who had been ill for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there and knew that he had been there a long time, he said to him, “Do you want to be made well? ”The sick man answered him, “Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up; and while I am making my way, someone else steps down ahead of me.” Jesus said to him, “Stand up, take your mat and walk.” At once the man was made well, and he took up his mat and began to walk. 
 
 Jesus does not suffer victims that gladly.  In this passage, Jesus comes upon an assortment of sick and invalid people.  Yet He focuses on one individual, a person whom He knows has been ill for a long time, specifically 38 years.  We don’t know why Jesus chooses him and not any of the others, but He approaches the man and asks him if he wants to be made well.  The man’s explanation is that he is unable to compete with other invalids to access the healing waters.  This appears not to be precisely the answer Jesus wishes to hear from him.  Jesus doesn’t accord him much sympathy for his tribulations, but basically tells him to stand up and walk.  We are told that at once he is made well and walks.  No further communication follows between Jesus and the healed individual.  Jesus appears to suggest that the people he ministers to and heals are responsible for themselves and need to contribute to their own salvation, albeit through Him.
 
I am struck by the fact that Jesus is a God-Man of relatively few words.  He does not treat the people with whom He intercedes as victims or invest much energy in making them feel better.  He has these rigorous expectations of them, that they will get with the program, as he moves on to the next parts of His plan.  Jesus has a mission, and he appears highly focused.  I periodically wonder how Jesus looks upon his earthly work, whether it is marked by heavenly assurance or earthly doubt.  I think Jesus expects of the people He will save a measure of personal responsibility in their healing, that they will practice agency in the process.  I have sometimes asked for God’s assistance and then neglected to take actions on my own behalf that could contribute to achieving the things for which I prayed, waiting in the wings for God to appear.  When I ask for God’s assistance in a helpless manner, I am not practicing what he expects.

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Isaiah 65.17-21

For I am about to create new heavens and a new earth; the former things shall not be remembered or come to mind. But be glad and rejoice forever in what I am creating; for I am about to create Jerusalem as a joy, and its people as a delight. I will rejoice in Jerusalem, and delight in my people; no more shall the sound of weeping be heard in it, or the cry of distress. No more shall there be in it an infant that lives but a few days, or an old person who does not live out a lifetime; for one who dies at a hundred years will be considered a youth, and one who falls short of a hundred will be considered accursed. They shall build houses and inhabit them; they shall plant vineyards and eat their fruit.

This passage is so joyful, so full of hope, and yet it troubles me. God is making a promise – a New Jerusalem! – but in that promise lies the certainty of destruction. The old Jerusalem will be wiped away, from the earth and from our minds. For a phoenix to rise from the ashes, don’t you first have to have a fire? And indeed, in the verses previous to these God promises destruction and revenge. This passage is not a promise to heal, but to start over.

This desire to scrap the whole thing and start over carries a rueful kind of resonance for me, especially over the last year. 2020 left me few places to hide from my own inadequacies, and indeed afforded me further opportunities to develop new ones. More than once I’ve looked in the mirror and wondered if there wasn’t some kind of reset button I could hit, a return to factory settings. I feel this on a selfish, petty level for myself; I feel it on an overwhelmingly sorrowful level for the world. Even before the pandemic, hadn’t we already befouled the Old Jerusalem beyond saving? Did it not seem as though we were ever more passionate architects of our own destruction, hastening the moment when we’d be balled up and thrown in the trash?

But the passage here focuses on the joy of the fresh, clean sheet of paper, the return of God to the drawing board, having learned from His mistakes, or from ours. But a saying springs to mind: God don’t make no junk. Maybe that’s just a folksy way of saying “matter and energy can neither be created nor destroyed.” God exists in and through all things, and is ever experimenting, becoming new forms of His eternal, undimmable energy. Seen in this light, it becomes unnecessary to mourn the old Jerusalem, or to worry about it at all. The new will be built from the matter of the old, just as spring arrives through the mulch of last year’s grass, as we take up palms that will be next years ashes. Life, eternal, springing through new and ever more joyous forms.

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Hosea 6.1-6

“Come, let us return to the Lord; for it is he who has torn, and he will heal us; he has struck down, and he will bind us up. After two days he will revive us; on the third day he will raise us up, that we may live before him. Let us know, let us press on to know the Lord; his appearing is as sure as the dawn; he will come to us like the showers, like the spring rains that water the earth.”

What shall I do with you, O Ephraim? What shall I do with you, O Judah? Your love is like a morning cloud, like the dew that goes away early. Therefore I have hewn them by the prophets, I have killed them by the words of my mouth, and my judgment goes forth as the light. For I desire steadfast love and not sacrifice, the knowledge of God rather than burnt offerings.

I know this winter has been an especially difficult time for many people. I’m grateful to be able to work from home, but because it gets dark so early in the evenings, during the week I tend to work late and often don’t go outside. After being indoors for days at a time, I start feeling stir crazy. Last weekend, while my partner was shopping at a mall I found myself waiting outside in the parking lot. I was suddenly overjoyed to just bask in the sun and look up at the clouds. And yet my struggles seem small compared to the people in our city who are homeless, hungry, or unemployed. What right do I have to lament?

So, I feel like the prophetic vision of Hosea is especially powerful during this time. A God who will bind us and raise us up, as sure as the spring rains water the earth. Unlike apocalyptic preachers of the past, I don’t believe that the coronavirus is divine retribution for our sins and I don’t believe the end is nigh.

But I do believe that this season of Lent, and this time of struggle, is an opportunity to reconsider our priorities; to remind us of what’s really important in our lives. I want to try not to take so much for granted, to concentrate on the things I can control; instead of the mindless chatter of social media or politics. To work on building community and strengthening friendships. I am encouraged by the last line of the the scripture, where God does not care about transitory things like burnt offerings or sacrifices, but instead desires love and knowledge. And so in that spirit, I think that this is an opportunity for us to strive to love, and to learn, to marvel occasionally at the clouds, while we to await the first signs of spring. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven."