Douglas Vandergraph

There are chapters in the Bible that invite you in gently, and then there are chapters that step inside your life with a boldness that catches you off guard. John Chapter 5 belongs to that second category. It arrives with a presence that is both comforting and disruptive, familiar and unsettling, gentle and confronting. It is the kind of Scripture that does not sit quietly in the background of your spiritual journey. Instead, it walks right into the places you’ve avoided, touches the things you’ve covered up, and speaks to the parts of you that have silently grown tired from the weight of waiting.

This chapter is about a man who waited for thirty-eight years, but it’s also about the God who refused to let him stay in the story that pain tried to write for him. It’s about a Savior who walks into cycles of disappointment. It’s about identity, conflict, hope, authority, miracles, and compassion. It’s about the God who sees the suffering that everyone else walks past. It’s about the man who thought nothing would ever change. But above all, it’s about you—and the places in your life that feel like they’ve lasted too long.

In its rawest form, John Chapter 5 is an encounter between human exhaustion and divine intervention.

And some part of you, somewhere deep inside, knows what that feels like.

Arriving at Bethesda: The Landscape of Collective Suffering

When Jesus arrives at the pool of Bethesda, He does not walk into a quiet place, a peaceful place, or a place of celebration. He walks into the center of human hurt. Bethesda was known for its five porches where the sick gathered—blind, lame, broken, discouraged, defeated people waiting for something miraculous to happen. It was a place where pain had gathered for generations. A place where hope was fragile. A place where disappointment was familiar.

Imagine the air thick with weariness. Imagine hundreds of people stretched around the edges of the pool, all waiting for the same thing—the moment the water moves. Tradition said an angel would stir the pool, and the first one in would be healed. Only the first. Only the fastest. Only the strongest. Only the luckiest.

This means Bethesda was not just a place of waiting.
It was a place of competition.

People desperately trying to get ahead.
People watching others receive the thing they had been praying for.
People who believed miracles were possible but only for somebody else.

This is more common than we admit. Most people have areas in their life where they believe God can move, but quietly doubt He’ll move for them.

Bethesda wasn’t just a pool—it was a portrait of long-term disappointment.

And this is the place Jesus chooses to walk into.

Not because it’s beautiful, but because He is.

The Weight of Thirty-Eight Years

Among the multitude of hurting people lies one man whose suffering stands out because of its longevity. He has been sick for thirty-eight years. That is not just time—it is a lifetime of pain. Thirty-eight years of watching the seasons change while his life stayed the same. Thirty-eight years of waiting for a moment that never came. Thirty-eight years of watching others get what he hoped for. Thirty-eight years of believing that maybe pain was going to be his permanent address.

Pain that lasts this long does not just affect the body—it affects the mind, the spirit, and the identity. It reshapes your expectations. It redefines your sense of self. It whispers lies about your worth. It trains you to hope less so you can hurt less.

Everyone has a form of this. Everyone has a “thirty-eight-year” place inside them.

For some, it’s depression that has lasted longer than they can remember.
For others, it’s anxiety that clings to every thought.
For some, it’s a childhood wound that never healed.
For others, it’s a mistake that still haunts their confidence.
For some, it’s grief that changed them permanently.
For others, it’s the silent fear that joy won’t last.
For some, it’s a private battle with sin.
For others, it’s the crushing weight of regret.

Pain does not have to last thirty-eight years to feel like it defines your life.

And yet Jesus sees it.
Jesus notices it.
Jesus walks straight toward it.

That’s the heart of God.

The Question Jesus Asks—And Why It Matters

Jesus approaches the man who has been lying there almost four decades, and instead of offering healing immediately, He asks a question:

“Do you want to be made well?”

At first glance, it sounds unnecessary.

Of course he wants to be healed.
Of course he wants his life back.
Of course he wants freedom.

But Jesus knows the truth beneath long-term pain:

You can become so accustomed to your condition that healing scares you more than suffering.

Pain becomes familiar.
Suffering becomes predictable.
Disappointment becomes expected.
A broken identity becomes comfortable in its own way.

Jesus isn’t asking whether the man likes being sick.
He’s asking whether he’s ready for a life that requires new habits, new expectations, new responsibilities, and a new identity.

Healing requires courage.
Healing requires change.
Healing requires surrender.
Healing requires letting go of the identity that pain crafted for you.

The man doesn’t answer the question Jesus asked.
He answers from his history.

“I have no one to help me.”
“Others always get ahead.”
“I never make it in time.”

This reveals one of the most profound truths about long-term suffering:

It trains you to explain why things can’t change.

Pain changes your language from desire to discouragement.
From hunger to hesitation.
From hope to history.
From “yes” to “I don’t know how.”

But Jesus is not limited by your explanations.

He is not asking for logic.
He is asking for willingness.

Healing is not the result of your strength.
It’s the result of His word.

The Command That Changes Everything

Then Jesus speaks the words that redefine the entire chapter:

“Rise, take up your bed, and walk.”

These are not motivational words.
These are not suggestions.
These are not ideas.
These are commands of divine authority.

Three commands.

Rise—stand up from the place pain kept you.
Take up your bed—remove the symbol of your former identity.
Walk—move forward with purpose and freedom.

What suffering built over thirty-eight years collapses under the weight of one sentence from Jesus.

Immediately—instantly—without delay—the man is healed.

The word “immediately” is a reminder that God does not need time to do what time has failed to do. Healing that seemed impossible, unreachable, unimaginable suddenly becomes reality in a moment of divine intervention.

He rises.
He stands.
He steps.
He carries the bed he once lay upon.

The thing that used to hold him is now something he carries.

This is the power of God.
This is the beauty of the gospel.
This is the hope of the believer.

Your past becomes your testimony, not your prison.

When Healing Makes People Uncomfortable

But freedom always confronts resistance.

The moment the man walks with his mat, religious leaders show up—not to celebrate, but to criticize.

“It’s the Sabbath. You shouldn’t be carrying that.”

Imagine that.
A man healed after nearly four decades and all they can see is a rule being broken.

This reveals something heartbreaking about spiritual blindness:

People obsessed with rules cannot recognize miracles.

They see violation instead of restoration.
They see law instead of life.
They see tradition instead of transformation.

Healing disrupts systems built on control.
Miracles offend those who prefer predictable religion.
Freedom threatens those who need you to stay broken.

Your healing will make some people uncomfortable because your transformation exposes their lack of compassion, courage, or faith.

But the man keeps walking.

Because when Jesus heals you, you don’t need permission to continue forward.

Jesus Steps Into the Conflict and Reveals Himself

When the religious leaders confront Jesus about healing on the Sabbath, He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t soften His language. He doesn’t avoid the conflict.

He steps into it.

He declares truth so boldly that it shakes the foundations of their spiritual worldview.

He reveals:

The Father is always working.
The Son works in perfect unity with the Father.
The Son gives life.
The Son raises the dead.
The Son holds divine authority to judge.
The Son is equal with the Father.
Those who honor the Son honor the Father.
Those who believe in Him pass from death to life.

These are not gentle claims.
These are declarations of divinity.

This is why the religious leaders begin plotting to kill Him.
Not because He healed.
Because He revealed who He truly is.

Jesus is not crucified because of miracles.
He is crucified because of identity.

Jesus Calls His Witnesses

To reinforce His identity, Jesus points to the undeniable witnesses that testify about Him:

John the Baptist—whose words prepared the way.
Miracles—visible evidence of divine power.
The Father—who affirmed Him openly.
Scripture—every prophecy pointing toward Him.
Moses—whose writings foreshadowed His coming.

Then Jesus confronts the religious leaders with a truth that still pierces today:

“You search the Scriptures thinking you have life in them, yet they testify about Me.”

Meaning:

You can study the Bible and still miss Jesus.
You can practice religion and remain spiritually dead.
You can quote Scripture but live without transformation.
You can know theology but not know God.

Information without revelation is empty.
Scripture without surrender is powerless.
Religion without relationship is lifeless.

John Chapter 5 is not a study—it is a confrontation.

Where This Chapter Meets You

This chapter reaches into the parts of your life where time has worn you down.

It speaks into:

Your quiet exhaustion.
Your unanswered prayers.
Your lifelong battles.
Your discouraged spirit.
Your emotional scars.
Your hidden wounds.
Your private disappointments.
Your fear that nothing will ever change.
Your suspicion that miracles are for someone else.

John 5 meets you in the tension between what you believe and what you’ve been experiencing.

It speaks life into the places where hope has been bruised.

It whispers truth into the shadows where fear has been whispering.

It confronts the lies that long-term pain has been silently building in your identity.

It invites you to rise.

Your “Rise” Moment

Every believer eventually hears Jesus speak the same three commands:

Rise.
Take up your bed.
Walk.

These words are not aimed only at the man beside the pool—they are aimed at you.

Rise from the fear that has been holding you hostage.
Rise from the shame that tried to define you.
Rise from the regret that still haunts your confidence.
Rise from the disappointment that crushed your expectations.
Rise from the belief that nothing will ever change.
Rise from the identity shaped by past wounds.
Rise from the idea that you’re too late, too damaged, or too far gone.
Rise from the mat that held your story captive.

Taking up your bed means carrying your past as testimony, not trauma.

Walking means moving forward in a life reshaped by grace, not grief.

Healing isn’t just what Jesus gives—it’s who Jesus is.

A Closing Word for Your Spirit

If you feel forgotten, Jesus remembers you.
If you feel overlooked, Jesus sees you.
If you feel tired, Jesus strengthens you.
If you feel stuck, Jesus calls you.
If you feel broken, Jesus restores you.
If you feel hopeless, Jesus awakens you.
If you feel out of time, Jesus is right on time.

Your thirty-eight-year story is not permanent.
Your pain is not the end of the story.
Your suffering is not your identity.
Your waiting is not wasted.

Jesus is stepping into your Bethesda moment.
And when He speaks, everything changes.

Rise.
Take up your bed.
Walk.

Because healing is not behind you—
it’s standing right in front of you.

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— Douglas Vandergraph