A Reflection for the Tuesday of the Fourth Week of Lent
In today’s Gospel, we read about Jesus healing a man who had been sick for thirty-eight years by a pool in Jerusalem. Jesus stops to ask the man, “Do you want to be well?” and then after hearing his response, tells him “Rise, take up your mat and walk.” In that moment the man was healed and went on to share what he had experienced.
If I’m being honest, my first thought when reading this was to look at all the areas of my own life that seem wounded and in need of healing and think: “Wouldn’t it be nice if Jesus just came over and healed me today?”
When praying with these readings, though, I began to notice two main motifs. First, we don’t get to choose when Jesus comes to heal us, and often it’s a lot later than we’d expect or like. We may feel a lot like the sick man in today’s readings, perpetually held back so that every day, “while I am on my way, someone else gets down there before me.” And we may feel like difficult things in our lives are lasting for way too long. But if we wait, if we get on our way every day regardless of the fact that someone will get down there before us, if we are ready to say yes when Jesus asks if we want to be well, healing will come.
And secondly, we don’t get to choose how Jesus comes to heal us. And often, it’s a lot more transformative than we’d ever expect. Personally, I thought of my struggle with celiac disease, an autoimmune disease in which the ingestion of even crumbs of gluten will damage my small intestine and lead to a host of serious health complications down the line. Being a college student trying to navigate cross-contamination in a dining hall meant that despite best efforts on all sides, I spent every day for months in the spring of 2021 dealing with debilitating sickness while trying to balance a full course load, a global pandemic and the need to advocate for myself to receive support.
During Adoration at STM a few months ago, I broke down crying, asking God, How is it that the Eucharist, the greatest miracle in the history of miracles of the entire Catholic Church, could cause me so much harm? Why is it that I cannot handle your greatest gift like everyone else? And at that moment, the answer was very clear: I wasn’t the only one for whom the Eucharist was without stake. In fact, it was kind of the exact opposite of that–when Jesus gave us the Eucharist, he knew that his entire life was at stake. Celiac can often feel like a cross, but that day I found a shift in perspective.
In having to face a very physical representation of my own brokenness and humanity each time I saw the host held up, I discovered a newfound capacity to unite myself to what Jesus endured in this gift. I found a unique and personal invitation to renewed closeness to Jesus every time I go up to receive the Eucharist (shoutout STM for the gluten-free hosts!).
I often think of a line from the book we read last semester for Undergrad Women’s Spirituality, Loved As I Am, where Sr. Miriam James Heidland writes, “God takes what is ugly and torn asunder and turns it into beauty beyond imagination.” Whatever you are dealing with right now, whether it’s big or small, whether you feel there’s an end in sight or not, I invite you to lean into it as an invitation to a closer friendship with God. As the Psalm reminds us, God is with us. And one day, on this side of heaven or the next, Jesus will see you next to the pool, stop, and bring you to healing. He will ask you to take up your mat and you will walk.
