Helen R. Smith

To Get Well

If you were looking for a get-well card for a sick friend, would you buy one that said, Do you want to get well?

Consider this story from the Gospel of John:

Now there is in Jerusalem near the Sheep Gate a pool, which in Aramaic is called Bethesda and which is surrounded by five covered colonnades. Here a great number of disabled people used to lie—the blind, the lame, the paralyzed. One who was there had been an invalid for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there and learned that he had been in this condition for a long time, he asked him, “Do you want to get well?” (John 5:2-6)

Well, did he? Thirty-eight years is a long time to endure any affliction; it might have become all he knew. It could have been scary to find out what “well” meant.

If the man hesitated, it wasn’t for long. Jesus told him to pick up his mat and walk, and he did.

The religious “leaders” (see v. 10) saw the man who was now walking after helplessly lying beside the Bethesda pool for years, and what they had to say to him was that he was breaking the Sabbath law by carrying his mat. They wanted to know, “Who told you to pick up your mat and walk?” These men “began to persecute” Jesus because they found Him guilty of breaking the Sabbath. They didn’t ask Him, “Will You also heal us?” (Although they were very much in need of healing and restoration, they didn’t seem aware of it.)

They weren’t talking to Jesus about the miracle of healing that happened at Bethesda. They were trying to kill Him—for breaking the Sabbath and for calling God His own Father.

Jesus knew who was persecuting Him. They wanted a way to accuse Jesus, to put Him on the defensive. But instead of defending His actions, He gave them more ammunition.

“For just as the Father raises the dead and gives them life, even so the Son gives life to whom he is pleased to give it. Moreover, the Father judges no one, but has entrusted all judgment to the Son, that all may honor the Son just as they honor the Father. Whoever does not honor the Son does not honor the Father, who sent him.” (John 5:21-23)

Getting well is for everyone who hears Jesus and believes in Him. As the Father gives life, so the Son gives life. Moreover, the Father has entrusted all judgement to Jesus. Do we want Jesus as our Healer—or as our Judge? For those who receive Him as Lord, He is both. In Him, we’re going to get well, whether in this life or the next, and we have nothing to fear from His coming judgement.

A get-well card from Jesus:

“Very truly I tell you, whoever hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life and will not be judged but has crossed over from death to life.” (v. 24)

~

Why Are We Different?

Growing up in church, I associated the word Passover with two things: The part of the worship service liturgy that led up to Communion; and the movie The Ten Commandments, starring Charlton Heston, that was on TV every Easter weekend. I knew nothing of the Jewish celebration of Passover.

Then I was invited to a Seder meal—the initial celebration of the eight-day Jewish feast (holiday) of Passover. In the retelling of the Passover story, Jewish families affirm to one another how God used Moses to lead the Hebrew people out of slavery in Egypt. Against the wishes of a powerful pharaoh, against the prevailing culture of the time, against the laws of nature, God gathered His people and led them out of bondage.

It was all fascinating to me: The reading of the Haggadah (the story of Israel’s exodus from Egypt), the Seder plate with its symbolic herbs and other foods—and the singing! A remarkable tradition that developed over the centuries is the Ma Nishtana—the four questions asked (sung) by the youngest child present who is able to do so. After all the singing, laughing, and celebrating, I came away with a question of my own:

Why don’t Christians celebrate Passover as the Jewish people do?

Jesus observed Passover with His disciples, as we read in Matthew 26:

On the first day of the Festival of Unleavened Bread, the disciples came to Jesus and asked, “Where do you want us to make preparations for you to eat the Passover?” (v. 17 NIV)

The Last Supper was a Passover meal; Passover is observed every time we partake in holy Communion. As a partaker of both Seder meals and the Eucharist (Communion), I’ve asked some other questions: What are we celebrating when we remember Jesus’ death and resurrection? Why does God allow sorrow and suffering in the world? What must I do to be chosen by God? What will my life look like because of Jesus?

In thinking and praying about those questions, one concept emerges: Freedom. God’s intention toward us is that we shall be free. (see John 8:32) Freedom is of God, not mankind. We introduced enslavement into the world—not only enslavement of other human beings, but enslavement to our own desires, to destructive behavior, to our pride, to our hatred of others. The Bible informs us that God intervened in human history and freed His people from enslavement—and continues to do so.

This Passover, celebrate freedom. God sent Moses to deliver His people from enslavement and He sends Jesus to us today. What will our lives look like because of that? How will we be different? How will I be different?

~

The Question

About three in the afternoon Jesus cried out in a loud voice, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” (which means “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”). (Matthew 27:46 NIV)

Jesus asked questions when teaching and talking with people. Sometimes He answered questions with a question. But there is only one question recorded in the Gospels that Jesus asked His Father. Some commentary suggests the question was rhetorical—that He didn’t expect an answer. Also, the question draws attention to Psalm 22, which very accurately and prophetically describes His suffering. Hours after He had been nailed to the cross, Jesus cried out in a loud voice … “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Jesus was not quoted as questioning God His Father about the accusations and beatings, or the scoffing and mocking, or even the crucifixion itself. The question was about the forsaking. He had lost communion with His Father for the first—and last—time.

The bereaved, if they have loved and been loved, know that one immediate result of death is separation—the end of access to the relationship. One parent I know whose child died said she wished heaven had visiting hours. You just want to be in the presence of your loved one with all of your being. Grief is exhausting. Mary, the mother of our Lord, endured the torture, crucifixion of—and separation from—her Son.

And if separation from a loved one is intolerable, separation from God—His comfort, His guidance, His presence—is unfathomable. This our Lord endured, and His followers will not have to.

The one question to the Father we know that Jesus voiced aloud for all to hear: Why? Why did God forsake His Son?

Can any answer fully satisfy our hearts or fully explain this mystery? We enter into the mystery by coming to the cross. Draw near it. Look upon the One who was pierced for us, scorned for us, made sin for us—forsaken for us. Dwell with Him there today and be transformed by the Father’s forgiveness of sin, and His love.

The eternal God sees us, as Psalm 139:16 says: Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. Even while on the cross, our Messiah saw us. He knew us then.

The verse below from the Charles Wesley hymn “And Can It Be, That I Should Gain” hints at the transformation that takes place at the cross:

Long my imprisoned spirit lay
Fast bound in sin and nature’s night;
Thine eye diffused a quickening ray,
I woke, the dungeon flamed with light;
My chains fell off, my heart was free,
I rose, went forth, and followed Thee.

Amazing love! How can it be, that Thou my God, should die for me!

~

There’s Bad News and Good News

The medical report was bad news. I had an acoustic neuroma—technically, a brain tumor. The good news was, it was not, and was never going to be, cancerous. It was very slow-growing, and I probably had had it for decades. It could not spread or invade other tissue. The bad news: It was pressing on several “cranial structures,” my brain stem among them. It would have to be treated. I had several options.

At the time I didn’t think about all the good news I had received in my life: “It’s a girl!” “We’re going on a vacation,” “I just brewed a fresh pot,” “It’s a boy!” “We’ve decided to offer you the position,” “I want us to always be together,” “The bathroom is right over there” (and there’s no line), “120 people have commented on your post,” “You look like you need a smaller size. I have one right here,” “...he slides into home, and he’s safe!!” (depending on your perspective), “Less than an inch of snow is expected, schools will be closed tomorrow” (depending on your perspective), “I love you.”

Many of us are still waiting for certain good news, but we’ve all had some.

God’s people in Judah received some horrendously bad news—through the prophet Joel—that life was about to change for them. In the book of Joel bad news is delivered, then more bad news, and finally good news.

Alas for that day! For the day of the Lord is near; it will come like destruction from the Almighty. Has not the food been cut off before our very eyes—joy and gladness from the house of our God? (Joel 1:15-16 NIV)

Besides an advancing plague of locusts, there was more bad news, depending on one’s perspective:

I will show wonders in the heavens and on the earth, blood and fire and billows of smoke. The sun will be turned to darkness and the moon to blood before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord. (Joel 2:30-31)

Even though God’s people would endure unspeakable suffering, God’s mercy and love toward them was intact:

Return to the Lord your God, for he is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and abounding in love, and he relents from sending calamity. ... Be glad, people of Zion, rejoice in the Lord your God, for he has given you the autumn rains because he is faithful. He sends you abundant showers, both autumn and spring rains, as before. (Joel 2:13, 23)

For my treatment, I elected the most radical option, with the support and guidance of my physicians. The plan was to drill into my skull, remove the tumor, and try to spare as many facial and cranial nerves as possible. I’ve been joyfully recovering since that successful surgery.

Bad news: sin is a problem. It’s terminal, and 100 percent of us are suffering from it. It might not seem imminently threatening, but it needs to go. The Good News is, we have a treatment option: confession of our sin, acceptance of Jesus’ work on the cross, followed by a life of sanctification. We naturally will have questions: “Is the treatment going to be invasive?” (Yes, radically.) “Will recovery be uncomfortable?” (Probably.) “Will I be the same?” (No, and yes.) “Will God be with me?” (Try and stop Him.) “Am I going to live?” Medical answer: “This procedure is not life-threatening, but all surgery has some risk. Sign here.”

In this world, there will always be bad news. God, our Great Physician, has good news. He provides a radical treatment plan for sin and assurance of a full and joyful recovery.

~

Neither Will I Tell You

At some point in our lives, whether on the playground, the workplace, the dating scene, and, most painfully, in parenthood, someone demands of us: “Just who do you think you are?”

The Son of Man was no stranger to this question.

Jesus entered the temple courts, and, while he was teaching, the chief priests and the elders of the people came to him. “By what authority are you doing these things?” they asked. “And who gave you this authority?” (Matthew 21:23)

Unruffled, He asked a counter-question:

“I will also ask you one question. If you answer me, I will tell you by what authority I am doing these things. John’s baptism—where did it come from? Was it from heaven, or of human origin?” (Matthew 21:24-25)

They talked amongst themselves and deduced that the politically expedient answer was a cop-out, as most politically expedient answers are: “We don’t know” (Matthew 21:27).

Jesus shrugged, “Neither will I tell you by what authority I am doing these things” (Matthew 21:27).

As a young believer, I was very troubled when I was caught off-guard by a question from a fellow student: “So you’re a Christian. Are you telling me that I’m going to hell if I don’t believe in Jesus?” At the time I didn’t know how to answer. Later I felt that I had let down my classmate and cost him an opportunity to hear the Gospel. I was confessing this to a friend who happened to be a Jewish believer. His response reminds me of Jesus in the passage above.

My friend suggested I could answer that question with another question: “Do you believe in hell? If so, what are you doing about it? And if not, then what’s the problem?” If the questioner is looking to discredit you rather than sincerely seek answers, at least start the dialogue honestly.

When the Pharisees were trying to discredit Jesus, why didn’t He just answer the question for the benefit of sincere seekers in the audience? Instead of responding to the religious leaders demanding “who do you think you are?” He went on to tell two parables that exposed who they were. By the end of the conversation, the chief priests and the Pharisees “knew he was talking about them. They looked for a way to arrest him, but they were afraid of the crowd because the people held that he was a prophet” (Matthew 21:45-46).

This exposure was for the benefit of the tax collectors and the prostitutes in the crowd.

Our Messiah understands where our questions, and our questioners, are coming from. My indignant classmate was likely not insincere, but simply angry at what he assumed I stood for. I’ve certainly brought my share of angry assumptions and questions to the Lord. And, mercifully, sometimes He asks me questions in return.

He will never reject a sincere question from the heart: “Who are You, Lord?”

~

Shalom, Merry Christmas

When I was a college student, I moved to Israel a few days before Christmas. I hoped to attend the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, so I enrolled in an ulpan. There is no English word for ulpan. The closest translation is “intensive Hebrew language study,” and it’s an understatement.

I quickly got to know my classmates. They included a news broadcaster, a professor of psychology from Princeton, a pastor and his wife from Texas, a lady from Germany, a British yeshiva student, a group of nurses from the Netherlands, and a man from New York who had just brought his family to Israel.

There also was a young woman whose arms were bandaged. She had been injured in a terrorist attack on the bus she was riding. Another classmate was a young man from the Old City of Jerusalem. He spoke only Arabic and wanted to learn Hebrew.

“Shalom, talmidim,” the teacher greeted us each morning (“hello, students”). For six hours a day, five days a week, we recited new vocabulary, read aloud from our exercise books, did some role-playing, and discussed what we ate for breakfast. When we reached exhaustion, we tried to lapse into English, but our teacher pretended not to understand. It was important that we learn to express ourselves in our new common language.

As many know, shalom is the word for “peace” as well as hello. As our lessons progressed, I found the classroom a very peaceful place—as well as frustrating, sometimes awkward, and always challenging. Each of us had a vastly different story, and our own reasons for being in Hebrew class. Despite our various ages, talents, and backgrounds, we were reconciled to learning a language together—an ancient language, a biblical language, a resurrected language, an entirely new language to us.

If ever there was a life experience that taught me the meaning of reconciliation, learning the Hebrew language was it—even if it was only to function at a conversational level. You can’t learn to speak to others by shouting louder or by sheer force of will. You literally cannot make someone understand. You’ve got to reconcile yourself to learning their language and then just do the best you can. Some will be eager to engage you and receive your message, and some won’t.

My years of study helped me understand the greatest miracle of reconciliation: God became the Word Incarnate among us and reconciled us to the Father. And because of that—and only because of that—we may be reconciled to one another.

I spent the next seven Christmases in Jerusalem. For me, the meaning of faith in the Incarnate Word of God is rooted in my life there, especially messages like this one in Hosea:

I will show love to Judah; and I will save them—not by bow, sword or battle, or by horses and horsemen, but I, the LORD their God, will save them. (Hosea 1:7 NIV)

And this one from the Gospel of Luke:

Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests. (Luke 2:14)

I’m still learning to speak the language of peace and reconciliation. Shalom, talmidim.

May your Christmas holiday be covered with peace as you celebrate the birth of the Messiah. Shalom!

~

Helen R.

Smith

Editor

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More from Helen R Smith