The Paralyzed Man of Bethsaida

He had stopped counting the years. At first, he kept track—one year, two, five, ten. But after a while, the numbers blurred into the ache of his limbs and the dust that settled around his mat. Thirty-eight years. That’s what he told the stranger. Thirty-eight years of waiting, watching, hoping. And being ignored.

He often spoke to himself, not out loud, but in the quiet corners of his mind where bitterness and longing had made a home. “They come with their sandals polished, their robes clean, their eyes scanning the water like hawks. And when the stirring begins, they leap. They push. They forget.” He had seen it too many times. The water would ripple, and suddenly the crowd would surge forward, each person desperate to be first. Not once had someone turned and said, “Brother, let me help you.” Not once had a hand reached down to lift him. They believed in miracles, yes. But they believed in them for themselves.

He remembered a man—young, strong, with a limp that barely showed. The man had arrived only a week before, and already he had positioned himself close to the edge. One morning, the water stirred, and the young man lunged forward, knocking aside an older woman and nearly trampling a child. He had made it. He had been healed. And as he walked away, he glanced back—not with guilt, but with triumph. The man on the mat had caught his eye and said, “You saw me. You knew I couldn’t move. Why didn’t you help?” The young man shrugged. “I needed healing too.” And that was that.

It wasn’t just the physical pain. It was the invisibility. The way people stepped over him, around him, never toward him. They came to Bethsaida for divine intervention, but they left their humanity at the gate. He had come to believe that the pool was not just a place of healing—it was a mirror. It showed people who they truly were. And most of them were desperate, self-centered, and blind to the suffering beside them.

He had prayed, of course. Not just for healing, but for someone—anyone—to notice. “Lord, send me a helper. Just one.” But the silence stretched longer than the years. And slowly, his prayers changed. He stopped asking for healing. He started asking for understanding. “Why do they not see me? Why do they think You are pleased with their piety when they trample the weak to reach Your mercy?”

One day, as the sun rose and the shadows of the colonnade stretched long across the stone, a man approached. He didn’t rush. He didn’t scan the water. He looked directly at him. “Do you want to be healed?” The question startled him. Not because it was strange, but because it was sincere. No one had asked him that. They assumed he did. They assumed he was just another body waiting for a miracle. But this man saw him—not just his condition, but his soul.

He hesitated. “Sir, I have no one to help me into the pool when the water is stirred. While I am trying to get in, someone else goes down ahead of me.” It wasn’t just a complaint. It was a confession. A cry. A summary of thirty-eight years of abandonment.

The man didn’t offer to carry him to the water. He didn’t promise to wait with him. He simply said, “Get up. Pick up your mat and walk.” And something shifted—not just in his legs, but in his heart. He felt seen. Empowered. Loved.

As he stood, the mat under his arm, he looked around. The pool was still there. The crowd was still jostling. But he was no longer part of that race. He had been healed not by water, but by a word. Not by competition, but by compassion.

Later, he would follow the man—Jesus, they said His name was. He didn’t understand everything. He didn’t know where it would lead. But he knew this: the God who healed him was not impressed by the scramble for blessings. He was moved by mercy. And the man who had lain invisible for decades now walked with purpose, not just healed, but awakened.

He would never again pass a suffering soul without stopping because he knew what it meant to be overlooked. And he knew what it meant to be found.

Fr. Jijo Kandamkulathy CMF Published in O Clarim Macau Catholic Newspaper