Scripture: John 5:6
“When Jesus saw him lying there and knew that he had already been there a long time, he said to him, ‘Do you want to be healed?'”
I still remember the day my therapist leaned forward in his chair and asked me a question that seemed so obvious yet pierced straight to my core: “Are you ready to let go of this narrative about yourself? The narrative that you are not enough.” His words hung in the air between us, heavy with implication.
This story wasn’t new—I had been living it for decades. The belief that I wasn’t enough had driven me to perfectionism, to setting impossible standards that kept me in a perpetual cycle of striving and disappointment. Each accomplishment needed to be flawless, each performance exceptional, because anything less confirmed my deepest fear: that I simply didn’t measure up. My calendar overflowed with commitments, my mind with tasks that needed structure, my heart with the dread of inevitable failure.
Of course I wanted freedom from this exhausting cycle—yet something in me hesitated.
My perfectionism had become a shield, a way to preemptively guard against criticism.
If I acknowledged I was “enough” just as I was, what would drive me forward? If I surrendered my meticulously constructed standards, who would I become? My identity had formed around this constant reaching for an unreachable bar.
It’s this same penetrating awareness that Jesus brings to the pool of Bethesda. “Do you want to be healed?” It seems like such an obvious question. Who wouldn’t want healing after thirty-eight years of suffering? Yet Jesus asks it anyway, and we would be wise to pause and consider why.
Sometimes our afflictions become our identities. Our suffering becomes the lens through which we view the world, ourselves, and others.
It provides explanation for our failures.
Excuses for our limitations.
And – a kind of community among fellow sufferers. The familiar pain can feel safer than the unfamiliar responsibility of wholeness.
My perfectionism had become a comfortable dwelling place—an affliction, certainly, but one that served me in strange ways. It explained my exhaustion, justified my distance in relationships (who had time for deep connection when there was so much to accomplish?), and provided a ready explanation when life inevitably disappointed: I simply hadn’t tried hard enough. To surrender this narrative would mean facing life without my most reliable explanation for its disappointments and without my primary strategy for proving my worth.
Jesus’ question invites this same honest self-examination. Healing isn’t just physical transformation—it’s total life change. For this man, healing would mean:
Finding a new way of life instead of being contained by the walls surrounding the pool
Building new relationships beyond fellow invalids
Taking responsibility rather than depending on others
Constructing a new identity beyond “the crippled one”
When Jesus asks, “Do you want to be healed?” He’s really asking, “Are you prepared for everything healing will require of you?”
Wholeness demands more of us than brokenness.
Freedom brings responsibility that bondage doesn’t require.
I’ve discovered that releasing my narrative of inadequacy means I can no longer use perfectionism as a shield or strategy. I must embrace the messiness of being human, the courage of vulnerability, and the truth that my worth isn’t earned through flawless performance but received as a gift from my Creator. The comfort of familiar pain—even the pain of constant striving—sometimes keeps us from embracing the discomfort of growth and grace.
My therapist, after his probing question said, “What might your life be like if you actually own who you are?”
Look at the parts of your life where you seek God’s transformation. Are you truly prepared for what healing will ask of you?
The question remains: Do you really want to be healed?
Prayer: Lord Jesus, search my heart and show me where I might be clinging to my brokenness. Give me courage to embrace not just the gift of healing but the responsibilities of wholeness. I want to be healed not just of my affliction but of my attachment to it. Make me brave enough for transformation. Amen.
Grace and Peace,
Andrea