Timothy Cipriani’s idea was simple. He would lower himself into the pizza restaurant from the ventilation duct, rob the cash register, and climb back out. The plan backfired. Either he had been eating too much pizza, or the ventilation duct was too narrow, because he got stuck. He dangled over a deep fryer, his legs hanging out of the ceiling, screaming for help. It took the police thirty minutes to free him.

It’s terrible to be stuck. Just ask the eighteen people who rode a roller coaster in Anhui, China. Inclement weather at the amusement park brought the ride to a halt at the top of the loop, and eighteen passengers were suspended upside down for half an hour! All were rescued, but six had to go to the hospital.

How do you say, “I’m about to puke” in Mandarin?

Odds are you’ve never been stuck in a ventilation duct, on a roller coaster, or in a toilet, but you have been stuck. Lodged between a rock and a hard place, unable to escape. Mired in the mud of resentment, bogged down in debt, trapped in a dead-end career, up to your waist in the swamp of an unsolvable conflict. Stuck. Stuck with parents who won’t listen or employees who won’t change. Stuck with a harsh boss or a stubborn addiction.

Stuck.

The man near the pool of Bethesda didn’t use the word stuck, but he could have. For thirty-eight years near the edge of a pool, it was just him, his mat, and his paralyzed body. And since no one would help him, help never came.

Jesus was drawn to the stuck, and on one particular day he was drawn to the pool of Bethesda. What emotions did he feel as he surveyed the mass of misfortune? What thoughts did he have as he heard their appeals? Did they touch his robe as he walked past? Did he look into their faces? It was a sad, piteous sight. Yet Jesus walked into the midst of it.

His eyes landed upon the main character of this miracle, a man who “had been sick for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him and knew he had been ill for a long time, he asked him, ‘Would you like to get well?’ ‘I can’t, sir,’ the sick man said, ‘for I have no one to put me into the pool when the water bubbles up. Someone else always gets there ahead of me’” (John 5:5–7 nlt).

What an odd question to ask a sick person: Would you like to get well?

I’ve been visiting the sick since 1977. My first ministry assignment was a pastoral internship program that included regular rounds at hospitals in St. Louis, Missouri. Since that day I’ve spoken with hundreds, maybe thousands, of sick people: in churches, hospitals, eldercare homes, and hospice care units. I’ve prayed for migraines and measles. I’ve anointed with oil, held the hands of the dying, whispered prayers, raised my voice, knelt at bedsides, read Scripture, and stood with worried families. But I have never ever—not once—asked the infirmed, “Would you like to get well?”

Why would Jesus pose such a question? Our only clue is the phrase, “When Jesus saw him and knew he had been ill for a long time” (v. 6 nlt). The man was two years shy of four decades as an invalid. Thirty-eight years—almost the amount of time the Hebrews wandered in the desert. It was the duration of the condition that prompted Christ to ask, “Would you like to get well?”

What tone did Jesus use? Was he the compassionate shepherd? Did he ask the question with trembling voice and softness? Maybe. But I don’t think so. The phrase “when Jesus . . . knew he had been ill for a long time” makes me think otherwise. And the response of the man convinces me.

“I can’t, sir,” the sick man said, “for I have no one to put me into the pool when the water bubbles up. Someone else always gets there ahead of me.” (v. 7 nlt)

Really? No one will help you? Someone else always gets ahead of you? In thirty-eight years you couldn’t inch your way down to the pool? Persuade someone to give you a hand? Thirty-eight years and absolutely no progress?

In that context Christ’s question takes on a firm tone: Do you want to get well? Or do you like being sick? You have a good thing going here. Your tin cup collects enough coins to buy the beans and bacon. Not a bad gig. Besides, healing would be disruptive. Getting well means getting up, getting a job, and getting to work. Getting on with life. Do you really want to be healed?

That’s the question Christ asked then. That’s the question Christ asks all of us.

Do you want to get . . . sober? Solvent? Educated? Better? Do you want to get in shape? Over your past? Beyond your upbringing? Do you want to get stronger, healthier, happier? Would you like to leave Bethesda in the rearview mirror? Are you ready for a new day, a new way? Are you ready to get unstuck?

Ah, there it is. There’s the word. That’s the descriptor.

Unstuck.

Dislodged.
Pried loose.
Set free.
Let go.
Unshackled.
Unstuck.
Life feels stuck when life makes no progress. When you battle the same discouragement you faced a decade ago or struggle with the same fears you faced a year ago. When you wake up to the same hang-ups and habits. When Bethesda becomes a permanent mailing address. When you feel as though everyone gets to the pool before you and nobody wants to help you.

If that is you, then pay attention to the promise of this miracle. Jesus sees you. This Bethesda of your life? Others avoid you because of it. Jesus walks toward you in the midst of it. He has a new version of you waiting to happen. He says to you what he said to the man: “Stand up, pick up your mat, and walk!” (v. 8 nlt).

Stand up. Do something. Take action. Write a letter. Apply for the job. Reach out to a counselor. Get help. Get radical. Stand up.

Pick up your mat. Make a clean break with the past. Clean out your liquor cabinet. Throw out the junky novels. Quit hanging with the bad crowd. Drop the boyfriend like a bad habit. Put porn filters on your phone and computer. Talk to a debt counselor.

And walk. Lace up your boots and hit the trail. Assume that something good is going to happen. Set your sights on a new destination, and begin the hike. Getting unstuck means getting excited about getting out. Heed the invitation of this miracle: believe in the Jesus who believes in you. He believes that you can rise up, take up, and move on.

Written by Max Lucada from You Are Never Alone: Trust in the Miracle of God’s Presence and Power