The sun was hot, my legs still didn’t work, and no one was coming.

No one ever did. Not for me.

I’d memorized disappointment. I could time the rhythm of it like a drumbeat.
I knew what it was like to live in the cracks between other people’s miracles.

He crouched near me, quiet, watching the water stir.

Then he looked at me. Eyes steady. And asked...

“Do you want to be healed?”

I blinked. Laughed. Almost swore.

“Sir, I have no one to help me into the pool when the water is stirred. While I’m trying to get in, someone else always goes down ahead of me.”

Was He mocking me? Another motivational speech? Another polite pity speech dressed in spiritual language?

He nodded. Stood. Then placed a hand on my shoulder.

“You’re strong. Don’t give up. God has a plan.”

And just like that — He walked away.

Like so many others had before.

And I remember thinking:

“What a joke, another ‘holy man’ with nothing but sympathy and a sermon.”

“Get up. Pick up your mat. And walk.”

That’s what Jesus actually said.

Same man. Same pool. But that version?
The vague encouragement, the empty platitudes, the scripted compassion?

That’s not the Jesus of Scripture.

In John 5, Jesus sees a man who’s been paralyzed for 38 years. He doesn’t quiz his faith. He doesn’t critique his mindset. He asks a question, yes. But He doesn’t wait around for the man to believe something first.

He heals. Immediately. Commandingly. Compassionately.

He gives the man what no one else would. What no one else could.

Not a motivational speech.
Not a long-winded prayer.
Just real, immediate, undeniable healing.

Because compassion doesn’t stall.
It doesn’t delay.
It moves.

Jesus didn’t heal because He had something to prove.
He healed because He couldn’t look away.

Scripture doesn’t usually describe His motives with complex theology. It uses something far more human:

This wasn’t divine PR. This was love with legs.

Jesus didn’t see interruptions. He saw opportunities.

When He saw the blind, the bleeding, the demonized, the grieving, He didn’t just teach about the Kingdom. 

He touched them with it.

That’s not a ministry strategy.
That’s the heart of a King who bleeds with His people.

And that type of healing didn’t just fix bodies, it pulled people close to the heart of God.

Somehow, we’ve made healing… complicated.

We debate it. We tiptoe around it. We file it under “controversial.” And when we do talk about it, we often treat it like:

But Jesus never treated healing that way.

He didn’t check credentials before healing the blind.
He didn’t inspect theology before cleansing lepers.
He didn’t ask the bleeding woman if she’d been tithing.

He loved.
And love acted.

We’ve turned healing into something to deserve.
Jesus turned it into something to give away.

If you’ve ever believed God wanted to heal you, but maybe not now…
Or if you’ve thought, “He forgave me, but I guess I have to suffer for a while…”

You’re not alone.

But you also haven’t heard the whole Gospel.

The same sacrifice that paid for your sins paid for your healing.

“By His wounds we are healed.” (Isaiah 53:5)

Isaiah prophesied it.

“He took up our infirmities and bore our diseases.” (Matthew 8:17)

Matthew showed it being fulfilled in Jesus’ ministry before the cross.

“By His wounds you were healed.” (1 Peter 2:24)

And Peter, after the resurrection, confirmed it was already done.

Healing isn’t a bonus feature.
It’s not a maybe.
It’s not something you earn if you behave well enough.

It’s part of the covenant. 

Part of what love purchased.

And just like forgiveness, it’s already been paid for.

Next time, we’ll explore what that means for your role, because healing isn’t something you wait on.

It’s something you steward.

Healing was Jesus’ calling card: not just a miracle, but a message.
And now that message lives in you.

You might not know how to lay hands on the sick like Jesus and the apostles yet, and that’s okay.

However, you don’t need a seminary degree to care deeply.

You don’t need a miracle ministry to move in mercy.

Start with compassion.
Start by noticing.
Start by showing up.

Because healing didn’t begin in Jesus’ hands.
It began in His heart.

If we want to look like Him, that’s where ours has to start too.

Until next time,
Addison

This article is part of a four-part Bigger Than Me series on healing—meant to be read together.

If this issue stirred something in you, I recommend continuing through the series in order or catching up on any parts you’ve missed:

Each piece builds on the last, helping you move from understanding to confidence without pressure.