Homilies on John 36.1–37.2

“This again was the second sign that Jesus did, having come from Judea into Galilee. After this there was a feast of the Jews, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem.” As in gold mines those skilled in such work would not bear to overlook even the smallest vein, since it produces great wealth, so too in the divine Scriptures one must not pass over [a single] iota or one stroke, [but] search everything. For everything has been spoken by the Holy Spirit, and nothing in them is superfluous. Consider, at any rate, what the evangelist says here too: “This again was the second sign that Jesus did, having come from Judea into Galilee.” For he did not add “second” idly, but still exalts the wonder of the Samaritans, showing that even after a second sign had been done, those who had seen it had not yet reached the height of those who had seen nothing. “After this there was a feast of the Jews.” What feast? It seems to me, that of Pentecost. “And Jesus went up to Jerusalem.” He constantly visits the city at the feasts, partly so as to seem to keep the feast with them, partly to draw the guileless multitude; for in these days especially those of simpler disposition used to flock together. “Now there is in [Jerusalem by the sheep gate a pool, called in Hebre]w Bethesda, having five porticoes. In these lay a great multitude of the sick, lame, blind, withered, waiting for the moving of the water.” What is this manner of healing? What mystery does it hint at for us? For these things were not written simply or idly, but he sketches the future as in a picture and type, so that what was very strange, coming unexpectedly, might not damage the power of faith among the many. What then does it sketch? A baptism was going to be given, having great power and the greatest gift, a baptism cleansing all sins and making the dead alive. These things, then, are prefigured as in a picture by the pool and by many other things. And first he gave water that cleansed the stains of bodies, defilements not real but only seeming, such as those from funerals, from leprosy, and from other such things; and one could see many things done by water in the Old Testament for this reason. But let us go now to what presses. First, then, as I said before, he makes bodily defilements, and next also various diseases, be loosed by water. For God, wishing to bring us nearer to the gift of baptism, no longer heals only defilements but also diseases. For the images nearer the truth, in the case of baptism, of the passion and of the rest, were clearer than the older ones. For as the guards near the king are more splendid than those far off, so it was with the types too. [An angel came down and troubled the water,] and put [a healing] power into it, so that the Jews might learn that much more can the Master of the angels heal all the diseases of the soul. But as here it was not simply the nature of the waters that healed (for then this would have happened at all times), but the working of the angel, so too in our case it is not simply the water that works, but when it receives the grace of the Spirit, then it looses all sins. Around this pool “lay a great multitude of the sick, blind, lame, withered, waiting for the moving of the water.” But then infirmity was a hindrance to one who wished to be healed; now everyone is free to come. For it is not an angel who troubles the water, but the Master of the angels who works everything. And it is not possible to say, “I have no one”; it is not possible to say, “While I am coming down, another goes down before me.” Even if the whole world comes, the grace is not used up, nor is the working spent, but it remains the same and such as it was before. And as the sun's rays give light every day and are not spent, nor does their light become less from the great supply, so much more the working of the Spirit is in no way diminished by the multitude of those who enjoy it. And this happened so that people who learned that bodily diseases could be healed in water, and had been trained in this for a long time, might easily believe that it can also heal diseases of the soul.

And why did Jesus, passing over all, come to the man who had been ill thirty-eight years? And why does he ask, “Do you want to become well?” Not in order to learn (that would have been superfluous), but to show the man's endurance, and so that we might know that it was for this reason that he passed over the others and came to him. What then does the sick man say? “He answered him, ‘Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is troubled; but while I am coming, another goes down before me.’” That is why he asked, “Do you want to become well?”—so that we might learn this. And he did not say to him, “Do you want me to heal you?”—for the man did not yet imagine anything great about him—but “to become well?” The paralytic's endurance is astonishing: having been ill thirty-eight years, and expecting every year to be freed from his disease, he kept waiting there and did not withdraw. For if the past years were not enough, were not the years to come enough to take him away from the place, had he not been a man of endurance? Consider, I ask, how watchful the other sick people there were likely to be; for the time when the water was troubled was not known. The lame and the maimed could watch for it; but how did the blind see it? Perhaps they learned it from the commotion that arose.

[2] [Let us be ashamed, then, beloved,] and groan at our great sloth. That man had been waiting thirty-eight years without obtaining what he wished, and did not withdraw; and he failed to obtain it not through his own negligence but because he was wronged and suffered violence from others; and not even so did he grow weary. But we, if we persevere ten days earnestly asking for something and do not obtain it, are reluctant thereafter to use the same zeal. And on men [we wait a long time, serving in the army, enduring hardship and performing servile] services, and often at the end we lose even the hope itself; but with our Master, from whom we are sure to receive a reward much greater than our toils (“for hope does not put to shame,” it says), we do not endure to wait with the zeal that is fitting. And of what punishment is this not worthy? For even if there were nothing to receive, should not this very thing, conversing with him continually, be thought worth countless good things? “But continual prayer is laborious.” And what, tell me, of the things of virtue is not laborious? “This very thing,” someone says, “is full of great perplexity: that pleasure is allotted to vice, and toil to virtue.” And I think many ask this. What then is the reason? God gave us from the beginning a life free from cares and released from toils; we did not use the gift as we should, but were perverted by idleness and fell out of paradise. That is why he made our life laborious thereafter, as if defending himself to the human race and saying, “I granted you luxury from the beginning, but you became worse through ease; that is why I ordered toils and sweat to be laid on you from now on.” And since not even that toil restrained them, he gave next a law with many commandments, like putting bridles and fetters on a hard-mouthed horse to check its prancing, as horse-breakers do. That is why life is laborious: because not toiling is wont to corrupt us. For our nature does not bear idleness, but easily turns aside to vice. Suppose the chaste man needed no toil, nor the one who achieves the rest of virtue, but we accomplished everything asleep: how would we have used the ease? Would we not have been carried away to folly and boastfulness? “But why,” someone says, “is great pleasure yoked to vice, and great toil and sweat to virtue?” And what thanks would you have had, or for what would you have received a reward, if the thing were not laborious? For even now I can show you many who by nature hate intercourse with women and flee association with them as loathsome; shall we call these chaste, tell me, or crown and proclaim them? By no means. For chastity is self-control, and prevailing over pleasures that fight against us. In wars too, when the contests are fierce, then the trophies become more splendid, not when no one raises his hands against us. Many too are sluggish by nature; shall we call these gentle? By no means. That is why Christ too, speaking of three kinds of eunuchs, leaves two uncrowned and brings one into the kingdom. “And what need was there of vice?” someone says. I say that too. Who then is the maker of vice? Who else but the sloth that comes from our free will? “But there ought,” someone says, “to have been only good people.” And what is proper to the good man—to be sober and watchful, or to sleep and snore? “And why,” someone says, “did it not seem good that one should do right without toiling?” You speak to me the words of cattle and of gluttons, who think their belly a god. For that these words come from sluggishness, answer me: if there were a king and a general, and then while the king slept and [made merry, the general toiled and] set up the trophy, to whom would you reckon the victory? Who would have reaped the pleasure of what happened? Do you see that the soul is more attached to those things for which it has toiled? That is why he mixed toils with virtue, wishing to make it dear to us. That is why we admire virtue even if we do not achieve it, and condemn vice even though it is pleasant. And if you say, “Why do we not admire those who are good by nature more than those who are so by choice?”—because it is just to put the one who toils before the one who does not. “And why,” someone says, “do we toil now?” Because you did not bear not toiling with moderation. Indeed, if one examines it exactly, idleness is wont to corrupt us in other ways too and to give us much toil. If you like, let us shut a man up, only feeding and fattening him, not letting him walk nor bringing him out to any work; let him enjoy table and bed and live in luxury continually: what could be more wretched than this life? “But working is one thing,” someone says, “and toiling another.” But it was possible then to work without toil. “And is that possible?” someone says. Yes, it is possible; God wished this too, but you would not bear it. That is why he set you to work the garden, appointing work but not mixing toil with it. For if man had toiled at the beginning, God would not have imposed this afterwards as a penalty. For it is possible both to work and not to suffer hardship, as the angels do. For that they work, hear what it says: “Mighty in strength, doing his word.” Now the want of strength makes the toil great; but then this was not so. For “whoever has entered into his rest,” it says, “has rested from his works, as God did from his own”—meaning here not idleness, but not toiling. For God is still working even now, as Christ says: “My Father is working until now, and I am working.” That is why I urge you to put away all negligence and strive for virtue. For the pleasure of vice is brief, but the pain lasting; with virtue, on the contrary, the joy is ageless and the toil temporary. Virtue even before the crowns refreshes her own workman, nourishing him with hopes; vice even before the punishment torments her own workman, choking his conscience, terrifying him and making him suspect everything. And how much worse are these things than many toils and much sweat! And if these did not exist, and there was only pleasure, what is cheaper than that pleasure? For it appears and at once flies off, withering and fleeing before it is grasped—whether you speak of the pleasure of bodies, of luxury, or of money; for they never cease growing old every day. And when there is also punishment and retribution, what could be more wretched than those who pursue it? Knowing these things, then, let us endure everything for virtue. For so we shall also enjoy the true pleasure, by the grace and love for humankind of our Lord Jesus Christ, with whom be glory to the Father, together with the Holy Spirit, to the ages of ages. Amen.

“Jesus says to him, ‘Do you want to become well?’ The sick man answered him, ‘Yes, Lord; but I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is troubled.’” Great is the gain from the divine Scriptures, and all-sufficient the help that comes from them. Paul showed this when he said, “For whatever was written beforehand was written for our admonition, on whom the ends of the ages have come, so that through endurance and the encouragement of the Scriptures we might have hope.” For the divine oracles are a treasury of every kind of medicine, so that whether one needs to quench arrogance, or lull desire to sleep, or trample on the love of money, or despise pain, or instill cheerfulness and build up endurance, one can find abundant resources in them. For who of those wrestling with long poverty, or held fast by a grievous disease, will not receive great comfort on reading the present passage? This man remained paralyzed thirty-eight years, and saw others freed every year while he himself was held by the disease, yet even so he did not fall back and despair—though not only discouragement over the past but also hopelessness about the future was enough to lay him low. Hear, then, what he says, and learn how great his tragedy was. When Christ said, “Do you want to become well?” he answered, “Yes, Lord; but I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is troubled.” What could be more pitiable than these words? What more affecting than his situation? Do you see a heart crushed by long [illness]? For he uttered nothing blasphemous, such as we hear from many in their troubles; he did not curse his day; he was not vexed at the question, nor did he say, “Do you ask whether I want to become well?” but answered meekly and with great gentleness, “Yes, Lord.” And yet he did not know who it was that asked, nor that he was going to heal him; but nevertheless he tells everything gently and asks for nothing more, as though speaking to a physician and wishing only to report his suffering. For perhaps he expected that Christ would be of use to him for this, for putting him into the water, and wished to draw him by these words. What then does Christ say? Showing that he can do all things by a word, he says, “Rise, take up your bed and walk.” Some think that this is the man found in Matthew. But it is not; and this is clear on many counts. First, from his lack of people to help him: that man had many who cared for him and carried him, this one no one; that is why he said, “I have no one.” Second, from the answer: the one says nothing, while this one tells everything about himself. Third, from the occasion and the time: this one was healed at a feast and on a Sabbath, that one on another day. The place of each differs too: the one is healed in a house, the other by the pool. And the manner of the healing is changed: [there the] sins [are forgiven first], while here he first braces the body and then cares for the soul. There is forgiveness there—“Your sins are forgiven you,” he says—but here an exhortation and a threat securing him for the future: “Sin no more,” he says, “so that nothing worse may happen to you.” And the charges of the Jews differ: here they bring up working on the Sabbath, there they charge him with blasphemy. But consider the surpassing wisdom of God. He did not raise him at once, but first makes him his own by the question, preparing the way for the faith to come; and he not only raises him but orders him to take up his pallet, so as to confirm the miracle that had happened, and so that no one might think what had been done an illusion or a piece of acting. For he would not have been able to carry the bed unless his limbs had been firmly and thoroughly knit together. Christ does this often, stopping, more than was needed, the mouths of those who wish to be shameless. In the case of the loaves too, so that no one might say that they had merely been filled and that what happened was an illusion, he arranges that many fragments of the loaves remain; and to the cleansed leper he says, “Go, show yourself to the priest,” at once providing the most exact proof of the cleansing and stopping the shameless mouths of those who said he was legislating against God. He did the same with the wine: he did not simply produce the wine, but had it carried to the master of the feast, so that one who knew nothing of what had happened might by his own confession give an unsuspected testimony. That is why the evangelist too said that the master of the feast did not know where it came from, showing the impartiality of the testimony. And when he raised a dead person elsewhere, he says, “Give her something to eat,” providing this as a sign of a real resurrection; by all these things persuading the senseless that he was not a deceiver nor a conjurer of illusions, but had come for the salvation of the common nature of mankind.

[2] Why then does he not demand faith of him, as he did in the case of the blind men, saying, “Do you believe that I am able to do this?” Because the man did not yet know clearly who he was. For he is seen doing this not before the miracles but after them. Those who had seen his power in other cases rightly heard this; but those who had not yet learned who he was, but were going to know him from the signs, are asked for faith after the miracles. That is why Matthew too introduces Christ saying this not at the beginning of the signs, but when he had healed many, and to the two blind men only. But consider the paralytic's faith even so. Hearing, “Take up your bed and walk,” he did not laugh, nor say, “What is this? An angel comes down and troubles the water and heals only one; and do you, a man, hope by a bare command and word to be able to do more than angels? This is conceit and boasting and a joke.” He said nothing of the kind, nor even thought it; at once he heard and rose; and becoming well he did not disobey the one who commanded him, “Rise, take up your bed and walk.” This is wonderful; but what followed much more so. Or rather, to obey at the beginning, when no one was troubling him, is not so wonderful; but afterwards, when the Jews were raging and pressing on him from every side, accusing and besieging him and saying, “It is not lawful for you to take up your bed,” not only to disregard their madness, but even to proclaim his benefactor with great boldness in the middle of the assembly, [and to stop their shamelessness—this] I call the mark of courage. For when the Jews set upon him and said reprovingly and arrogantly, “It is the Sabbath; it is not lawful for you to take up your bed,” hear what he says: “The one who made me well, he said to me, ‘Take up your bed and walk’”—all but saying: You are talking nonsense and raving when you tell me not to take as my teacher the one who freed me from so long [and grievous a disease], and not to obey whatever he commands. Yet if he had wished to act basely, he could have spoken otherwise, for example: “I do not do this willingly, but at another's command; if this is a crime, accuse the one who ordered it, and I will put down the bed”; and he would have concealed the healing. For he knew clearly that they were not so stung by the breaking of the Sabbath as by the curing of his illness. But he neither concealed this nor said that, nor asked pardon, but with a clear voice confessed and proclaimed the benefit. So the paralytic; but see how maliciously they act. They did not say, “Who is it that made you well?” About this they kept silent, but kept bringing forward the apparent transgression: “Who is the man who said to you, ‘Take up your bed and walk’?” “But the man who had been healed did not know who it was; for Jesus had withdrawn, there being a crowd in the place.” [...] as the evangelist shows by adding, “Now that day was a Sabbath. So the Jews said to the man who had been healed …”

And why did Christ hide himself? First, so that in his absence the testimony might be free of suspicion; for the man who had felt his health was a trustworthy witness of the benefit. Next, so as not to make their anger flare up more (for even the mere sight of one who is envied is wont to kindle no small [spark in the envious]); [so withdrawing,] he leaves the work by itself to plead among them, so that he himself no longer says anything about himself, but those who were healed do, and with them the very accusers. For these too in the meantime bear witness to the miracle. For they did not say, [“Why did you command these things on the Sabbath?” but] “Why do you do these things on the Sabbath?”, being vexed not on account of the transgression, but [grudging] the paralytic's recovery. And yet, as far as human work goes, what the paralytic did was rather a work; that was a word and a saying. Here, then, he orders another to break the Sabbath; elsewhere he does it himself, kneading clay and anointing eyes. And he does these things not transgressing but rising above the law. But of these things later. For he does not defend himself in the same way everywhere when they accuse him about the Sabbath, and this must be observed with [care].

[3] For the present let us see how great an evil envy is, and how it blinds the eyes of the soul, to the ruin of the one it has seized. For as madmen often thrust swords against themselves, so too the envious, looking to one thing only, the harm of the one they envy, disregard their own salvation. These are worse even than wild beasts. For those arm themselves against us when they need food or have first been provoked by us; but these, even after being often benefited, have treated their benefactors as though they had wronged them. They are worse than wild beasts, then, and equal to demons, perhaps even worse than they. For demons have a truceless enmity toward us, but do not plot against their own kind—which is why he stopped the mouths of the Jews with this when they said that he cast out demons [by Beelzebul]. But these neither respected the common bond of nature nor spared themselves. For before those they envy, they punish their own souls, filling them with every kind of turmoil and despondency idly and in vain. For why do you grieve, O man, at your neighbor's good things? We ought truly to grieve at the evils we suffer, not at seeing others in good repute. That is why this sin is stripped of every excuse. The fornicator can plead his desire, the thief his poverty, the murderer his anger—cold and unreasonable excuses, but they have some pretexts to state. But what reason will you give, tell me? None from anywhere, but only intense wickedness. For if we are commanded to love our enemies, what penalty shall we pay when we hate even those who love us? And if one who loves those who love him will be no better off than the Gentiles, [what pardon will one have who envies those who do him no wrong,] what comfort? Hear what Paul says: “If I give my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing.” And that envy and malice destroy love is plain to everyone. This passion is worse even than sexual immorality and adultery. For these stop at the one who commits them, but the tyranny of envy has overturned whole churches and ruined the whole world. It is the mother of murder: so Cain killed his brother, so Esau [sought to kill] Jacob, so his brothers Joseph, so the devil all mankind. You now do not kill, but you do many things worse than murder: praying that your brother may disgrace himself, setting snares on every side, undoing his labors for virtue, grieving that he pleases the Master of the world. It is not with him, then, [that you are at war,] but with the one [he serves], putting your own honor before his. And what is worst of all, the sin seems to be a matter of indifference, though it is more grievous than the others. For even if you give alms, even if you keep vigil, even if you fast, you have become more accursed than all if you envy your brother. And this is clear from the following. A man committed sexual immorality among the Corinthians, [and was soon restored; Cain] envied Abel and was not healed, but even when God was continually applying charms to his wound, he was in more pain and more storm-tossed, and hastened on to murder. So much more grievous is this passion than that one, and it does not easily yield to treatment unless we pay heed. Let us then pull it up by the roots from every side, considering this: that as we offend God by pining at others' good things, so we win approval by rejoicing with them, and make ourselves sharers in the good things laid up for the one who does well. That is why Paul too urges us to “rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep,” so that from both we may reap great gain. Considering, then, that even if we do not [toil, by rejoicing with the one who toils we become sharers] in his crowns, let us cast out all envy and plant love in our souls, so that, applauding those of our brothers who are in good repute, we may obtain both the present and the future good things, by the grace and love for humankind of our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom and with whom be glory to the Father, together with the Holy Spirit, now and always and to the ages of ages. Amen.