Waiting by the Wrong Waters
First Reading: Ezekiel 47:1-9,12
Responsorial Psalm: Ps. 45(46):2-3,5-6,8-9ab
Gospel: John 5:1-3,5-16
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There’s something familiar in the way people wait. A woman waits years for a proposal from someone who’s not ready. A person waits for a government job that never comes. A young man pours himself into novenas, vigils, crusades, etc., but still battles an addiction that refuses to break. People wait faithfully, desperately, sometimes even bitterly. But the deeper issue isn’t just that they are waiting. It’s that, often, they are waiting by the wrong waters. The place they’ve pinned their hopes on has long lost its power. Lent, especially in this fourth week marked by Laetare joy, draws attention to the need to recognize where one is waiting and whether the object of that hope is still life-giving. The readings for this day, when read together, bring this challenge to light. They invite us to rejoice not merely because healing has come, but because the real source of joy has arrived, and we are no longer bound to wait by stagnant waters.
The First Reading from Ezekiel (47:1–9,12) speaks of a vision of life-giving water flowing from the temple. The historical context of this passage is critical: it emerges from the exile period, when the Temple had been destroyed and Israel’s spiritual and national identity was shaken. God offers Ezekiel not just a message of return but a vision of future hope. Water flows from under the threshold of the temple, and this stream gradually becomes a river deep enough to swim in. The water transforms everything in its path, even the Dead Sea becomes fresh. What is pertinent here is the direction of the flow. The water doesn’t remain locked inside the temple. It flows outward, touching what had no life. The Hebrew word mayim (water) in this prophetic vision isn’t just physical, it is symbolic of divine grace, renewal, and joy. This subverts conventional thinking. One would expect that the nearer one is to the Temple, the more life one finds. But in this vision, the further the water flows out, the more life it brings. This is a prophetic message for those who have invested all their trust in religious structures without recognizing the movement of God’s Spirit. Sometimes, joy is not where we have always waited. Sometimes, the healing water flows in directions that challenge our attachments.
Psalm 46, which serves as the responsorial psalm, reflects this same movement of divine presence and joy. “The waters of a river give joy to God’s city, the holy place where the Most High dwells.” This is a direct echo of Ezekiel’s vision. Interestingly, Psalm 46 may have been composed in a time of national threat, possibly during the Assyrian siege of Jerusalem. Yet amid the looming destruction, the psalmist proclaims joy, not because of external peace, but because God is present. It is not the city walls or rituals that secure their safety; it is the stream, the unseen grace, that gladdens the city. This is what makes the psalm confrontational: it invites us to rejoice not in where we are but in who is with us. The real danger today is when people place their security in environments, titles, or institutions that appear sacred but are devoid of living water. People wait in churches, wait under anointed oils, wait for blessings from particular personalities, yet the stream of grace is not tied to these places unless God is moving through them. This psalm pushes us to examine whether we are drawing joy from God’s actual presence or merely from religious geography.
The Gospel reading from John 5:1–16 brings the controversy of this theme into sharp focus. Jesus meets a man who has been ill for thirty-eight years. The man has been marked by prolonged disappointment. He lies beside the pool of Bethesda, hoping to be healed by the waters that were believed to stir with angelic power. But here is the irony: even when Jesus stands in front of him, the man is still fixated on the pool. “I have no one to put me into the water,” he says. It’s a tragic image of someone so conditioned by religious routine that he cannot recognize the arrival of true healing. The Greek term used when Jesus says “Rise” is egeire, the same word used in resurrection contexts. The miracle isn’t dependent on the water, it’s in the Word that speaks to him. The name “Siloam,” as explained in John 9, means “Sent,” and Jesus is the fulfilment of this image because he is the One sent by the Father, as John’s Gospel presents. He is the water that gives joy to God’s city. He is the new Temple from whom the stream of healing flows. To keep waiting beside the stagnant pool while ignoring Christ is to miss the point entirely. Needless to say, Jesus is the One sent by the Father to bring healing not through a place but through personal encounter. The man at Bethesda had waited beside the wrong water, and when he finally listened to the Word, his life changed. Thus, Bethesda (house of mercy), once a place of hope, had become a place of religious paralysis. Jesus confronts this, and the man’s healing exposes the system’s failure.
The first lesson is painfully clear: it is possible to spend years in religious environments and still remain spiritually stagnant. This happens when we idolize the structure and lose sight of the Saviour. The man had good theology and right intentions, but his attention was fixed on the mechanism, not the Messiah. Today, many Christians are still sitting beside pools that no longer heal; that is, sacramentals without sacraments, holy water without conversion, anointed hands without repentance. The call is to rise and recognize Christ who has come near. Waiting is not the issue. Where we wait, and why we wait, is.
Secondly, the story challenges the habit of outsourcing responsibility for our healing. “I have no one to put me in,” the man says. This is often how many approach their spiritual lives – blaming pastors, friends, family, or society for why they’re not better. But when Christ is present, the excuses no longer hold. The command is clear: “Pick up your mat and walk.” Joy does not come from prolonged lamentation. It comes from obedience to the voice of Christ. The man did not need a pool; he needed a personal encounter. Likewise, our healing often begins when we stop blaming others and start responding to Christ’s invitation to rise.
Thirdly, the message challenges the Church and her ministers. Bethesda was a place surrounded by people who needed healing, but there was no one to help them into the water. The healed man said, “I have no one.” This is a serious indictment. How many people today feel abandoned, lying at the edge of help without anyone to draw them into the presence of God? The Church must constantly ask whether it is bringing people to the living water or merely maintaining the appearance of healing. Are we proclaiming the Sent One, or are we inviting people to wait at pools that no longer stir? Christ calls us to be channels of His healing presence, not just guardians of sacred places. Thus, this theme invites the Church and her ministers to re-evaluate the spaces we’ve labelled sacred. Are they actually places where the stream of grace flows? Or have they become waiting rooms with no movement? This is especially important in sacramental theology. If the sacraments are truly encounters with Christ, then they must lead to real conversion and joy. If not, they risk becoming like the pool of Bethesda, a tradition surrounded by people, but marked by powerlessness. Laetare joy is not the joy of being near the waters. It is the joy of being touched by the One who is sent. It is time to stop waiting by the wrong waters and begin walking with the Sent One.
Waiting is not wrong, but waiting in the wrong place can make us miss the very thing we long for. The water is flowing from the Temple again, not in old structures, but in the face of the One who was Sent. Joy begins not when the system works, but when the voice of Christ is heard and obeyed. “Rise, take up your mat, and walk.” Now is the time to stop waiting by the wrong waters.
O that today you would listen to his VOICE, harden not your hearts! (Ps. 95:7)
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Shalom!
© Fr. Chinaka Justin Mbaeri, OSJ
Seminário Padre Pedro Magnone, São Paulo, Brazil
nozickcjoe@gmail.com / fadacjay@gmail.com
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