Do You Want to be Healed?

As a marketer by profession, I understand the reason most fine restaurants don't use bright interior lighting. It's very intentional. Softer, dimmer lighting creates a more inviting atmosphere and relaxes people. Everything and everyone (even me) tend to look better. There are far fewer visible imperfections. The overall experience tends to be more pleasant, even though nothing about the customer has changed.

Once outside, though, in direct sunlight, circumstances are far different. With all that light, an individual can look very different. Full sunshine is certainly more revealing and also less forgiving. What may have looked fine a few moments ago inside can now appear…different. And while different isn't always worse, it's definitely more "accurate." Same person. Different light.

There's a well-known episode of Seinfeld where Jerry dates a woman he and Elaine refer to as "Two-Face." In one setting, she's strikingly attractive. In another, under harsher lighting, she looks almost unrecognizable, and not in a good way. The humor works because the contrast is so extreme. It's hard to believe she's even the same person.

What's even more telling is Jerry's response. He doesn't question the lighting—he adjusts his behavior by trying to ensure they're only together in environments where the lighting makes her more attractive. It was funny on television. Less so, maybe, when we realize how familiar that instinct feels.

With more "favorable" lighting, most of us don't just look better—we can begin to believe that version of ourselves is the real one. Many of us prefer that kind of lighting. The problem isn't that we can't see. It's that we often don't want to see clearly what's there.

Spiritual myopia works in much the same way. We see what's close, immediate, and comfortable. We form impressions based on what's most visible and least disruptive to our comfort. And over time, we can grow accustomed to a version of ourselves that may feel right—but in reality, is very distorted.

At a "safe" distance from the light, our self-perception tends to be more generous. We explain away what needs attention. We compare ourselves favorably, and we focus on what we're doing well, minimizing what we're not. Nothing about us has changed—we're simply viewing ourselves under conditions that soften the details.

But as we move closer to the light—closer to God—things begin to change. Clarity increases, and with it, a different kind of awareness. What once felt acceptable becomes questionable. And what we may have never noticed is now painfully visible. It's not that we've suddenly become worse—it's that we're finally seeing what was always there. And that's where things can begin to get uncomfortable. Because moving closer to that kind of clarity requires a response.

John 5:6 captures this tension with surprising precision. Jesus has encountered a man who has been a paralytic for thirty-eight years, lying near the Pool of Bethesda. After truly seeing the man and his condition, Jesus asks what seems to be a simple question: "Do you want to be healed?"

For years, Jesus' question sounded almost rhetorical to me. Of course the man wanted to be healed, right? Why else would he be there? But the man doesn't answer the question directly. Instead, he explains his situation, describing how he has no one to help him into the pool, and how others always get there ahead of him. To him, it's his circumstances that are responsible for him never getting the opportunity for which he'd hoped.

It's a familiar response. When asked a direct question, the man offers a well-rehearsed explanation. For years, he'd adapted to life in his condition. It was difficult, certainly—but it was also a "known," with a well-established structure and rhythm. In other words, being healed would move him out of what he knew and into a world he didn't know how to navigate.

In more recent years, I had moved beyond a rhetorical understanding of Jesus' question to a functional one. Because for a beggar, being healed would mean his "career" would no longer be viable. Who would give money to someone who didn't need it? Being healed would mean he'd have to somehow learn a trade—very difficult for someone of his age in those times.

But I've now come to believe that Jesus' question carries an even deeper invitation. It's one that goes well beyond physical restoration and applies to a question of spiritual healing for us as well.

Do we want the kind of clarity that comes with seeing ourselves as we truly are? Do we want the kind of change that will be required of us by stepping closer to Him?

Because healing doesn't just fix us—it also exposes us. It removes the conditions that once allowed us to be comfortable as we were. And while that's ultimately a good thing, it's anything but easy.

Some of you may be familiar with prominent American podcaster Theo Von, who has recently been wrestling with this very same question of whether he wants to be spiritually healed. You can hear the same tension playing out in his commentary as he's beginning to see God—and himself—more clearly. There's such a raw honesty in the way he wrestles with it. Not dismissive or resistant, just thoughtful. He's aware that moving closer isn't just about gaining something—it's also about letting go of his old self.

And that's where the question gets real. Because it's one thing to say we want to be healed. It's another to move toward the kind of light that makes that possible. At a distance, the question can seem optional. But as the light grows brighter, it becomes unavoidable.

We can keep our distance and hold on to the version of ourselves to which we may have grown accustomed—comfortable and self-manageable. Or we can step toward the light and begin to face what's true. That's the question beneath the question: do you want to be healed? Because the real light won't just comfort at the beginning. It will, however, clarify. And while clarity may unsettle us at first, it's also where we begin taking valuable steps toward holiness.