Picture this: a sanctuary. Still, sacred, and brimming with mystery. From the right side, something begins to stir. A small spring bubbles forth, emerging from the threshold of the temple. It’s quiet at first, barely brushing your ankles. But it doesn’t stay that way. What starts as a trickle becomes living water from the sanctuary—a stream that grows stronger, deeper, more alive with every step.
The stream flows eastward, gaining strength without help from any side tributaries. It deepens as it moves—rising to your knees, your waist, your shoulders—until, suddenly, you find yourself surrounded by deep, rushing waters. Stream that flows not from any ordinary source, but from the very heart of the sanctuary. Then, it empties itself into the sea, and you watch and see life and freshness surge from the dulled ocean.
Living Water Doing the Powerful
That’s the vision Ezekiel gives us in chapter 47 of his prophetic book. I read it this morning and found myself captivated—not just by the imagery, but by the sense that this water was doing something powerful. Everything it touched came alive. Trees flourished. Saltwater turned sweet. Broken things were healed. The wounded made whole.
Robert Jamieson and his fellow biblical experts once (1997) wrote of this passage, marveling at the miracle of this river’s “rapid augmentation from a petty stream into a mighty river, not by the influx of side streams, but by its own self-supply from the sacred miraculous source in the temple.” That line stayed with me. “Its own self-supply.” The depiction sounds like grace, doesn’t it? Like Jesus, the Blessed Lord.
Yes, Jesus—the Lord from whose pierced side water and blood flowed. The self-emptying Christ. The Sacred Heart, the sanctuary from where living water pours out for the healing of the world.
Connecting the Dots
Suddenly the dots start to connect. The river in Ezekiel. The Garden of Eden’s freshness (Genesis 2:10–14). The breath that gave life to dry bones (Ezekiel 37). The words of Jesus in John 7:38, “Out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water.” It’s all the same story, isn’t it? Or, at least, aspects of the same powerful event, isn’t it? It’s the story of the God whose very being is life, and the source of life, of healing, and of renewal.
This revelation points me to Baptism. That moment—yours and mine—when we were plunged into that living water from the sanctuary, even if only as infants. It was no mere ritual. It was our entry into the stream, into the flow of grace that makes all things new. The indelible mark of that river still runs. And wherever it flows, there is abundant life.
The flowing brings us to the Eucharist—“the Bread of Life,” “the food of angels”—sustaining us just as water from the right side of the sanctuary invigorates all along its paths. For the One who is the Living Water is also the Living Bread (John 6:51), from the right side of the Triune God’s throne. He also is mercy and grace for us to “rise, pick up our mat, and walk.”
Get up. Pick Up Your Mat. Walk
There’s a miracle I often return to—John 5:1-16. In Jerusalem, near the Sheep Gate, there was a pool called Bethesda—a Hebrew name that means house of mercy or house of grace. It was a place of miracles. A home, if you will, the heart from which the ocean of mercy gushes forth.
One man lay there at its edge, paralyzed for thirty-eight years. Helpless. Alone. Until Jesus came.
Jesus doesn’t wait for someone to stir the waters. He is the stirring. He doesn’t expect someone else to lead the man in mercy; he is the mercy itself. With a word, he repairs the torn ligaments and resets the fractured joints. Motion returns where there was only stiffness. Wholeness takes the place of pain, binding everything again with the thread of his grace.
He speaks. He commands. “Get up. Pick up your mat. Walk.” And just like that, there is complete healing.
All You Need is Him
Here’s the wonder of it all: you don’t need someone to carry you into the pool. You don’t need the perfect conditions, or the right timing. All you need is the Word. The Voice. The Christ.
And he is speaking. Even now.
Whether in the still waters of your baptismal grace, or the turbulent waves of life, Christ comes to you. Personally. Deeply. He touches the places you hurt. The wounds you’ve grown used to; the ones you want to make your tormenting company. The hopes you’ve buried. He doesn’t just heal you—he makes you whole.
And then he sends you forth, like that river, to bring renewal to everything you touch or with whomever you meet. You become, in him, like the living water from the sanctuary, flowing outward to bless the world around you.
So today, I invite you to step into the stream. Let it rise. Bathed in its grace. Let it carry you. Let it heal you. And don’t be afraid to flow in that grace, nourished—to go where it leads, healing as you go. Ite, missa est!
[Readings, Tuesday of the Fourth Week of Lent. April 1, 2025: Ezekiel 47:1-9, 12; John 5:1-16]
