It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. –Matthew 9:12b, NIV
Their minds were racking up questions, like a mile per minute. Every time Jesus walked along the way, the Pharisees and Sadducees were picking a little, talking a little bit more garbage about Him. They couldn’t refuse to spew out juicy gossip every time they saw Him cast demons out with authority, or raise a dead person to live, or bring a blind person back to life. Oh, they were pretty good gossips!
Aye, they were good at questioning authority! How lame was it that they couldn’t answer Jesus’ simple question about resurrection (they wanted to find a way to find flaw in His teachings), while they couldn’t make more wells, or couldn’t improve Judea’s education levels, or at least stop sucking up to Rome! And they complained that they weren’t sick…
Those men didn’t have cancer. Or at least mesothelioma. What about rheumatoid arthritis, HIV/AIDS, osteoporosis (men could have that, too, y’know!), or any other serious condition. But they were sick. Really sick.
Their eyesight was as ephemeral as a naked mole rat (sorry, Rufus!). Their eyes were as clogged as a mighty ear-wax buildup. They could eat, but everything they could taste was like manure; not even something sweet like honey, or even soft and silky like milk. They could walk, but they couldn’t look beyond the wooden beam in their eyes. There was nothing else they could enjoy about life. Their eyes were lost in the sea of imperfection, while their minds were set on the islands of self-centeredness. The one we were all shipwrecked once.
Maybe they needed a Doctor to take care of them, after all…