The Divine Son Discourse / John 5:19-47
Jesus Is Our Excuse
If you’ve ever read the Gospel of John you may notice that, once in a while, it suddenly switches gears—jumping from dramatic stories to dense, winding theology. It is perhaps most noticeable in John 5; after two miraculous healings, Jesus launches into a monologue that seems more suited for a philosophy lecture than a fireside parable. But these theological speeches—called discourses—are essential. They’re not random detours. They’re interpretive pauses, where the gospel writer explains what just happened—and why it matters.
These discourses serve as a defense of the early church and its (1) inclusion of outsiders —Gentiles, Samaritans, the “unclean” and ostracised, into the community, and (2) its high view of Jesus and their unmovable allegiance to Jesus over and above their allegiance to the leadership of the synagogue.
In John 5, we enter what scholars call the Divine Son Discourse (John 5:19–47). It begins after Jesus heals a man at the pool of Bethesda on the Sabbath, which triggers outrage from the religious authorities. Jesus doesn’t just defend His actions; He redefines the entire framework for understanding God, law, and justice.
He says, essentially: “My Father is still working, and so am I.”
Like Father Like Son
From there, the theological spotlight hits Jesus, and He speaks directly to the reader—us—not just to the Pharisees. He makes a bold claim: His actions are not only allowed but required because they mirror the actions of God the Father. Like a son learning the trade from his dad, Jesus does what He’s seen God doing from the beginning. And what is God doing? Healing. Restoring. Lifting up the broken.
This discourse also speaks directly to the early Christian community—those who were breaking religious and cultural boundaries by welcoming outcasts, Samaritans, even Gentiles. They weren’t doing it to be rebellious. They were doing it because they believed that’s exactly what Jesus did. Jesus was their reason. Their excuse. Their justification.
John’s gospel repeatedly shows us how religious leaders of the time prioritized power, purity codes, and tradition over people. The man at the pool had been paralyzed for 38 years—just like Israel wandering the desert for 38 years, stuck outside the Promised Land because of failed leadership. And now, once again, God’s people are stuck—paralyzed by a system of religion that cannot bring healing.
Jesus steps into that brokenness, not just to heal one man, but to reclaim the whole story.
If your faith doesn’t look like Jesus—if it doesn’t move toward the hurting, the left out, the overlooked—then it might not be rooted in Christ at all. When religion becomes a rulebook, it leaves people lying next to the pool, so close to healing but unable to reach it. Jesus didn’t hand out rulebooks. He extended tables, poured wine, and made space.
If we can’t point to Jesus and say, “That’s why I’m doing this,” then we’re probably doing it for the wrong reasons.
Discussion Questions
In what ways have religious systems today resembled the system Jesus confronted in John 5—where tradition and status overshadow human need? How do we begin to untangle those systems?
The man at the pool represents a people on the edge of healing but unable to enter the promise. Who today do you think lies beside the metaphorical pool—and what would it look like for the Church to bring healing?
Jesus says He only does what He sees the Father doing. What might it mean for us to adopt that same posture in our lives and communities?
How do we discern what God is doing now?John’s gospel shows the marginalized encountering God not in theory, but in present, physical ways. What does it mean for the Church to be a place where heaven is experienced “now,” not just hoped for “later”?
If someone asked you to justify your most radical or risky act of love, could you point to Jesus as your reason?
What does it mean to root our actions not in doctrine alone, but in the character and person of Christ?