John 9:1-12
As he went along, he saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”
“Neither this man nor his parents sinned,” said Jesus, “but this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him. As long as it is day, we must do the works of him who sent me. Night is coming, when no one can work. While I am in the world, I am the light of the world.”
After saying this, he spit on the ground, made some mud with the saliva, and put it on the man’s eyes. “Go,” he told him, “wash in the Pool of Siloam” (this word means “Sent”). So the man went and washed, and came home seeing.
His neighbors and those who had formerly seen him begging asked, “Isn’t this the same man who used to sit and beg?” Some claimed that he was.
Others said, “No, he only looks like him.”
But he himself insisted, “I am the man.”
“How then were your eyes opened?” they asked.
He replied, “The man they call Jesus made some mud and put it on my eyes. He told me to go to Siloam and wash. So I went and washed, and then I could see.”
“Where is this man?” they asked him.
“I don’t know,” he said.
There are times when we think we have it figured out. Times when we take what we’ve been told at face value because at some point in life it made sense to us. Times when we don’t even know the frailty or the antiquity of the structures that we carry with us. Times when what was once complete to us has become obsolete and we never knew it happened.
I’ve had my own versions of “Who sinned, Lord?” “Surely, it must have been this man OR his parents.” I’ve thought. Maybe not in those words, but along the same lines. We ask our questions, we bring our judgments, or we supply the reasoning immune to and ignorant of its absurdity. And like the disciples who meant well, I have embraced a small theology about a small God. Except I’ve missed the point. I think we all do.
Oh Lord, would I be more like the man born blind than those who choose their blindness. Rabbi, make me one that comes home seeing. Even when I can’t see you until it’s all said and done, may I know that it was your voice, your touch, and your presence that made all the difference.
The whole chapter is dedicated to this man’s story in three scenes. The way John writes it, it serves also as a parable, of sorts. In the beginning we are introduced to God, who works wonders in our lives, should we be willing to see them. Yet things can cloud our ability to see. Our vision may dim, so we might rely on our ideas. And it’s not just the vision of the man that was in question. It was the vision of the disciples, too. And even of his neighbors. The only thing different about him was that he could, along with a good face washing. Perhaps he walked differently and stood differently and moved differently, these are reasonable thoughts. But we must presume that he was still recognizable to his neighbors, yet they did not “see” him. They did not see his transformation, they looked only for the ways they recognized his condition.
Oh Lord, would I be more like the one transformed by Your gifts than those who do not believe in them…who do not expect them. Rabbi, make me into one who knows himself and claims himself, through you. Even in the confusion and uncertainty, may I hold on to meeting You and being changed by You.
What is scene three for you? What aspect of blindness, sight, confusion, or transformation stirs in your heart?
Reflect:
On the reading. On the contrast between the man healed and the disciples corrected. On your own version of “Who sinned?” Are there aspects of your belief that that be incomplete?
Journal:
On the ways you’ve experienced spiritual blindness. Has your lack of sight limited your ability to see and know God in some way? Has your vision grown dim and given way to thin ideas? Can you relate to the neighbors in their not being able to see the transformation right in front of them?
Pray:
For your scene three. For anything from today’s experience that lingers with you. For conviction and deeper faith, for peace amidst uncertainty, for a life-giving, sight-finding encounter with Jesus.