Open Your Eyes

“Open your eyes”

Our Gospel begins with a question, but not an easy one. It’s one that people often reframe as an accusation. Jesus and the disciples pass a man born blind. The disciples ask,
“Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”

They want an explanation. They want causation..
Nobody likes to live in the world of “Why this, why me?
When illness wraps itself around someone’s body, when diagnosis disrupts a family, when loss show up uninvited, the first thing we often ask is why.
We may not always say it aloud—but we wonder.
What did we miss? What did we do? Is this punishment? Is this fate?

When my daughter became very ill with polyarticular arthritis when she was 12 months old, I sought the counsel and support of my pastor. He told me she was ill because I was a sinner. I went away unconsoled and unsupported. Although I’m sure at some time he read John chapter nine, it certainly seemed that he had forgotten that Jesus refused to go there, with accusations and blame. Jesus said,

“Neither this man nor his parents sinned.”

Jesus offers something far more perplexing: “He was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.”
And then Jesus does something strange. He spits on the ground. Makes mud. Rubs it on the man’s eyes. And sends him to wash. The blind man was required to do something. It is earthy and physical, even a little disgusting.

We see Jesus, the Word, here in the flesh, getting his hands dirty, rubbing mud on eyes.
The man goes. He washes. And he comes back seeing.

In my case, my daughter saw physicians at the Chicago Children’s Hospital. It was not mud they offered, but methotrexate, a drug usually used in cancer, but was experimental and basically untried. And what was required was faith and hope and action. The leap of faith was taken. And her symptoms resolved, the pain left. She had lost her ability to walk, and God’s works were revealed in her.” She walked again. It seemed miraculous. She danced ballerina at the Grand Prix in Chicago 14 years later.

In our scripture, this is when the real drama begins. Healing, especially when not expected, it turns out, is disruptive. The neighbors argue. “Is this not the man who used to sit and beg?” Some say yes. Some say no. He keeps insisting, “I am the man.” Sight has given him more than vision; it has given him voice. The truth is in his seeing.

The Pharisees investigate. It happened on the Sabbath. They make that the problem. Not the healing—the timing. Rules they understood. The miracle of sight they could not.
They question everyone.

And slowly, wonderfully, we watch the formerly blind man begin to see more than light and color. We watch him come to faith. At first he says, “The man called Jesus made mud.”
When asked by the Pharisees who Jesus was, he declares, “He is a prophet.”
Then, with a boldness that surprises everyone he says, “If this man were not from God, he could do nothing.” And finally, when Jesus finds him again and asks, “Do you believe in the Son of Man?” the man says, “Lord, I believe.” And he worships him.

His physical sight was restored in an instant. His spiritual sight unfolds step by step. It’s hard sometimes to recognize God’s work in our lives. Meanwhile, those who began the story certain they could see—the religious authorities—grow more blind by the moment.

John is doing something profound here metaphorically, as he did with Nicodemus coming out of the darkness into light. Blindness and sight are no longer about eyes. They are about a humble openness to change. About our willingness to let go of our entrenched belief system. About our courage to trust in the Lord.

At the end, Jesus says something that almost sounds like a riddle: “I came into this world for judgment so that those who do not see may see, and those who see may become blind.” The Pharisees overhear and ask, “Surely we are not blind, are we?” I think they had some insight even to ask the question, that just hangs there.

The tragedy about this chapter is not that someone was born blind. The tragedy would be refusing to admit we might not see clearly ourselves.

We live in a world very confident in its ability to either see things the right way or make it seem like right way.. We are inundated with information—data, scans, diagnoses, headlines, opinions, and commentary—yet we often fail to recognize each other's struggles without blame. We often struggle to recognize grace when it looks different from what we expect.

The key question of this text is this. Where are we certain we see clearly? Are we really sure? Where might Jesus be making mud and unsettling our assumptions?

It is worth noticing that the only one in the story who experiences joy is the man who knew he was blind. He did not defend a system of religious rules. He simply received mercy. And when he is thrown out—cast aside by the religious establishment—Jesus goes looking for him.

That detail moves me every time. Jesus wasn’t one and done. He seeks him out.
The healing was not the end of the story. Relationship was. And perhaps that is where this Gospel meets us. Not in abstract debates about sin and suffering. Not in arguments about Sabbath law. But in the quiet, personal question Jesus asks: “Do you believe?” The man answers with worship.The physician asked us, “ Do you trust me?” We said, Go ahead, start the treatment.

No amount of scripture reading, no amount of googling medical sites can take us to where we need to be. Leap of faith. Trust.

Maybe the invitation for us is simpler than we think. To admit where we do not see clearly. To let Christ touch the places we have kept guarded. To obey Jesus even if it makes us feel uncomfortable. To grow in faith gradually, honestly.

Jesus walks past no one. Not the blind beggar. Not the confused disciple. Not the defensive Pharisee. Not the 12 month little girl. Not us. His light shines on us all. That should be clear.

The challenge is this. Are we are willing to see? Thanks be to God. Amen