All I Know
“I do not know whether he is a sinner. One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see.” One of the things that I personally appreciate about Jesus is that he likes to argue. He argues with Pharisees, with the disciples, with strangers he meets while travelling. He even pushes back against God just before and during his crucifixion. And yet, when the disciples in this passage seem like they’re trying to start something by asking Jesus who sinned so that this man would be born blind, Jesus seems to brush them off. I, for one, might have had a hard time not engaging with this question, but mostly because I think it’s silly to ask if the blindness of the man who was born blind was caused by the man’s sins. They probably thought they were on to something when they asked that question, but it sets up a theological position that I find pretty troubling and that I think would be difficult to support with other parts of scripture. But Jesus once again resists temptation and chooses not to engage with this line of thinking. Instead, he says that this man’s blindness is not a punishment, but a way for God to be made known in the world. Jesus deliberately removes any mention of sin from the man’s status and disability, and replaces the idea of sin with a sense of obligation to the man. He doesn’t really get into the nitty gritty theology of the man’s disability, only that the man needs help, that the man’s existence demands that Jesus and the disciples do God’s work—the work of healing and restoration. He doesn’t get lost in the struggle to explain away struggle or hardship, but moves swiftly into the work that both God and this man require of him. He sees this man, who had been pushed to the margins of the community and forced to beg on the street, and does what he believes will restore him to the community.
Jesus stands in stark contrast to those at the center of the social and religious structure, who taught the disciples to ask the question that Jesus rejects. He doesn’t question if the man is worthy, doesn’t question that his socio-economic status is not him living into the fullness of life that God would have him live, doesn’t question that God’s concern for this man is at least as great as God’s concern for any other person. Jesus doesn’t wait for a study, doesn’t wait for permission, and doesn’t even wait to ask if what he’s doing is legal—which it wasn’t, according to the Pharisees. He sees one of God’s beloveds, one of the least among us, and recognizes the face of the divine in him. He sees one who has been pushed out of the community and left by the devoutly religious to the limited mercy of strangers, and when the disciples want to start talking about the man and passing judgement, Jesus responds by effectively saying “pipe down, all of you. We have work to do.” Jesus’ initial response, his reflex, is not to mess around wondering about whether the man is sinful or the product of sin or if he was worthy. He doesn’t respond to the disciples’ question with a question or try and coax the correct answer out of his followers. He sees a man in need of a neighbor, and he does what he can to help. We can leave the question of why this man was born blind to the medical experts. The question that each of us is called to ask in the moment is “what do you need?”
This isn’t to say that it’s not important to look at the root causes of suffering in our world and our communities. True justice can only come when we realize that the economic systems that feed on white supremacy, xenophobia, and exploitation cannot set us free. But while the work of building a truly just society is ongoing, there are people who are hungry. There are people who are sick. There are people who are rejected by their families, their communities, and society because they don’t fit the model of a typical, productive member of society. And while conversations about systems and structures that do violence are important, it’s also important to meet the immediate needs of those around us. Not to quibble about who is worthy of resources or who ought to experience God’s grace at work in their lives. But to give as freely as we have received. To welcome the stranger and the outcast, regardless of how they look, how they speak, or whether it is legal to do so. To show mercy to the unhoused, to those who are hungry and thirsty and naked. To embrace into loving community those who are alone, who have been rejected, and who have been made to think that there is anything that they can do to make God love them less. The work of justice is ours to do. But so is the work of mercy, the work of loving openly and honestly and courageously.
The lectionary has the reading continue past where I chose to end it. In the verses that follow, the man continues to try and defend himself, to justify why he should be permitted to remain in the community. He pleads with the leaders of the community, witnesses to the ways in which he has experienced mercy and grace and a recognition of his sacred worth as a child of God. But the insistence of his sinfulness, and of the sinfulness of the one who had shown him mercy, continues until he is driven out once again. The reading ends with an exchange between Jesus and the Pharisees, in which Jesus finally answers the question about where the sin lies in this story. The sin is not in the man born blind, or even in his parents. The sin is not in being blind, nor is it in breaking the Sabbath in order to perform works of mercy. Instead, the sin lies in the people and conditions that set this man apart from the community. The sin lies in seeing him as less than, as unworthy, as one whom God has rejected. The sin lies in not caring for the vulnerable in their midst—and in leading others to reject mercy for the sake of purity or strict obedience to a misreading of the law. Jesus is clear that there is sin present in this story. And that sin remains when we allow the vulnerable, those image-bearers of the divine in our midst, to be abused, neglected, and called sinful. That sin remains when we see our neighbors as the world sees them—as broken, worthless, unclean, or unworthy—instead of how God sees them.
Jesus performs two healing acts in this story—or, at least he attempts two healing acts in this story. The first is the sensational, the headline, the attention-grabber: Jesus Heals a Blind Man. The second act, the one that he attempts, is to restore the man to the community. The human tendency towards rejection, towards individualism, towards assigning blame to anyone but especially not ourselves proved more difficult to overcome than a simple lack of vision. If only Jesus could have rubbed some spit-mud on the gathered community and changed these inclinations. When we look at our neighbors, what do we see? Do we see their sins, however we define them? Do we look with eyes seeking reasons not to show mercy? Do we hope to find people who are unworthy, beyond our capacity to help, who are simply part of cycles that we couldn’t possibly disrupt? Do we seek out reasons, excuses, not to expand God’s grace and the joy of community? We are called to give all of what we have and all of who we are, to love with reckless abandon, and to center those who have been pushed out of community. We are called to walk together into the fullness of life, which is a gift from the death-defying God we follow. May love, may mercy, may the grace of God be so natural for us that we can’t help but share these with our neighbors. May this by our call. Amen.