Blind

He sits in the dirt on the side of the old road, his clothes stained red from the dust of many a passing crowd. His eyes reflect a deep lostness, an empty void, a tiredness and despair. Something is different about these eyes. As he stares blankly into the distance, the chatter of people in the marketplace subtly fades into the angry voices of the past. He retreats into his thoughts, lets himself go back in time and feel, hear all those voices of contempt ringing loud. This memory is nothing but those words, those voices in his head, and the emotions that flow from abuse. He strains to be able to see, to grasp color and put faces to the voices, shapes and designs to objects. But there is only blackness. There has always only ever been this blackness, this blindness that has taken not only his vision, but his soul-sight as well. The voices get louder, he can almost feel himself being shoved to the ground again as the questions and taunts hit him like bullets. 

“Gosh, what did you do you filthy little dog, that you were born blind? You must have done something terrible!”

“Get out of here you worthless piece of trash! I don’t want to see your face again! How could you be so disgusting?” 

“Did you murder someone? Did you, did you rape someone? Just tell me, what awful thing did you do?”

“If you actually didn’t do anything, then what in heavens name did your parents do? They must be pretty evil people.”

“God hates you and so do I. You deserve this.”

“God is punishing you because you’re evil and you deserve it—He knew all along how evil you were gonna be and that you would need this punishment.”

“I don’t hang out with losers and disgusting sinners like you.”

“You should just die. You’re worthless and deserve to die anyway. There’s no hope for you—you’re too bad.”

The voices get louder and louder, his chest tightens, and beads of sweat form on his forehead. He wants to get up and scream, run, run anywhere. But he is paralyzed here, sitting in the dust from other people’s feet. 

“God! What did I do?” He screams into the blackness of his mind and world. “Just tell me what I did! If I could simply justify this, if I could just dig it up in my brain, if I could just remember—what did I do?” 

For hours, he tears himself to shreds, desperate to find something, anything, so evil that he did. These voices and questions drive him to utter insanity. In a final moment of anguish and terror, he throws his hands in the air and screams at the sky he cannot see: “Why, why do you hate me, God?!” 

In the midst of the thunderous voices taunting his worn soul, he hears footsteps approaching, coming down the little dirt path. Voices, there are more voices. He listens in the emptiness that racks his heart. 

“Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” (John 9:2). 

The man sinks lower into despair. The voices haven’t changed since so many years ago. They speak of the same, ask the same, believe the same. Maybe there really isn’t hope. Not for him. Not for a man born blind. The voices rise again, he barely cares to listen anymore. What’s the point? He can feel the accusations coming next. 

“Jesus answered, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned, but that the works of God should be revealed in him”” (John 9:3). 

What? Was he imagining it? Did he just hear a Voice say that neither him nor his parents sinned? That his blindness was not the cause of some terrible misdeed he did? His heart pounds, it can’t be true. Presently, the Man bends down and spits in the dust at his feet. Bitterness threatens to suffocate his heart. Had he not been right? Was this another searing insult just as it had always been? Was this another slap in the face, jab at the heart? But the Man doesn’t leave. He takes the dirt and makes a paste. Gently, he puts it on the eyes of the blind man and tells him to go wash in the pool of Siloam. Stunned, he tries to comprehend what is taking place. This Man, this Voice, the same voice that spoke moments before, is now telling him to go wash mud off his eyes in the pool over yonder. 

For a moment, the voices from the past threaten to drown out the voice of this one Man. What if this Man is messing with him? But he remembers the sound of this Man’s voice, the words He spoke with conviction. He remembers the gentle touch of this Man, a touch that wasn’t violent or rough or unkind. And so he lets the sound of this one Man’s compassionate voice grow louder and louder—this Man is different. This Man believes in him. This Man believes in something far beyond condemnation and hopelessness for his life. With eager determination, he leaps to his feet and tremblingly navigates his way to the pool. Reaching into the cool liquid, he splashes water onto those eyes—those eyes that see only darkness. Eyes that have been accustomed to only ever seeing this blackness, this emptiness and hopelessness. 

With determination, he throws his face into the cool, refreshing pool and scrubs the last of that dirt from his eyes—the very dirt he has sat in for years, the very dirt that people destined him to for the rest of his life. And when he brings his head up from out of the water, he slowly opens his eyes, and for the first time, he sees. Color paints his vision, voices have faces, objects have shapes and designs, the warmth of the sun has light. For the first time, this man sees. He sees the truth about the heart of God. 

The very own disciples of Jesus didn’t know the heart of God. In their question, they revealed their dark belief that God is not love, that He looks at people and treats them based on their potential to sin, based on their potential to fall. They revealed their assumption that God punishes people for the sins they will one day commit, or that He would dare to curse a man because of his parents’ sin. These beliefs were not merely disdain for another man, but insults to the very character of God. By contrast, the miracle of God’s heart is that He sees us and treats us based on the potential that we have in Him, based on all that we can become in and through Him. 

And this is the greater miracle in this story, the greater blessing. For the first time, this blind man sees. This blind man sees God for who He really is. For the first time, he has hope that God has hope in him. For the first time, he believes that Christ sees him for all he can become in Jesus. And this seeing, this seeing of beautiful color in the character of God, this seeing of loving, artistic design in the desires of God, this seeing of the compassionate face of God, this seeing of the light and warmth radiating from the heart of God—this seeing saves him. 

This man was not the only one blind; we live blind too. So often we live in this darkness, this blackness that has destroyed our soul-sight. We can’t see, and in all our living and breathing we wonder, scream it, “why does God hate me?” Every storm translates into a direct insult from God. We perceive the world through eyes that have been accustomed to only ever seeing this blackness, this emptiness, hopelessness, and pain. The voices taunt us too. The voices are here too, telling us God doesn’t believe in us, that He treats us based on our potential to sin, that He hates us; that we’re too messed up, too broken, too lost, too evil, too blind—too far beyond the reach of heaven.

We panic, we cower, we reel. 

But it is here in the very dust of our lives that God creates a miracle. He bends low, forms beauty out of the dust, and touches our eyes. It is in His gentle touch, in His convicted voice that we gain the confidence to trust Him enough to go and wash our eyes in the fountain of His grace and love. It is then that we are able to see—to see the heart of God. Color paints our vision, light radiates from the Son, we see His heart for what it really is. And this seeing—this seeing saves us.


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