Before and After Sight

Our scripture readings from John’s gospel over the past few weeks have had a familiar theme running through them. We have been looking at opposites: light versus dark, up versus down, what it means to be born from above versus being born naturally, and the profound difference between the time before and the time after.

Today, our reading continues beautifully in that same vein. Yes, it is a magnificent healing miracle, and it is part of the “Book of Signs” that encompasses the first major section of John’s gospel. But while this passage features a physical miracle, it is ultimately a story about the before and after of a man’s life. The miracle points to a much deeper meaning about Jesus’ true identity, his boundless grace, and what it actually means to see God at work in the world.

As the story begins, the disciples ask a question that still haunts religious communities today. They see a man who has been blind since birth and they ask, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents?”

It is a terrible question. But if we are honest, it is a very human one. When tragic things happen, when a devastating diagnosis is given, when a child is born with an illness, or when a global crisis like a pandemic upends our world, we desperately want to assign blame. We want a neat, theological equation to explain unfortunate circumstances. The disciples, echoing the religious culture of their time, believed that suffering was a direct punishment for sin.

But Jesus has absolutely no desire to talk about why. He rejects the premise of the question entirely. Jesus’ actions immediately offer a radical change of theme: he links sight with salvation and liberation, rather than linking blindness with sin. What is important, Jesus tells them, is not assigning blame for this man’s past, but realizing that the restorative work of God is about to happen in their midst right now. The kingdom of God is breaking in, and the true tragedy would be missing it.

And yet, missing it is exactly what the religious leaders do. Within the fourth Gospel, the Pharisees are depicted as the monitors of Jewish society. They are the gatekeepers, determining exactly what is allowable in public and spiritual life. When they hear about this miraculous healing, instead of celebrating that a marginalized man has been made whole, they initiate a theological trial. They argue that Jesus must be a sinner because he healed on the Sabbath. They question the man’s parents. They call the formerly blind man a sinner.

There is a profound progressive truth here for the church today: Suffering, or a person’s social location, does not reveal their inner spiritual truth. Rather, our response to their suffering or situation reveals our inner truth. When religion relies on technicalities and rigid laws that protect the comfort but harm the vulnerable, it loses the plot of the Gospel.

Which brings us to one of the most startling realities of this long, 41-verse passage: Jesus is only present for 13 of those verses. He is entirely absent for the remaining 28.

Notice that Jesus is intimately present at the beginning of the story when the man is blind. There is an injustice here, a right needing to be wronged, a beloved child of God in need of healing. Jesus is present.

Move to the end of the chapter, and the man has just been thrown out of his spiritual community with insults hurled at him. Once again, there is an injustice, a right needing to be wronged, a person who desperately needs to be told that they are whole and that they are entirely good enough for God. And Jesus is present.

But during the endless debate about why the man was blind, about exactly how the healing happened, and about what day of the week it occurred, Jesus is nowhere to be found.

Scott Hoezee from the Center for Excellence in Preaching captures this perfectly. He notes that from verse 7 until verse 35, the Son of God is nowhere to be seen. He writes, “I don’t think it’s coincidental. The minute we start denying the work of God in Christ Jesus our Lord so as to make things neat and tidy and in conformity to how we like things done, it’s pretty tough to see the real Jesus”.

Jesus is absent from our passage when love, grace, and mercy dry up. The absence of Jesus during their petty squabbling informs us that God is simply not interested in our exclusionary arguments. Jesus vanishes when religion becomes a weapon, but he always reappears when a marginalized person needs healing and wholeness.

While the religious leaders remain spiritually blind, the healed man’s eyes are opened in more ways than one. His personal arc is profound. Like the Samaritan woman at the well in chapter four, whose journey was marked by successively evolving statements, this man’s faith grows gradually. As Karoline Lewis points out, the blind man recognizes Jesus in stages. He goes from seeing “the man called Jesus,” to calling him a “prophet,” and finally to recognizing him as “Lord” and worshiping him.

He moves from “I do not know” to “Lord, I believe.” This gradual recognition speaks so beautifully to our own growth in faith. How do we first understand God? Sometimes we know Jesus as a friend and comforter. Other times, we see his words as deeply prophetic, demanding systemic change and justice from us. God leaves breadcrumbs for us to follow, and to profess faith in Jesus is as transformative as gaining physical sight.

As we read this passage, we must recognize that the lectionary has only provided us with half the story. We often think that John chapter 10 is a brand new story simply because it is a new chapter. But it is a direct continuation of these exact events. Jesus has just told the Pharisees, “I Am the light of the world.” As the story flows into chapter 10, he looks at the man who was just thrown out of the synagogue and makes another “I Am” statement: “I am the good shepherd.”

What Jesus is offering this outcast is the exact same thing Jesus offers everyone: the fierce protection, warmth, and inclusion of his fold. A story we are reminded of in Psalm 23.

There is a story about a grand community banquet where the whole town was in attendance. One of the guests was a famous, classically trained actor. At one point during the evening, the host asked the actor if he would recite the 23rd Psalm for the guests. The actor agreed on one condition: the local minister in the community, who was also seated at a table, had to share a reading of the Psalm after him. The minister agreed, though somewhat reluctantly.

The actor stood up and proceeded to give the most magnificent rendition of Psalm 23. They hit every single note, their cadence was flawless, and their voice was pitch-perfect. When they finished, the entire room rose to their feet in thunderous applause.

Next, the local minister took the microphone. Their voice was softer, perhaps a bit trembling, but it was deeply laced with genuine love and pastoral concern for the specific people sitting in that room. When the minister finished speaking the final words, “and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever” a hushed silence fell over the banquet hall. There was not a dry eye to be seen.

Afterward, someone approached the actor and asked what the difference was between the two versions. The actor smiled and replied, “I know the 23rd Psalm. But the minister knows the Shepherd.”

The Pharisees knew the texts. They knew the rules, the laws, and the Sabbath restrictions. But they did not know the Shepherd.

Who are we called to be in the world? We are called to know the Shepherd, and to let that knowledge shape how we care for our community. The driving question is not “Who sinned?” or “Why did this terrible thing happen?” The driving question is: “What are we, as followers of Christ, going to do in the here and now in spite of these circumstances?”

Throughout history, Christians have stepped up to alleviate the hardship of poverty, illness, and suffering, because these are the places where Jesus is actually found. Professor Matt Skinner reminds us of the church’s response during the Plague of Galen and the Plague of Cyprian in the early centuries of the faith. He notes that the early Christians’ determination not to abandon their sick neighbours made them appear uncommonly virtuous to the Roman world. Times of risk, isolation, and systemic hardship call for active advocacy, radical compassion, and fierce allegiance to one another. Otherwise, why call ourselves Christian?

We are creatures built for community. When love, grace, and mercy dry up, Jesus leaves the room. Let us ensure that we find ways to be present for one another. Pick up the phone, have coffee with an old friend, advocate for the marginalized, and stand with those whom society tries to throw out.

Anna Florence Carter reminds us that this text is not just a story about talking; it is a story about time: “before and after, then and now, years ago and today, always and then suddenly.”

Where are we on our journey with Jesus? Have our eyes been fully opened to the expansive, inclusive love of God? Who were we before we truly understood the radical message of Jesus Christ, and who are we now that we have heard it? How will we continue to flourish? What is the beautiful story of our own before and after?

May we be a people who never lose sight of the Shepherd, and who always make sure that love, grace, and mercy remain ever-present in our midst. Amen.