Faith That Learns to See
As Jesus walked along, he saw a man who had been blind from birth. When the disciples saw him, they asked, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” For people in that time, this must have seemed like a very natural question, because many believed that suffering was the result of sin.
In fact, in life we often try to find the cause of what happens. We ask why something happened, where things went wrong, and what we should learn so that we do not repeat the same mistake again. In that sense, there is nothing wrong with looking for causes. In many situations it is necessary.
But the problem is that even when we stand before another person’s suffering, we often try to reach a quick conclusion in the same way. When we meet pain that is hard to explain, we want to speak as if we already understand why it happened and what it means. We want to make sense of it quickly. We want to say who is responsible and what went wrong. In truth, we do this partly because it makes us feel less uncertain.
This way of thinking also appears in religious life. Sometimes we are tempted to say that something happened because someone’s faith was weak, or because a person had not been faithful enough. But this is exactly where we must be careful. Looking for causes is not the same as quickly deciding that another person’s suffering is simply a matter of sin and punishment.
Jesus stops that kind of thinking.
“Neither this man nor his parents sinned.”
Jesus is not simply correcting the disciples’ question. He is changing the way they see suffering. He stops the habit of asking too quickly who is at fault, and he tells us not to explain another person’s pain too easily by our own judgment.
So we must be able to say that we do not know. To say “I do not know” is not a sign of weak faith or irresponsibility. Sometimes it is a sign of humility. Refusing to claim that we understand the will of God may not be the absence of faith. It may be the beginning of deeper faith.
Both in good times and in painful times, we should be careful not to decide too quickly what God’s will must be. Yet this does not mean that the difference between good and evil disappears. Faith still teaches us to cherish what is good and to resist what is wrong. But recognizing right and wrong is not the same as declaring that a particular person’s suffering must be God’s judgment. Life is not explained so easily. We may find ourselves wanting to understand painful things as punishment and good things as blessing. But when we speak too quickly of blessing and punishment, we may place a heavy burden on those who are already suffering. Faith is not a way of quickly defining everything that happens to us. Faith is closer to walking with trust in God, even when much remains unclear.
Then Jesus says,
“He was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.”
We should not hear these words as if they fully explain the man’s suffering. We should not take them to mean that his suffering is now fully explained. Rather, they remind us that even in a dark and painful place, God’s work can still be revealed. Instead of searching further for the cause, Jesus helps us see how the work of God may be revealed here and now.
We want to know the reason first, but Jesus first looks at the person himself. Others tried to explain his situation, but Jesus saw that even there God was at work.
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Jesus spat on the ground, made mud with the dust, put it on the man’s eyes, and told him to go and wash in the pool of Siloam. He went, washed, and came back able to see. But this story is not only about physical sight. It is also about slowly coming to know who Jesus is.
At first the man speaks of “the man called Jesus.” Later he says, “He is a prophet.” And in the end he says, “Lord, I believe.” His eyes seem to open all at once, but his faith opens slowly. First his physical eyes are opened. Then the eyes of his heart begin to open. Faith often grows in the same way. We do not understand everything at once. We begin to see more clearly, little by little.
There are other people in this story as well. The Pharisees do not rejoice when the man receives his sight. They are more concerned that this happened on the sabbath than that a blind man can now see. In one sense, they do see. They have eyes, learning, and religious confidence. But they fail to see what matters most. They do not see that the work of God is happening right in front of them.
Jesus’ final words make this even clearer:
“I came into this world for judgment so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind.”
These words challenge the false certainty of those who think they already see clearly. Anyone with eyes can look at things, but true sight is not so simple. We may all look at the same event and still understand it differently. We can become far too sure of our own interpretation.
This temptation does not appear only in personal suffering or in religious life. We also see it in the way we respond to public events. We see the same pattern when we hear news of war and conflict in our own time. We are often quick to decide who is right and who is wrong. Yet what seems clear to me may only be one small part of a much larger reality. To live as Christians is to be called into a life that sees more slowly, listens more carefully, and reflects more deeply. Before we rush to divide the world into right and wrong, we may need to recognize the limits of our own judgment. If we are to speak of justice and peace, that speech should begin with humility—with the quiet awareness that I, too, may be mistaken.
Those who know that they do not see clearly may begin to see in a new way. But those who are certain that they already see clearly leave no room for new light. The repentance of Lent is like this. It is laying down before God the old ways through which we have judged and interpreted the world. It is not only about correcting bad habits. It is also about examining the very way we see.
In the end, the man in today’s Gospel meets Jesus again. And at last he says,
“Lord, I believe.”
This is not the voice of someone who now understands everything. It is the voice of someone who has only now begun to see. He no longer sees only through his own judgment. He begins to see by following Jesus.
As we walk the road of Lent, we also need this kind of prayer: not eyes that judge quickly, but eyes that understand; not a heart that rushes to explain suffering, but a heart that stays with those who suffer; not eyes that think they already know, but eyes that are opened again to learn in the presence of the Lord.
May God open our eyes.
May Christ lead us into the light.
And may we also learn, little by little, to say with humble faith,
“Lord, I believe.”
Amen.
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