Two Things They Knew
John 9:18-23
He had always been there, stationed by the side of the road. Grubby, tattered, hands always open, mouth always moving. He seemed always to be looking at something, but then again looking at nothing.
Folks passing by saw him as a fixture, just another part of the village scenery that had been there since they were small, like the well or the synagogue or even the Pool. They’d seen him so many times that most days, they didn’t see him at all.
So it may have come as a surprise, after all these years.
The blind man had parents.
Written Off
It’s unclear from the story in John 9 just when it was that they gave up. I imagine they cared for him until he was of age. But when his able bodied peers began to make their own way, and he did not, they sent him off to the streets to scrape together what he could with the only asset (they thought) he had: pity.
But I also imagine they wrote him off far sooner. In their day, birthing a child with a disability was like hanging a neon sign outside your door announcing your sin to the world. Mothers nursed shame on one breast while the blemished baby suckled at the other.
Whether or not they blurted out loud like the tone deaf disciples, the question that dropped shadow over family and neighbors was always the same: Whose sin was it?
The father couldn’t look his wife in the eye again, nor could she look straight at him, each supposing the other hid secret disgrace under their robes and brought this tragedy upon them.
And late at night, now and again, they wondered if their own veiled indiscretions set such punishment in motion.
But in the light of day, they could bear no such loathing of themselves and each other, and so they imputed this dispossessed shame instead onto the child that grew before them, this daily reminder of guilt — someone’s guilt.
Perhaps it was his own.
The tradition so allowed. And to think as much enabled them to detach themselves from the shame, to bolster themselves against the pain, and slowly cease to love him who sprung from between them.
It came as relief when he turned to the streets to sustain him.
Less is More
It’s difficult to hold sway with a man set free just a moment ago from the darkest prison he can imagine. He’s not likely to believe you offer any worse than he’s lived his whole life.
So while the Pharisees and townsfolk may have tried to rattle him up a bit, he held firm in rock solid conviction of this one thing he knew: once he was blind, now he can see.
The Healer made it so.
That one thing he knew made him stubborn and unbending at the other end of their finger jabbing between his eyes.
But those who’d already done their own share of crooked finger pointing might prove more flexible, and so they called in his parents, who knew more.
They didn’t know one thing.
They knew two.
And their two things alongside his one proved for all time that less is more.
Two Things
This one over here, they demanded, pointing those craggy fingers again. Is he your son? Was he really blind? (vs. 19)
And the parents — in measured words that bore shrieking witness to the fearsome power of the Pharisees and the crushing weight of shame — told them the only two things they knew.
We know he is our son, and we know he was born blind. (vs. 20)
Beyond that, we’ve got nothing.
They did not come to his defense. They did not affirm his credibility. They were too frightened the inquisitors would cast them out that they did not even pause to marvel that this man, their boy, in that moment saw them for the first time in his life.
He gazed upon them, and they looked away.
We don’t know how he sees. Ask him. He is of age; he will speak for himself. (vs. 21)
He’s not our problem.
They Knew So Much More than He
In the same moment that the Healer gave the blind man his sight, He wiped away all their disgrace.
Never again would anyone look at their son, see his milky eyes, and turn to scrutinize them, imagining the scandal that brought this about.
Never again would there be sidelong glances at the temple gate, whispers from the shadows. Do you suppose she . . . Perhaps he . . . I heard they both . . .
Never again would their son sit in the dust at the roadside, not knowing when a stranger approached if he’d feel the cool metal of a coin in his palm or the hot sting of spit on his cheek.
Yes, now he could see. But more than that, shame would never again define them because of what he could not.
It’s a shame they knew so much more than he.
They really knew nothing at all.
::
Related: See more on John 9 here.
One Thing I Know Never On Sunday When the Blind See, the Seeing...Don't He Came Home Seeing Neither
Photo: Railroad tracks by Jan Flaska
i like the way you tell stories.
in the photo i see the tracks straight, and the ones that go off to the side. rails reflecting light.
2011/03/16 at 9:09 PM
Thanks Nancy.
I like those rails.
2011/03/16 at 9:21 PM
Don’t you wonder what life was like after that? If he followed Jesus? Or if he stuck around to recognize voices that gave him kindness…and those that weren’t so kind.
I’ve never thought of the blind man in this light–but his stubbornness, born out of adversity kept his faith solid when confronted with the pharisees. The trials of this life–they either solidify our faith or show that it was nothing to begin with.
Good stuff, Lyla.
2011/03/16 at 9:12 PM
It’s an interesting question. Jesus finds the man again after he hears about the inquisition — Jesus actually comes back to find him. How cool is that? And it’s not until then that He really introduces Himself as the Son of Man. Before that, He was no more than the one who healed him, perhaps a prophet, to the man. And Jesus didn’t give Him anything to go on but the healing at the time. And yet he’d risk it all for this One, not knowing who He was even standing up for.
2011/03/16 at 9:20 PM
I had not considered the story from that point of view Lyla. One of the most hurtful experiences we’ve ever had in church was when my husband was suffering complications from his diabetes and some “helpful” folk told us to examine our hearts for sin if he wasn’t healed. I guess some things don’t change.
This was so good.
2011/03/16 at 9:46 PM
Oh, Linda. Why do we do that? Should we examine our hearts? Yes. Of course. But should I step blindly into your pain and difficulty and suggest something I could not possibly know? I’m so glad that hurt didn’t turn you away.
2011/03/17 at 8:56 AM
I kept thinking the same thing, Linda.
“Some things don’t change.”
I kept re-reading Lyla’s line about the cool metal in the palm, or the hot spit on the cheek. How often do we — the church — still just offer one of these two things? A bit of money to temporarily appease the hurting, or a cold shoulder that conveys judgment and disdain?
What about just stopping and offering a warm embrace? What about sticking around for real, abiding friendship?
This post struck me on so many levels, but that is the part that sticks with me right now.
2011/03/21 at 11:19 AM
Either of those options, as you’ve put them, give us a low-investment solution. I can toss some resources your way, and then be on mine, or I can wave off any responsibility I have to care for you based on your failure to meet my standards. Your suggestion, that I sit down by the man at the side of the road, get a little bit of him on me, that’s costly.
And it’s the right answer… Thanks for putting it out there.
2011/03/21 at 6:59 PM
I’ve read this more than once today … the last line is gripping.
Thank you for addressing the shame/guilt factor, too.
2011/03/17 at 7:50 PM
Susan, that part of this passage always screams to me — perhaps because so much of my day (in claims) is spent trying to find who the “at fault” party is. We want to much to blame someone, never ourselves, and yet so often that’s exactly who we blame, no matter the issue. And we heap shame upon shame, so much so that sometimes we just completely miss when He comes and does the amazing thing, wipes it all away.
I know I too often miss it, anyway, standing like the knuckleheaded parents saying “this is all I know.”
2011/03/17 at 7:55 PM
You mine much from the Word, Lyla.
Interesting that people poured shame with their spittle. And Jesus lifted shame with it.
2011/03/17 at 9:59 PM
As much as I try not to think of spit, I’m not sure that one occurred to me, Sandy. I’ve always gotten a little twitchy over what He did with the spit in this story (beginning with touching it…). But in this context, I could start to like it.
Just as long as it’s getting smeared on somebody else.
2011/03/18 at 12:54 PM
Preach on, sister! I mean really. Preach on…
2011/03/18 at 7:26 PM
2011/03/18 at 11:10 PM
Lyla and Linda:
Bil Keane in his “Family Circus” occasionally has the kids’ characters all claiming “not me, not me”.
Flip Wilson popularized the phrase “The Devil made me do it”.
Attorney’s have clogged the court system while billing big fees by suing supposed victims/plaintiffs. That is, we are not sinners but victims.
The Scripture for our pastor’s Lenten Sermon Series this morning was taken from Luke’s recording of the Sermon on the Mount. Luke 6:37-42. “Judge not, and you will not be judge; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven; give, and it will be given to you. Good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over, will be put into your lap. For with the measure you use it will be measured back to you.”
He also told them a parable: “Can a blind man lead a blind man? Will they not both fall into a pit? A disciple is not above his teacher, but everyone when he is fully trained will be like his teacher. Why do you see the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not see the log that is in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, Brother, let me take out that speck that is in your eye, when you yourself do not see the log that is in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck that is in your brother’s eye.”
As one who has spent a lot of time with carpenter tools and material, the analogy of the comparison of a speck of sawdust to a plank says it all. But my human and sinful nature often gets in the way of the Master’s advice.
Lyla, I can only say ditto and amen to those who have already commented on this post.
Love, Dad
2011/03/20 at 2:09 PM
Somehow or other, Dad, we think it’s our job.
Wow, can we be wrong sometimes.
2011/03/21 at 7:00 PM
I think I am enjoying this discussion almost as much as the sermon! Yes, I think it is–it sure does preach. I love imagining the next chapter to the story too. Grieved by Linda’s comment. Puzzling over the sins of the father and what that really might mean.
I love coming here, Lyla. YOu always make me think.
2011/03/21 at 2:20 PM
Laura, there are some good comments here, yes. And that next part of the story? That’s what I’m pondering this evening.
Jesus came back for him. It doesn’t get much better than that.
2011/03/21 at 7:01 PM
Great post! I loved the fresh perspective you gave to this story. I’ve used this scripture before to point out the lack of credibility for generational curses, but I’ve never thought of it it terms of an excuse to put shame on others. It was so moving when you pointed out that the parents didn’t respond to the miraculous event that had given their son sight. They didn’t rejoice in his being able to see them. Such a great reminder that we need not to fear the Pharisees of today, but put complete faith in the Lord.
2011/03/21 at 4:48 PM
Carla, thanks for stopping by. I can’t quite get my mind around how they had so detached from their son that they couldn’t rejoice, couldn’t marvel, even just a little at what just happened. And I wonder how often I stand right there with them, missing the point of His work and His love while I quibble over something idiotic.
2011/03/21 at 7:02 PM