“Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”
--John 9:2
How often do we ask: why? Why has this befallen me? My spouse? My child? We search desperately for some meaning in the suffering we witness. Why did this happen? Where was God? Why did He let this happen?
And –on the other side of this coin—how often have people justified suffering or loss as God’s will. The sentimental side of this might justify the death of a child by saying: God wanted her with Him in Heaven.
But the truth of it is, we ache from the loss—and we are just trying to make some kind of sense of it; trying to tell ourselves a story that will bring some comfort. And yet, no matter what story we come to hold as true, we still live with that ache, that loss, that emptiness. It doesn’t go away, and neither does that question: why? Whose fault is it? My sin or my parents? My family? My society? Just who is God mad at? And why? What did we do?
But, what we hear in John’s Gospel for the 4th Sunday of Lent is some assurance that God does not work that way. When the disciples see a man who has been blind since birth, they ask Jesus: Who sinned? The man or his parents? Who is God punishing by making this man blind?
And Jesus tells them: Neither the man, nor his parents sinned; it is so that the works of God might be made visible through him. (cf. 9:3) He wasn’t born blind as a punishment for his parent’s sin (or even his own). God doesn’t afflict me with cancer because of some sin of my youth, nor to punish my parents for something they did. God is not keeping a tally sheet of our sins: 37 mortal sins = stage 3 carcinoid tumor and chronic leukemia; 19 venial sins = blindness (or a club foot—depending on the season); 20+ venial sins = in-laws for the holiday weekend.
Earlier in John’s Gospel Jesus has already made things very clear: For God sent His son into the world, not to judge the world, but so that through Him the world might be saved. (cf. 3:17) Not to condemn, but that the work of God (salvation, mercy, love) might be revealed. And here in this Gospel for the 4th Sunday of Lent we read of the man born blind and the question comes up: why? Why did this happen? Is his blindness some kind of punishment? Does he (somehow) deserve it? But Jesus says no to that kind of theology, that kind of faith. This man’s suffering does not come as a judgment from God. In fact, I think Jesus is telling us that the disciples are asking the wrong question. When we ask whose to blame, we distance ourselves from the problem—from the suffering—from the person; we stand apart and judge. Exactly what Jesus came not to do. Instead, what Jesus does when He meets anyone afflicted by illness or demons (anyone in need), is to enter into their concern, their trouble, their need. Often asking them: What do you want me to do for you? How can I serve you? How can I meet you in your need?
In this Sunday’s story, Jesus immediately sets about the process of healing in order that the work of God might be made visible. And I think that must be one of the most important lessons in this famous story. Instead of letting Himself be drawn into a theological debate, or a theoretical discussion; instead of standing back and contemplating the situation, He enters into it and thus begins the process of making visible the work of the Father—mercy, healing, salvation, love. What does that tell us about how we should live? What does that say to us about how we should see the people around us, their sufferings, their struggles, their need? Not as an opportunity to make points, to show how smart or lucky or good we are—but as an opportunity to make the work of God visible; to reveal God’s love. To die to ourselves (even if just a little bit) for the sake of another.
What does this look like in real life? For me, it looks like this: I carry a little extra cash in my wallet whenever I can and I give it to whoever asks. When I pull up to a stop light and someone comes to my car window with their sign or their paper cup, I don’t ask them what they will do with the money, or why they need it. I don’t ask who is to blame for the situation they find themselves in. I just ask their name, and give them whatever money I have. Then I ask them to pray for me, and assure them that I will pray for them as well. Another way it might show up in my life is through baking. I love to bake bread and take loaves to neighbors and co-workers who are experiencing some difficulty or hardship. Some need.
And—as I have said before—doing even these small acts of love, of mercy, of compassion leaves me feeling blessed in ways that I can only explain by turning back to those words from today’s gospel: for a moment, something has been made visible, something I had not seen before, something I perhaps had not even noticed that I was missing. In the need of another, and the chance to serve them, I have glimpsed for a moment—the work of God made visible.
That is what I think we are all hungering for—a glimpse of the transcendent, a glimpse of eternity beaming radiantly back at us—perhaps through the eyes of the blind, or the hungry, the weeping, the sick, the prisoner, the widow, the orphan or even the immigrant or the stranger.
And this is what I mean when I talk about a theology of need. I think need is built into us. It is a way that we form connections and community. It is also the way we discover who we really are. My need creates a space for you to be kind or generous, to become discover your gifts and strengths by helping another. Your need does the same for me. And as we reach out to help one another, as we move into the need of one another, we grow in love, we grow in humility, and we --if only for a moment—become more like Jesus. Through self-giving, we lay down our life for the sake of another, and by doing that we make visible the work of God, the love of the one who humbled Himself and took the form of a servant, the one who died for us on a cross—the one who came not to judge, but to save.
