Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

They were talking about him. Right in front of him. Blind he was. Deaf he was not. He could hear them. Every. Single. Word. At least it wasn’t derogatory. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t asked the same question a hundred times. Why had this happened to him? Why was he born without vision? Who was to blame for this grave injustice? Had his father committed a heinous crime? Had his mother engaged in adulterous behavior? Had he somehow, before his lungs inhaled his first breath, before his mind made its first choice, before his legs were able to carry him from place to place, sinned against God and been punished forever with blindness? Or was there another reason, a better answer for his affliction? Could there possibly be an acceptable explanation for the darkness he daily endured?

He’d never seen light. Had no idea what it was. Not because no one had tried to describe it. They had. In vain. His mind simply couldn’t conceive it. Others had tried to verbally depict the vibrant pinks and purples of a flower garden, the orange beauty in the sunset, the iridescent glory of the midday sun glinting off the turquoise waters of the sea. It was all to no avail. He’d never been able to imagine it. Any of it. Brightness. Colors. Light. All he’d ever been able to comprehend was darkness. The very concept of light escaped him.  

In the absence of sight, his other senses were finely honed. His hearing was sharp. He could hear things whispered behind cupped hands from several paces away. Every insult. Every insinuation. Every irritated complaint about his very presence. He could hear every footfall. Those who passed by close and steady. Those who hastened their steps. Those who crossed to the other side of the street to avoid him. He could hear the nearly silent movement of a stone whipping through the air. The whistle of a stick swinging too close to his face. The projectile of saliva flying in his general direction. And he could feel. The emotional pain and loss associated with his blindness. The stabbing pain of jeers and rejection. The mud gently smeared on his eyes. Except there hadn’t been mud on the ground. He’d have felt it. His feet would have slipped or sunk. It would have seeped through his garments. The ground had been dry as dust when he sat down. He’d found no mud in the area, yet here it was, without his permission, being slathered on his face.  

Suddenly it all began to click. The previous sound of spitting. The scraping of dirt. It wasn’t the nasty neighborhood bullies slinging spit and digging holes to trip him up. No. Someone had been creating mud. Intentionally. With spit. And they were wiping it on his face. Gently. Kindly. But still. Mud. On his face. It felt like an insult atop his lifelong injury. He’d endured more than his share of mistreatment, but none so severe as this. About to cry out in impotent rage, the man halted his words at the sound of Jesus’ voice. “Go wash your face in the Pool of Siloam.” 

They weren’t the first words he’d heard Jesus say. He’d also heard the answer to the disciples’ question. The one that haunted his thoughts and infiltrated his dreams. Who was to blame for his blindness? He’d found Jesus’ answer interesting. And relieving. Neither of his parents was a closet criminal. He hadn’t accidentally sinned somewhere in his past. He wasn’t being punished for something he knew nothing about. This wasn’t about him at all. It was about Jesus revealing God’s power to the world. So He’d made some mud, slathered on the original mud mask, and told the blind man to go wash his face. 

Although the command wasn’t issued with promise, nothing could have stopped him from obeying. Something else his excellent hearing had told him was that Jesus of Nazareth was no joke. When He spoke, it meant something. Something real. Something true. Something completely unbelievable. Grabbing the arm of the nearest person willing to act as a guide, the blind man made his way to the pool. Kneeling at its edge, he carefully leaned down, cupped his hands, and sluiced water over his face. Dirt flowed in rivulets down to drip off his beard and onto his clothes. He’d only gotten the first layer off. He could feel the muddy remnants on his face. So he dipped his hands again. And again. Over and over he washed and wiped and cleansed his face until every piece of grit and grime was eliminated. Clearing the excess water from his face and blotted his eyes with the driest spot on his robe, he experimentally squinted them open. He blinked once. Twice. Waited for focus. And there it was. Light. Color. Beauty. Sight. He wanted to tell the world. 

It wouldn’t be long until he could. Upon arriving home, his neighbors noticed the change immediately. He didn’t need a guide anymore. He moved faster than he ever had. Without help. The people used to seeing him sitting in the dirt beside the road, begging for coins or bread or the remnants of a half-eaten apple noticed it as well. They couldn’t believe it was him. Seeing. They even argued about it. To the point he had to step in. Tell his story. Explain that it really was him. Their minds couldn’t grasp it. They still seemed confused. Unable or unwilling to accept his explanation, they toted him off to the Pharisees. (John 9:1-12)

Standing before a group of men who were determined not to believe the power of Jesus came from God, the formerly blind man repeated his story. Again. Blind from birth. Begging on street corners. Mud mask by Jesus. Water from Siloam. Obedience. Faith. Sight. Nothing had changed. The facts remained the same. There were no opinions involved, only absolute truths. Yet these men who claimed to be so highly educated and learned refused to believe. They said it couldn’t be him. He wasn’t the blind man. He was a poser. A fake. A fraud. A liar. Demanding witnesses to corroborate his story, they called in his parents. 

Parents who didn’t go out of their way to help him. Scared of crossing the Pharisees to own a belief that would get them barred from the synagogue, they refused to commit to more than the obvious. Yes, he was their son. Yes, he was born blind. Yes, he could now see. But. They weren’t there when it happened. They had no idea who did or said what. They were unwilling to speculate on the true identity of the man called Jesus. So ignorant were they of all the details that they couldn’t be prevailed upon to answer any further questions. If the Pharisees wanted answers, the questions would need to be posed to their son. He was now a fully functioning adult, not relying on them for anything. They were off the hook. He could answer for himself. And he did. Brilliantly.

Summoned a second time before the Pharisees, the formerly blind man was over it. They were wasting his valuable time. Time seeing. Time doing. Time living. In answer to their leading questions, the man’s exasperation overflowed. He wasn’t interested in passing judgment on who or what Jesus was. Sinner. Saint. Prophet. King. He didn’t need to regurgitate the facts again as if, like a child, he’d forgotten some integral moment. Not one part of his story had changed. Nothing was different except him. If the Pharisees didn’t want to believe it, that was their problem. He knew the one thing he needed to know. He remembered the one moment that changed his life. He had met the one Man who had the power of God flowing through His veins. There were a million things he didn’t know, a thousand answers he couldn’t give, but there was one thing he knew with absolute certainty. He once was blind. Now he wasn’t. Because of Jesus. Unsatisfied with his answer, steaming mad and spewing hate, the Pharisees ejected him from the synagogue. It is doubtful he missed their company. (John 9:13-34)

There’s something genuinely lovely about this once-blind, now-seeing man’s frustrated outburst. Perhaps it’s the unadorned honesty. Maybe it’s the complete lack of arrogance. Perhaps it’s the abject humanity of his irritation, exasperation, and aggravation. We find it impossible to blame him for his straightforward speech because we identify with the frustration of having to repeat ourselves over and over again. And we can learn so much from his reply. He didn’t try to put on pomposity, didn’t attempt to demean or talk down to anyone, never used his experience to arrogantly exalt himself above the Pharisees even though the error of their ways was glaringly obvious. He didn’t try to draw them into an argument. No. In straightforward honesty, he humbly stated what he didn’t know. Then confidently followed it up with the one thing he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt because he had experienced it firsthand. The one thing he could prove. The one thing his life now exhibited. He had been blind. Now he wasn’t. Because of Jesus. (Ephesians 4:15; Colossians 4:6; Micah 6:8; Ephesians 2:8-9)

In a society where we are constantly encouraged to speak “our truth,” I hope your truth is about Jesus. I hope He’s your one truth, your only truth. The one thing you know with absolute certainty and stand on with unshakeable confidence. The one thing in your life everyone can see without you announcing it. The one thing they want to hear you talk about time and time again. The same truth the blind man had at the end of his trip to Siloam. Your soul was blind. Now it’s not. Because of Jesus. (Matthew 6:22; Psalm 146:8; Colossians 1:13-14; John 8:12; John 1:5)