A Lenten reflection after preaching John 9
Sometimes the hardest thing is not being unseen.
Sometimes the hardest thing
is being seen
and still misunderstood.
This past Sunday, I had the gift of preaching on John 9 at Tuckahoe Presbyterian Church—the story of the man born blind. It was the Fourth Sunday in Lent, Laetare Sunday, the Sunday of rejoicing.
Which feels like an unusual pairing at first.
Rejoicing
in the middle of Lent.
Rejoicing
while Jesus is still walking toward the cross.
Rejoicing
in a story that begins with a man who has spent his entire life being overlooked.
But the more time I spent with this story, the more I realized this is exactly the kind of joy Lent offers.
Not the kind that waits until the end.
The kind that appears
right in the middle of the journey.
In John 9, Jesus is walking along when he sees a man blind from birth.
Before the man speaks.
Before anyone asks.
Before the disciples even slow their pace.
Jesus sees him.
And immediately the disciples ask the question humans seem to always ask when we encounter suffering:
Who sinned?
They want a reason.
A cause.
Someone to blame.
But Jesus refuses the entire framework.
This is not about fault.
This is about what love will do next.
So Jesus kneels in the dust.
He mixes earth and breath together.
And he opens the man’s eyes.
But the healing is not the end of the story.
In many ways, it’s the beginning of the trouble.
Because grace disrupts systems built on certainty.
The neighbors debate whether the healed man is really the same person.
The religious leaders interrogate him.
Even his parents step back in fear.
And eventually, the man is pushed out.
Cast out of the community that once defined his belonging.
And this is the moment in the story that stayed with me most deeply as I preached.
Because here is the quiet miracle John does not let us miss:
Jesus goes looking for him.
Not before the rejection.
After.
This is the kind of joy Laetare Sunday points toward.
Not joy that denies pain.
Not joy that rushes ahead to Easter.
But joy that discovers something unexpected in the middle of the journey:
Even when we are pushed out
we are not abandoned.
Even when systems fail us
Christ comes looking.
Even when the world misunderstands our transformation
grace keeps moving toward us.
Preaching this text reminded me of something I think we forget easily:
The real miracle in John 9 is not only that the man receives sight.
The real miracle
is belonging.
Jesus does not simply heal him and move on.
Jesus finds him.
Speaks to him.
Welcomes him into relationship.
And suddenly the story is not just about eyesight.
It is about seeing.
And maybe that is the invitation for all of us in this season.
Lent is not just about what we give up.
It is about learning to see differently.
To see the people the world explains away.
To see the places where grace is already at work.
To see that Christ is still moving toward the ones who feel pushed out.
And maybe most importantly—
to trust that Christ keeps coming to find us.
Even when we are still figuring things out.
Even when the journey feels long.
Even in the middle of Lent.
Because the good news is not that we finally find Christ.
The good news
is that Christ
keeps coming
to find us.