Sunday IV of Lent
While the theme of blindness and sight, darkness and light, witness and threat feature prominently in John’s account of the healing of man born blind and illustrate the great sweep of Lenten motifs in terms of conversion, baptism and grace, another aspect of the account of the miracle suggests itself to our consideration. If we look at the Gospel account, we can see that the blind man and Jesus have in common that the other protagonists of the incident fail to recognise them. Blindness envelops the entire scene, with the exception of Christ who bestows light, and the blind man who receives it. It is evocative of the first moment of creation, when the Spirit hovered over the darkness and drew forth from nothingness all that exists. Jesus is sent to do the ‘works’ that the Father has sent him to do, while it is still day (cf. Jn. 9: 4).
The blind man is repeatedly asked to prove his identity. He is no longer recognised by those who acknowledged him only as a blind beggar. They knew him only for his function, the inconvenience he represented, the occasional object of their good works. It is extraordinary that in the account of the blind man’s travails, even his parents have a role only as witnesses to his identity as their son, the blind beggar. The blind man is not recognised for who he is. We often talk of “assumed identities”, but in the Gospel passage we see a powerful representation of ‘forced identity’. In this, the blind man shares the experience of Christ, whom neither the crowd nor the Pharisees are willing to acknowledge for who he is.
The newness of the sight of the man born
blind is ignored by the Pharisees, the crowd, and even by his own parents. In
his new condition, he remains for them as he had been before: an object, not a person,
useful insofar as he can manifest the unlawfulness of Christ. Christ alone
recognises the newness that is in him, the gift of sight in all its wonder.
When before no one cared to share his wonder at seeing faces and colours, form
and structure, Christ seeks him out to invite the response of faith in the
language of sight, in the vision of Christ with the eyes of the body so that
the mystery of Christ might be seen with the eyes of faith: so that sight might
be the conduit of light even as light is the vehicle of seeing. In the
marvellous experience of first sight, Christ invites the response of faith,
that the first response of the experience of light, of seeing, of life might be
the worship of the true light, Christ the Lord: “Jesus
said to him, “You have seen him and the one speaking with you is he.” He said,
“I do believe, Lord,” and he worshiped him.”
We live in a world
saturated by sight, by the stimulation of the senses, particularly the sense of
sight. The world transfixes our gaze, not to share in its wonder but to
instrumentalise it for its own end: to sell a product, to induce a way of
seeing the world that enslaves and wears down our capacity to see with the mind
of the heart. Categorisation, caricature, calumny are the stock in trade of the
world. In the words of T.S. Elliott, everyone must be “fixed with a formulated
phrase…fixed and wriggling on a wall” (Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock). Casting
out, wearing down, destroying, setting up for our own self-interested purpose
requires but a ‘tweet’. In the world of ever-expanding liberty, where is
freedom to be found? Many of us live lives that are exposed, but not, for all
that, transparent and free in themselves. The more we reveal about ourselves,
the more does the mystery of who we are recede into the distance. We are an
image of ourselves, a ‘profile’, a page, but less and less a canvas.
Christ invites us to
set our gaze on him. He seeks us out, as he sought out the man born blind. Perhaps
if each of us heard that question: “Do you believe in the Son of Man”, we too
might say, “Who is he… that I may believe in him”; we might be intrigued to know who he is who might be worthy
of the first fruits of our spiritual sight. The response to that question is
simply the invitation to look upon Christ. This might be just enough in the
moments when we realise we wish to say that ‘who’ we are can no longer be
answered by the world and its categories. What else have we to offer in terms
of evangelisation and compassion, solidarity and relief but to draw one
another’s gaze to Christ, “For in your light we see light” (cf. Ps 36: 9).
In Christ we are
revealed for who we are. In him we see with the light of God’s grace. Looking
upon him, we see the reflection of his own beauty that he has placed within us,
whom he has made in his image and likeness. He continues to hover over the
empty void that remains within us, to bring life out of nothingness, to bring
redemption from condemnation and isolation. He seeks us out as he sought out
the man born blind, attracted by the beauty he has created within us. It is a
beauty that never be destroyed. We can never be detestable in his sight in who
we are. His beauty endures. It is his spark within us. It is ready to spring
back to life once the breadth of God blows over it, for as the first man was
made from the clay of the earth, so the second Man is a life-giving Spirit.
In this time of
exclusion and condemnation, of categorisation and marginalisation, of extreme
and disaffection, the Christian is called to turn his gaze to Christ, to see in
him the beauty of his being, to raise our mind from the din that surrounds us
and from the priorities of the world and to see in Christ the reflection of who
we are. Seeing in him our Creator and Redeemer, we too might be prompted with
the blind man to give the first homage of our seeing to him, to “bow down and
worship” (cf. Jn. 9: 39). It is the first act of our newfound freedom of the
sons of God. “For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord.
Live as children of light, for light produces every kind of goodness and
righteousness and truth” (cf. Eph. 5: 8-9).