John
9:1–7
There is a question that seems to follow every
one of us through life.
Whenever we stand beside a hospital bed, hear of
a child born with a disability, or watch someone we love carry a burden that
never seems to lift, the question rises almost automatically:
Why?
Why this person? Why now? Why would God allow
this?
The disciples asked exactly that question when
they saw the man who had been blind since birth.
“Rabbi,” they asked, “who sinned, this man or his
parents, that he was born blind?”
It sounds like a strange question to us, but in
their world it made perfect sense. Many people believed that suffering was
always a punishment for someone’s sin. If something terrible happened, someone
had to be blamed.
But Jesus refuses to point a finger.
Instead, He changes the whole conversation.
“Neither this man nor his parents sinned… but
this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him.”
Those words have sometimes been misunderstood.
Jesus is not saying that God deliberately made this man blind simply to perform
a miracle years later. Rather, He is saying that in this broken world, where
suffering is sadly real, God is still able to bring His glory and His grace
into even the darkest places.
The disciples wanted someone to blame.
Jesus wanted someone to heal.
That changes everything.
Then Jesus does something completely unexpected.
He bends down.
He spits on the ground.
He mixes the saliva with the dust until it
becomes mud.
Then He gently places that mud on the blind man’s
eyes.
Of all the ways Jesus healed people, this may be
one of the strangest.
Why mud?
Why not simply speak a word?
After all, Jesus healed people from miles away.
He calmed storms with His voice. Surely He didn’t need dirt.
Yet He chose to use something ordinary.
Something messy.
Something people walked over every day.
Perhaps that is one of the lessons we most need
to hear.
God often does His greatest work through the
ordinary things we are tempted to overlook.
Throughout Scripture, He does this again and
again.
Moses carried nothing more impressive than a
shepherd’s staff.
David faced Goliath with a sling and a few
stones.
Five loaves and two fish fed thousands.
Water became wine.
Bread and wine become gifts through which Christ
serves His people.
And here, dust becomes part of a miracle.
It reminds me of a carpenter building a house.
A nail doesn’t look important.
It’s small.
Cheap.
Easy to ignore.
But in the hands of a skilled carpenter, that
little nail helps hold an entire house together.
Its value isn’t found in itself.
Its value comes from the one using it.
The same is true here.
The power was never in the mud.
The power was in Jesus.
Maybe your “mud” today is an ordinary job that
feels unnoticed.
Maybe it’s praying the same prayer day after day.
Maybe it’s simply remaining faithful when nothing
seems to change.
Don’t despise the ordinary.
God often hides His miracles there.
Then Jesus gives the man a command.
“Go. Wash in the Pool of Siloam.”
Notice something remarkable.
The healing isn’t complete yet.
The man still has mud on his eyes.
He is still blind.
Now he must walk.
Can you imagine that journey?
He cannot see where he is going.
Someone may have needed to guide him.
Every step required trust.
The pool’s name is significant.
“Siloam” means Sent.
John even pauses to explain it.
Again and again throughout this Gospel, Jesus
calls Himself the One sent by the Father.
The blind man must go to the place called “Sent”
before his eyes are opened.
In other words, healing comes through the One
whom the Father has sent.
It reminds me of visiting a doctor.
Suppose the doctor examines you carefully and
hands you a prescription.
You could stare at that piece of paper all day.
You could question it.
Argue about it.
Fold it into your pocket.
But until you actually take it to the pharmacy,
the medicine never reaches you.
The paper itself has no power.
The healing comes when you trust enough to act.
Faith works like that.
Faith is not merely agreeing with ideas in our
heads.
Faith moves.
Faith obeys.
Faith takes the next step even before seeing the
whole path.
The blind man believed with his feet before he
ever believed with his eyes.
Perhaps that’s where some of us are today.
We understand enough.
We’ve asked enough questions.
We’ve waited for enough explanations.
Now Jesus simply says,
“Come.”
“Trust Me.”
“Take the next step.”
John tells the story with beautiful simplicity.
“So the man went and washed, and came home
seeing.”
Imagine that moment.
He had lived in that house his whole life.
He knew every doorway by touch.
He knew every voice by sound.
He knew every room by memory.
But he had never actually seen it.
Now, for the first time, he saw his mother’s
face.
The sunlight.
The trees.
The colors of the sky.
Everything was familiar—
and completely new.
Jesus didn’t merely give him better eyesight.
He gave him a new world.
That is what Christ still does.
When He opens our eyes, He doesn’t simply solve
one problem.
He changes how we see everything.
We begin to recognize God’s mercy where we once
saw only hardship.
We notice our neighbour instead of only
ourselves.
We discover purpose where we once felt only
disappointment.
Most of all, we see Jesus Himself.
Someone once imagined a man who had lived his
entire life inside a dark cave.
He owned a map, but it was useless because there
was never enough light to read it.
People told him about mountains, rivers, forests
and open skies, but they sounded like fairy tales.
Then one day a guide took him gently by the hand
and led him outside.
At first the sunlight hurt his eyes.
Then, slowly, everything came into focus.
For the first time he saw the world.
Only then did the map make sense.
That is what Jesus does for us.
By ourselves we are spiritually blind.
We may own a Bible.
We may know Bible stories.
We may even know Christian language.
But until Christ opens our eyes, we cannot truly
see.
He comes to us in humility.
He stoops into the dust.
He takes upon Himself our humanity.
He carries our sin to the cross.
Then He calls us to Himself—to repent, to trust
Him, and to follow.
And suddenly the whole story makes sense.
So let me leave you with one final question.
Where might you be blind today?
Perhaps you cannot see God’s love because guilt
has clouded your heart.
Perhaps suffering has made it difficult to see
His purpose.
Perhaps disappointment has blinded you to hope.
Or perhaps you’ve become so absorbed in your own
struggles that you’ve stopped seeing the needs of those around you.
Whatever your blindness, Jesus is still passing
by.
Notice that He never answers every “Why?”
Instead, He offers Himself.
He stoops into our dust.
He enters our brokenness.
He calls us to trust Him.
Sometimes His work feels messy.
Sometimes His ways seem far too ordinary.
But His grace is always enough.
Don’t remain in the darkness trying to explain
the darkness.
Listen for His voice.
Take the next step.
Walk toward the One who was sent by the Father.
And by His grace, you too will come home seeing.
Amen.
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