Read: John 9:1-41

Years ago, a priest at Christ Church, Anacortes, related a true story that he had heard from a chaplain. I don’t remember it in detail, but the gist of it was this. A man was admitted to a hospital with terminal cancer. He was a white racist. One of the attending nurses was a Christian man, who happened to be Black. Over time they began to talk and share stories. Eventually, the racist’s beliefs changed. As the end of life neared, the chaplain returned and saw the man smiling. In response to the chaplain’s surprise, the man said, “I’m cured! Oh, the cancer will kill me, but I’m cured!” Sometimes our worst illness is not what we think it is, but healing happens, nonetheless.

The healing of the blind man didn’t bring rejoicing in the town. Too bad it happened on Sabbath. The Pharisees might have cut Jesus some slack if it happened on a weekday. Did they forget who created Sabbath and why? Jesus said Sabbath was made for man, so he raised this man from a street beggar to a man with a full life, by giving him sight. The man could have lived out his days as a blind beggar sitting by the road. But the one who sent Jesus chose to dramatize his redemptive power. God could and would call his people out of darkness into light.

The Pharisees refuse to accept that Jesus is godly and question his authority. The man, simple and uneducated, knows better. He doesn’t ask why or how, but he knows what he knows; he was blind and now he sees. His resolve is unshaken even when the Pharisees eject him from the Temple. With his new sight, he can freely and independently go anywhere he chooses. He chooses to follow Jesus. His conversion is complete. The Pharisees, certain of their own righteousness, remain in the dark.

Gracious God, open my eyes to see your presence in the world. Turn my heart to follow Jesus wherever he goes, not blindly but with both eyes open, trusting him to lead me to you. Amen.
-Carol Treston

Read: John 9:1-41

In contemplating this passage, I’m reflexively drawn to the response of the Pharisees to the miracle that Jesus has performed. The most obvious takeaway is that while the humble blind man suffered from a physical impairment, the elite are spiritually blind. And in their case, unlike the blind man, the affliction is willful. The truth of what Jesus has done, and the power to which that act speaks, is in front of their faces, and the blind man who they interrogate has a pretty snarky response to their dismissal of it as 1st Century “fake news,” along with their skepticism regarding Jesus’ origin.

“Why, this is a marvel! You do not know where he comes from, and yet he opened my eyes. We know that God does not listen to sinners, but if anyone is a worshiper of God and does His will, God listens to him. Never since the world began has it been heard that anyone opened the eyes of a man born blind. If this man were not from God, he could do nothing.”

On the subject of healing and disability, there is another notable takeaway from this passage: Jesus’ proclamation that rather than taking a “blame the victim” attitude toward any who suffer a “disability,” we should instead recognize, as he does, “that the works of God might be manifest in him.” Otherwise, we risk the blindness of the Pharisees.

Lord, take away my blindness in failing to recognize you in my brothers and sisters, in whatever place or condition I might find them, and let me cleanse myself of my sins towards them. Amen.
-Michael Boss

Read: John 9:1-41

Often in situations of severe illness, faith feels far from us. At those times, we need a friend who puts a hand on our shoulder and says “That’s okay. Right now we’ll believe for you.” Hope and love come together to buttress us when faith feels far from us. Love from others empowers and gives us strength. We can dare to hope, and that hope fills deep in our souls so that we know, somehow, some way, “all things work together for good.” And, meanwhile, our fellow Christians will stand with us. Be that hand on the shoulder.
-Barb Cheyney

Read: John 4:5-42

“… how can you (Jesus) ask me for a drink?”

Our focus this year is on community.

I don’t like arrogant people. I don’t like people whose noses are stuck so high in the air they risk drowning when it rains. I don’t like people who think they’re better than others because of the color of their skin, the size of their bank accounts (cars, or homes), or the purity of their pedigrees.

I don’t like arrogant people, but I can’t throw stones for I are one [sic], too. We humans can’t help it. Our survival depended, historically (and prehistorically, too) on deciding who was in and who was out, who got to share in the tribe’s provisions and who didn’t. Many of our likes, dislikes, and decisions arise from deep beneath the surface of our lives. They are so ingrained in us that we are often unaware of them. Jesus knows. Jesus gets us. He could condemn us for our bigotry; he could join us in our fear-and-loathing of one another. But instead, he enters into dialogue with those who gather at the well.

The woman’s shame is revealed by the light of the midday sun, when the righteous have come and gone, and only now is it safe for sinners to show themselves. “I’m thirsty,” says Jesus. “I’m not afraid of catching cooties from you, no matter who you are.” Shame walls the woman off from Jesus, but Jesus dismantles the wall, ever the consummate carpenter. He knows a thing or two about walls. Perhaps he knows a thing or two about shame because he was, himself (possibly) an object of shame in his own family, his own community. Shame is toxic. What Jesus seeks, what he wants, is water. “Blessed are those who hunger … who thirst … they shall be satisfied.”

Shame taints. I’m pleased as punch to be part of a community that seeks to understand, that seeks to serve, that seeks to be a bucket of water in a dry and barren land.

Let us pray. Lord, help me to draw water for those who thirst, as if for you, yourself. Do not let me build a wall around this well, but bring a rope and bucket that others may drink from One who so freely shares this water of life with us and them, sinners though we are. Amen.
–Fr. Keith Axberg