Seeing the Whole Story

The Rev. Brandon C. Ashcraft

Trinity Church in the City of Boston

John 9:1-41

4 Lent A (March 15, 2026)

Seeing the Whole Story

Remember when our feet didn’t hurt by the end of the Gospel? Standing through these long passages feels like its own Lenten discipline. Is the lectionary trying to test our endurance? Or is it trying to convert us? Each Lenten gospel we’ve heard these past few weeks tells the story of a life-changing encounter with Jesus. Two weeks ago, it was Nicodemus in the night.¹John 3:1-17 (The Gospel for the Second Sunday in Lent, Year A, in the Revised Common Lectionary) Last week it was the Samaritan woman at the well.²John 4:5-42 (The Gospel for the Third Sunday in Lent, Year A, in the Revised Common Lectionary) And today: the man born blind. Each encounter reveals something profound about the life that Jesus offers. To Nicodemus Jesus speaks of new birth.  To the woman at the well he offers living water. To the man born blind he gives the gift of sight. And next week, he will stand before the tomb of Lazarus and call a dead man back to life.³John 11:1-45 (The Gospel for the Fifth Sunday in Lent, Year A, in the Revised Common Lectionary) If we want to be transformed, we need to hear the entire story. We need the whole chapter to see the picture. Pictures that are literally painted on these walls.

If you’re new to Trinity, or even if you’ve been here a while, you may not realize this. At the entrance to our nave, you’ll find murals depicting the stories we’ve heard the past two Sundays. On the south wall, Nicodemus comes to Jesus by night, and on the north wall, we find Jesus with the Samaritan woman at the well.⁴The murals depicting Nicodemus (John 3) and the Samaritan woman (John 4) are by John La Farge (1877–78) and are located on the south and north nave walls of Trinity Church, Boston. These images are not simply biblical history. They are expressions of a hope that has endured for almost 150 years. Living prayers of those who consecrated this church: that everyone who walks through the doors of this nave might have an encounter with Jesus Christ.

Today’s passage isn’t painted on the wall, but it tells the story of another dramatic encounter with Jesus. Last Sunday we met a woman who returned to the same well day after day, bucket after bucket. Today we meet a man whose daily life is shaped by another reality: his blindness forces him to beg. One returns to the well for water. The other returns to the roadside to beg. And in the eyes of the world, the work that sustains their lives becomes their identity. So much so that John never even gives this man a name. His world not only defines him by his blindness, it also insists it knows the reason for it: someone must have sinned. On this point, everyone in his world agrees.

So before Jesus heals anyone, his disciples ask the question everyone assumes has an answer:

“Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents?”⁵John 9:2 (NRSVUE) And Jesus refuses to answer the question. Instead, he rubs mud and spittle on the man’s eyes. And this strange concoction does more than heal his eyes.

It throws his entire community into confusion. Once the man is no longer defined by his blindness, the world that defined him begins to fall apart. Because once he gains his sight, the lie everyone believed about his blindness is exposed.

You might expect the man’s neighbors to be amazed. To hug him, congratulate him, or throw him a party. But instead of sparking joy and wonder, the miracle sows confusion. The neighbors can’t even agree whether it’s the same man. Some say, “it is he.”⁶John 9:9 (NRSVUE) Others say, “No, but someone like him.”⁷Ibid. All the while the man insists, “I am he.”⁸Ibid. Befuddled and bewildered, the neighbors turn to the religious authorities. After all, they’re supposed to have the answers. But the Pharisees are equally unsettled by the man’s transformation. They also demand an explanation. This poor man is forced to repeat his account of events. To justify this Jesus. To defend the sight he has received. And with each repetition, his testimony about the miracle-working Rabbi grows bolder.

As the scrutiny heightens and the questions intensify, something within him begins to shift. The man who just moments ago was blind now sees more clearly than anyone around him. You can hear the crescendo of conviction in the way he answers their questions about Jesus. At first he simply says, “the man called Jesus.”⁹John 9:11 (NRSVUE) Then he ventures more confidently that he must be “a prophet.”¹⁰John 9:17 (NRSVUE) And finally, he declares that Jesus is “the one who worships God and obeys his will.”¹¹John 9:31 (NRSVUE) Yet the more clarity he has about Jesus, the more his world crumbles beneath him. His neighbors are confused. The authorities are threatened. Even his parents turn their back on him out of fear. The man gains his sight, but he loses everything else. He no longer fits in this world. So he is pushed out of the neighborhood. Expelled from the synagogue. In the end, the miraculous gift he receives leaves him cast out and alone.

He loses the recognition of his neighbors, the protection of his family, his place in the religious community. And in that place of exile, Jesus comes to him. And there, the man finally sees him for who he is. This, my friends, is the climax of the story. Not the giving of physical sight, but the miracle of spiritual sight. The true miracle takes place, not when the man first sees the world, but when he first recognizes his Savior. This is why we need the whole story. While the man gains his sight early in the chapter, the miraculous moment doesn’t come until the end. Not until he recognizes Jesus. When he worships him. When he says, “Lord, I believe,”¹²John 9:38 (NRSVUE) and falls down in adoration. In that moment, the man who has been cast out of every community he has known discovers where his true belonging lies. The miracle reaches its fulfillment in an encounter with the living Christ. The man who had been defined all his life by his blindness, the assumptions of neighbors, the fears of his family, and the judgments of the religious authorities, is now defined by Christ.

When we encounter the risen Christ, he will inevitably disrupt our lives. Reorder our loyalties. Redefine our relationships. Sometimes encountering Christ means discovering that the life we’ve worked so hard to curate doesn’t reflect his values. Sometimes it means loving people the world tells us are unlovable. Sometimes it means standing apart from the crowd when the crowd insists it can already see clearly. The life of Christian discipleship, fully lived, comes at a cost, but we can trust that the belonging Jesus creates in himself is deeper than any belonging we might lose. I’m not suggesting that what the man lost didn’t matter. That the belonging he sacrificed didn’t hurt, or that he didn’t mourn the loss. Neighbors matter. Families matter. Communities matter. But none of them is the deepest source of our identity. For our true belonging is found in Christ alone.

In these chaotic times, we know what it feels like when the systems we once trusted feel uncertain. When the ground that once held us up starts to crumble beneath us. The promise of the Gospel is that Jesus will seek us out and find us, because we are his. May we always remember the prayer painted on these hallowed walls. May we, this very day, encounter the living Christ. And may we have the grace to say, with the man born blind: “Lord, I believe.” Amen.