Like hundreds of days before, his skin was heavy from the gritty dust of passerby. Murmurs surrounded his begging corner, the street lively with the soft swishing of robes and crackling of wagon wheels.
The traffic would ebb and flow, and he remained still, a permanent prop in the avenue. These noises, these sensations were the sum of his existence – for the rest was darkness. A darkness that haunted him into helplessness, and forced him to sit and waste away in waiting.
Coins were clinking in his jar when he heard footsteps pause. The donor had hurried on, as most do, but the other footsteps lingered. Who was staring?
“Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”
The beggar grimaced. Another of the religious men, making a spectacle of my pitiable state.
And yet, what is the answer? All his life the question of “Why?” taunted him. Time after time he dragged himself to the corner hoping for an inkling of mercy, desperate for a purpose.
“It was not that this man sinned, or his parents, but that the works of God might be displayed in him. We must work the works of Him who sent me while it is day; night is coming, when no one can work. As long as I am in the world, I am the Light of the World.”
Others had always said his blindness was punishment for some sin, and he was burdened by the shame. But what kind of revelation was this? This man was saying I’m part of the work of God! How can that be? And what is this talk of day and night?
This stranger had just claimed to be the light he had never seen.
While these thoughts fluttered in his mind, he heard the slick, quick splatter of liquid hitting the ground. A slight breeze passed as the person bent over, followed by the subtle friction of fingers rubbing the earth. The beggar’s awe grew, his heart pounding in confusion, anticipation, longing.
Suddenly, fingers pressed against his eyelids, cool mud flowing into the wrinkles of his face. He shuddered in shock. What in the world was happening?
No one had dared to touch him, except his parents when he was a child.
He was as invisible to society as the world was invisible to him, the only visitors being loyal givers and rude scoffers, both keeping their distance.
But to this person, though I have done nothing, I am worthy of healing.
“Go, wash in the pool of Siloam,” the stranger finally said.
He jumped to his feet, eagerly making his way, the mud sliding down his cheeks. The sloshing of water reached his ears and his hands cupped the slippery liquid. Gradually, with his heart full of hope, he wiped down the front of his face, daring to crack open his eyelids.
And then he knew. He knew this man was Jesus, the one he had heard about, the one of miracles. Colors flooded his conscience.
The Light of the World had entered his life.
Based off John 9.
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