The Mud of the Lamb

John 9:1-41

A story is told of the Buddha who when asked by one of his disciples to describe the human condition likened it to a man walking through the forest who is struck by an arrow. Too often, the Buddha cautioned, we indulge ourselves in the kinds of questions that are irrelevant to the situation at hand. An observer of this tragedy has the luxury of wandering down rabbit trails: I wonder who shot this arrow? Why was he so careless in his aim? How far did it have to travel to reach its unlikely destination? If you are the man writhing in pain, however, all of these abstractions are quite beside the point, for there is only one pertinent question: How can I remove this object from my body and relieve my misery? Human beings, the Buddha concluded, frequently delude themselves into thinking that they are merely observers of their world, and thus they ask all the wrong questions. But in reality, each of us is like the man languishing in the forest, and as such we really don't have time for idle speculation. Instead, we need to focus our attention on the urgency of our predicament.

I can imagine that Jesus must have felt some of the Buddha's frustration when his disciples began posing their observer's questions about the man who had been blind from birth. No doubt the situation was a conundrum, especially for those who no longer believed that God was "a jealous God, punishing children for the iniquity of their parents…" (Ex. 20:5). It was Ezekiel who first painted Yahweh in a new light as a Creator who deals with each person according to his or her sins, and not as some vindictive old man who can't get over a grudge (Ezek. 18:20). But if this is the case, then how can we begin to explain congenital blindness? Despite Job, many during Jesus' day would have recognized the disability as a certain punishment from God. Some sin must have been committed, but when, and by whom? Were his parents to blame? Apparently not, unless you wanted to take up the matter with the likes of Ezekiel. Therefore, it must have been the man himself who was responsible. But could this transgression have happened in the womb? What a wonderful opportunity for a ponderous theological discussion, the disciples must have thought. Jesus could probably hold forth on this one for hours!

But Jesus had other plans. Like the Buddha, he knew that this was no time for philosophical tourism; it was a time for getting his hands dirty. His immediate response, however, appears to leave us with an unfortunate theodicy: "he was born blind so that God's works might be revealed in him" (9:3). Wonderful. Just when we thought we were past the image of God as some grumpy old man we're now confronted with an even less appealing possibility: God as manipulative deity who allows, if not causes, the lifelong suffering of an innocent person so that God might eventually be glorified.

This is a little hard to swallow. Indeed, it was such a facile explanation of the afflictions of our world that led the iconoclastic Ivan, in Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, to reject the Christian faith and its worldview altogether. "If the sufferings of children go to swell the sum of sufferings that was necessary to pay for truth, then I protest that the truth is not worth such a price" (ch. 35). Thankfully the New Testament scholar Craig R. Koester helps us to breathe a little easier with an alternative translation. "A better way to approach this passage," he writes, "is to follow the Greek wording, recognizing that the sentence begins in 9:3 and continues in the next verse: 'Neither this man nor his parents sinned, but in order that (all' hina) the works of God might be revealed in him we must work the works of him who sent me while it is day'" (9:3-4a) (Symbolism in the Fourth Gospel, Second Edition [Fortress Press, 2003], p. 105). In other words, Jesus' act in relieving the man's suffering is not the long-awaited denouement of some divine plan, but rather a symbolic instance of its inauguration. Jesus was announcing in word and in deed the beginning of a new creation: "Let there be light."

And so he begins, in a manner not unfamiliar to those who have read the Yahwist account of creation in Genesis 2. The symbolism of Jesus' use of clay was not lost on Irenaeus of Lyons in the second century. For him it was an affirmation that the same hand that had formed Adam from the dust of the ground was now supplying openly what nature had neglected to provide in the womb (Against Heresies 5.15.2). Jesus did not simply heal the man's eyes but, in a manner of speaking, fashioned new ones from the earth itself. It was Origen, however, who helped early Christians understand the connection between this miracle and the process of their own spiritual growth. Whereas in the past Israel's kings were affirmed as "sons of God" (Ps. 2:7) through an anointing with oil, this apparent sinner was now acknowledged as one of God's own by means of a much more elemental ritual. He was anointed in the mud of the lamb. Thus begins his awakening -- his enlightenment -- a gradual understanding of the nature and power of God's grace in his life. But as Origen informed his readers, the clay in Jesus' hands was only the penultimate phase of the man's faith journey. It was "the beginning of the rudiments of the oracles of God, according to which we as babies are fed with milk. But when the childish things are done away with and we eat solid food, we wipe away the clay so that we may return to Jesus as one who sees" (Fragment 63 on the Gospel of John).

It is very easy to overlook a seemingly insignificant statement made by the one who, after washing his eyes in the pool of Siloam, was graced with the gift of sight. When asked by his neighbors if he is in fact the same person they once knew as a helpless beggar, his response is a noteworthy echo of Jesus' original proclamation to the woman at the well (John 4:5-41): "I am the man!" Now, having been made one with Christ through his baptism in living water, this man is able to testify to the Messiah most intimately by a profession of God's holy name, which is at once an affirmation of the new life that has been created in him: "I am."

It is no coincidence that early depictions of this miracle are prominent in the art of the Christian catacombs, found as often as nine times on the walls of these underground sanctuaries. It is not difficult to conceive how this gospel lesson might have been interpreted in this subterranean context, where the dust of the earth surrounded the faithful on all sides and darkness swallowed up the thin luminosity of their oil lamps. The rite of baptism in this environment must have been accompanied by a profound first-hand experience of arising from the depths as the believer ascended from the tombs of the dead and awakened to the light of day, assured in faith that she was now alive in Christ.

In an earlier reflection I spoke about the importance of Lent as Adam's season, a time for wearing the ashes of creation on my forehead and affirming the weaknesses and vulnerabilities I share with my most ancient of ancestors. I now know, through my ruminations on the lectionary texts over the last three weeks, that I too have been engaged all along in a kind of personal journey of creation, of being called forth slowly from the earth, my home. With twenty days of Lent behind me and twenty more that lie ahead, it seems appropriate at this point to shift my focus and begin reflecting on my own gradual ascent toward the light, from the tomb of my small ego toward the great "I am" whose spirit I bear through my baptism.

But if Lent teaches us anything it is the need to stay grounded, connected with the earth and the vicissitudes of our day-to-day existence. We are not simply observers of this short life but full participants in the groaning of creation and the suffering of humanity. We should therefore not pursue our idle speculations at the expense of the innumerable opportunities we have before us to really dig in deeply and get our hands dirty. For the way of enlightenment, of waking up and seeing the world as if for the first time, is by no means a straight road to glory but a crooked path of paradox, as both Jesus and the Buddha knew so well. As we near the second half of this liturgical season, John is encouraging us in this story to ponder one of his most elemental of insights -- that even before we can be refreshed by the waters of life we must first be renewed by the mud of the lamb.

Questions for Further Discussion

1. What aspects of this complex story most intrigue you?

2. Have you had any personal experiences where features of your world were brought more clearly into focus? If so, what were the means by which you were able to see things as if for the first time?

3. Do idle speculation and "observer's questions" (like those of both the disciples and the Pharisees in this text) often prevent you from digging in deeply and getting your hands dirty in the realities of your day-to-day existence?

4. Can you think of any contemporary parallels to this story?