Seeing Clearly and Living Freely - John 9:1–41 & Matthew 6:24–34
Our Gospel reading today from John tells one of the most vivid and dramatic stories in the New Testament – the healing of the man born blind.
Jesus and his disciples encounter a man who has never seen – born blind we are told. Immediately the disciples ask a theological question: “Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” It is the kind of question religious people often ask, trying to find blame, trying to explain suffering through moral accounting.
But Jesus refuses that framework. He says neither this man nor his parents sinned. Instead, he shifts the focus entirely: the situation will become an opportunity for the works of God to be revealed.
Jesus then does something unusual. He makes mud with saliva, places it on the man’s eyes, and tells him to wash in the pool of Siloam. The man obeys and when he washes, he receives his sight.
At first this seems like a simple miracle story. But John’s Gospel rarely tells simple stories. There are always layers of meaning beneath the surface. What follows is almost like a spiritual drama unfolding in stages.
The neighbours are puzzled. Some say, “Is this not the man who used to sit and beg?” Others say it only looks like him. The man simply says, “I am the one.”
Then the religious authorities begin to investigate like the Taliban. The problem is not the miracle itself, the problem is that it happened on the Sabbath. The focus shifts from compassion to rule-keeping. The man is questioned, his parents are questioned, and the pressure grows.
The Pharisees insist Jesus must be a sinner because he healed on the Sabbath. The man responds with beautiful simplicity: “I do not know whether he is a sinner. One thing I do know, though I was blind, now I see.”
As the questioning continues, something remarkable happens. The man who was once blind begins to see more and more clearly – not just physically, but spiritually. Meanwhile the religious authorities, who believe they see clearly, become increasingly blind.
Eventually the man who has been healed is expelled from the synagogue.
When Jesus hears this, he seeks him out again and asks: “Do you believe in the Son of Man?” When the man asks who that is, Jesus says, “You have seen him.” And the man responds with faith.
Then Jesus speaks the paradox at the heart of the story: “I came into this world for judgment so that those who do not see may see, and those who think they see may become blind.”
This is interesting because earlier in John’s Gospel we hear that Jesus did not come to judge the world but to save it. The judgment here is not something Jesus imposes. The religious authorities have judged themselves by believing they can see when in fact they are blind.
Now alongside this story today we hear words of Jesus from the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew’s Gospel.
Jesus says: “No one can serve two masters… You cannot serve God and wealth. Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life… Look at the birds of the air… Consider the lilies of the field… Seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness.”
To understand these words, it helps to remember the larger vision of Matthew’s Gospel. Matthew presents Jesus as a teacher who reveals the deeper meaning of the Kingdom of God. Much of his teaching is gathered in the Sermon on the Mount – a vision of life shaped by trust in God. Again and again Matthew raises the same question: Where is your heart oriented? What master governs your life?
In that context Jesus warns that the human heart cannot serve two masters. It cannot be divided between trust in God and the pursuit of security, control, and status. The word often translated “wealth” is mammon. It represents the whole system of anxiety-driven accumulation – the belief that our ultimate safety lies in possessing and controlling.
And beneath that system lies a deeper issue: worry. Why do we cling so tightly to security and control? Because we are afraid. Because we struggle to trust that life itself is held within the care of God – within a deeper wisdom and compassion that ultimately holds our lives. So Jesus invites his listeners to look at the world around them: the birds of the air, the lilies of the field. They are not anxious about tomorrow, yet life unfolds within a larger providence.
The call of Jesus is not irresponsibility. It is freedom from anxiety. Freedom from the illusion that we must secure life entirely by our own grasping. Instead, he says: Seek first the Kingdom of God.
In Matthew’s Gospel the Kingdom is not simply a place we go after death. It is a new way of seeing and living – a life aligned with divine reality rather than with fear.
And perhaps on this Mothering Sunday that invitation takes on a very human shape.
One of the quiet things that mothers do for us – and indeed all who nurture children – is that they help us learn how to see the world. A mother teaches a child to notice things: the beauty of a bird in the garden, the wonder of flowers opening in spring, the small signs that life is good.
And mothers also teach something even deeper: they teach trust. A small child begins life vulnerable and fragile. But through being held, fed, comforted, and reassured, that child slowly learns something very important – that life can be trusted. That there is a greater love that holds us.
In a sense, mothers are often the first people who help us learn the very lesson Jesus speaks about in the Sermon on the Mount: not to live our lives consumed by fear and worry, but to trust that there is a deeper love and wisdom that sustains life.
If we return now to the story of the man born blind in John’s Gospel, we can see this teaching from Matthew in a new light. The story in John is really about two ways of seeing the world.
On one side are the religious authorities. They believe they see clearly. They have knowledge, status, and institutional authority. But beneath it lies fear – fear of losing control, fear of losing their system. And because they are bound by that fear, they cannot recognise what God is doing right in front of them. So when grace appears before them – a man receiving sight – they cannot celebrate it. They can only interrogate it.
Meanwhile the man who was blind begins the story with almost nothing. No status. No authority. No theological credentials. All he has is his experience of grace.
Yet as the story unfolds, he becomes freer and freer. At first he simply calls Jesus “the man called Jesus.” Then he calls him “a prophet.” Finally he recognises him as one sent from God. His physical sight becomes a symbol of deeper spiritual sight.
And notice something else: he is no longer afraid. When the authorities threaten him, he speaks boldly. When they try to silence him, he answers with clarity. Even when he is cast out, he stands in the truth of what he has experienced. The man who was once blind is now living the freedom Jesus describes in Matthew’s Gospel. He is no longer serving the master of fear. He is living from trust.
Perhaps this is why Jesus ends the story with that paradox: Those who do not see may see, and those who think they see may become blind.
Spiritual sight does not begin with certainty. It begins with humility. The Pharisees are trapped because they believe they already see perfectly. But the man who was blind is open enough to receive a new vision of reality.
And perhaps this is also where the words of Jesus in Matthew become deeply practical for us: “Do not worry about your life.” This does not mean life will always be easy. It means anxiety does not have to be the master of our hearts.
When fear and worry govern our lives, our vision becomes narrow. We begin to see the world only through the lens of threat and scarcity. But when we seek first the Kingdom of God – when we trust that life is held within a deeper wisdom and compassion – something changes in the way we see. We begin to notice grace where we had not seen it before. We begin to notice beauty where anxiety had blinded us. In other words, light begins to shine into our once anxious lives.
The story of the man born blind turns out not simply to be about physical sight restored, but about the eyes of the heart being opened. In the story, the opening of his eyes becomes the opening of his soul.
And perhaps that brings us back once more to the invitation of Mothering Sunday.
One of the deepest hopes of every loving mother is not simply to protect a child forever, but to help that child grow into someone who can live freely and courageously in the world. To see clearly. To trust deeply. To live without being ruled by fear. In that sense, motherhood itself reflects something of the heart of God – nurturing life, opening eyes, and encouraging trust.
And perhaps that is also the invitation of these Gospel readings today. Not simply to admire a miracle long ago, but to ask ourselves:
What might God be trying to show us that our fears prevent us from seeing?
What if the Kingdom of God is already present all around us – like the birds of the air and the lilies of the field – waiting for us simply to trust enough to open our eyes?
I realise I am preaching to myself here… because I often live with an anxiety that robs me of joy.
In the end we have two options:
to live with a deeper trust that there is a greater wisdom and compassion at work in the universe that undergirds our lives…
or to believe that everything ultimately depends on us alone.
And if that were the case, anxiety really would be our only option.
And so on this Mothering Sunday, may we begin to let go and trust, that the eyes of our hearts might be opened to see the signs of God’s nurturing love and grace around us, and that in place of anxiety we might know the gift of joy.
Our Gospel reading today from John tells one of the most vivid and dramatic stories in the New Testament – the healing of the man born blind.
Jesus and his disciples encounter a man who has never seen – born blind we are told. Immediately the disciples ask a theological question: “Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” It is the kind of question religious people often ask, trying to find blame, trying to explain suffering through moral accounting.
But Jesus refuses that framework. He says neither this man nor his parents sinned. Instead, he shifts the focus entirely: the situation will become an opportunity for the works of God to be revealed.
Jesus then does something unusual. He makes mud with saliva, places it on the man’s eyes, and tells him to wash in the pool of Siloam. The man obeys and when he washes, he receives his sight.
At first this seems like a simple miracle story. But John’s Gospel rarely tells simple stories. There are always layers of meaning beneath the surface. What follows is almost like a spiritual drama unfolding in stages.
The neighbours are puzzled. Some say, “Is this not the man who used to sit and beg?” Others say it only looks like him. The man simply says, “I am the one.”
Then the religious authorities begin to investigate like the Taliban. The problem is not the miracle itself, the problem is that it happened on the Sabbath. The focus shifts from compassion to rule-keeping. The man is questioned, his parents are questioned, and the pressure grows.
The Pharisees insist Jesus must be a sinner because he healed on the Sabbath. The man responds with beautiful simplicity: “I do not know whether he is a sinner. One thing I do know, though I was blind, now I see.”
As the questioning continues, something remarkable happens. The man who was once blind begins to see more and more clearly – not just physically, but spiritually. Meanwhile the religious authorities, who believe they see clearly, become increasingly blind.
Eventually the man who has been healed is expelled from the synagogue.
When Jesus hears this, he seeks him out again and asks: “Do you believe in the Son of Man?” When the man asks who that is, Jesus says, “You have seen him.” And the man responds with faith.
Then Jesus speaks the paradox at the heart of the story: “I came into this world for judgment so that those who do not see may see, and those who think they see may become blind.”
This is interesting because earlier in John’s Gospel we hear that Jesus did not come to judge the world but to save it. The judgment here is not something Jesus imposes. The religious authorities have judged themselves by believing they can see when in fact they are blind.
Now alongside this story today we hear words of Jesus from the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew’s Gospel.
Jesus says: “No one can serve two masters… You cannot serve God and wealth. Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life… Look at the birds of the air… Consider the lilies of the field… Seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness.”
To understand these words, it helps to remember the larger vision of Matthew’s Gospel. Matthew presents Jesus as a teacher who reveals the deeper meaning of the Kingdom of God. Much of his teaching is gathered in the Sermon on the Mount – a vision of life shaped by trust in God. Again and again Matthew raises the same question: Where is your heart oriented? What master governs your life?
In that context Jesus warns that the human heart cannot serve two masters. It cannot be divided between trust in God and the pursuit of security, control, and status. The word often translated “wealth” is mammon. It represents the whole system of anxiety-driven accumulation – the belief that our ultimate safety lies in possessing and controlling.
And beneath that system lies a deeper issue: worry. Why do we cling so tightly to security and control? Because we are afraid. Because we struggle to trust that life itself is held within the care of God – within a deeper wisdom and compassion that ultimately holds our lives. So Jesus invites his listeners to look at the world around them: the birds of the air, the lilies of the field. They are not anxious about tomorrow, yet life unfolds within a larger providence.
The call of Jesus is not irresponsibility. It is freedom from anxiety. Freedom from the illusion that we must secure life entirely by our own grasping. Instead, he says: Seek first the Kingdom of God.
In Matthew’s Gospel the Kingdom is not simply a place we go after death. It is a new way of seeing and living – a life aligned with divine reality rather than with fear.
And perhaps on this Mothering Sunday that invitation takes on a very human shape.
One of the quiet things that mothers do for us – and indeed all who nurture children – is that they help us learn how to see the world. A mother teaches a child to notice things: the beauty of a bird in the garden, the wonder of flowers opening in spring, the small signs that life is good.
And mothers also teach something even deeper: they teach trust. A small child begins life vulnerable and fragile. But through being held, fed, comforted, and reassured, that child slowly learns something very important – that life can be trusted. That there is a greater love that holds us.
In a sense, mothers are often the first people who help us learn the very lesson Jesus speaks about in the Sermon on the Mount: not to live our lives consumed by fear and worry, but to trust that there is a deeper love and wisdom that sustains life.
If we return now to the story of the man born blind in John’s Gospel, we can see this teaching from Matthew in a new light. The story in John is really about two ways of seeing the world.
On one side are the religious authorities. They believe they see clearly. They have knowledge, status, and institutional authority. But beneath it lies fear – fear of losing control, fear of losing their system. And because they are bound by that fear, they cannot recognise what God is doing right in front of them. So when grace appears before them – a man receiving sight – they cannot celebrate it. They can only interrogate it.
Meanwhile the man who was blind begins the story with almost nothing. No status. No authority. No theological credentials. All he has is his experience of grace.
Yet as the story unfolds, he becomes freer and freer. At first he simply calls Jesus “the man called Jesus.” Then he calls him “a prophet.” Finally he recognises him as one sent from God. His physical sight becomes a symbol of deeper spiritual sight.
And notice something else: he is no longer afraid. When the authorities threaten him, he speaks boldly. When they try to silence him, he answers with clarity. Even when he is cast out, he stands in the truth of what he has experienced. The man who was once blind is now living the freedom Jesus describes in Matthew’s Gospel. He is no longer serving the master of fear. He is living from trust.
Perhaps this is why Jesus ends the story with that paradox: Those who do not see may see, and those who think they see may become blind.
Spiritual sight does not begin with certainty. It begins with humility. The Pharisees are trapped because they believe they already see perfectly. But the man who was blind is open enough to receive a new vision of reality.
And perhaps this is also where the words of Jesus in Matthew become deeply practical for us: “Do not worry about your life.” This does not mean life will always be easy. It means anxiety does not have to be the master of our hearts.
When fear and worry govern our lives, our vision becomes narrow. We begin to see the world only through the lens of threat and scarcity. But when we seek first the Kingdom of God – when we trust that life is held within a deeper wisdom and compassion – something changes in the way we see. We begin to notice grace where we had not seen it before. We begin to notice beauty where anxiety had blinded us. In other words, light begins to shine into our once anxious lives.
The story of the man born blind turns out not simply to be about physical sight restored, but about the eyes of the heart being opened. In the story, the opening of his eyes becomes the opening of his soul.
And perhaps that brings us back once more to the invitation of Mothering Sunday.
One of the deepest hopes of every loving mother is not simply to protect a child forever, but to help that child grow into someone who can live freely and courageously in the world. To see clearly. To trust deeply. To live without being ruled by fear. In that sense, motherhood itself reflects something of the heart of God – nurturing life, opening eyes, and encouraging trust.
And perhaps that is also the invitation of these Gospel readings today. Not simply to admire a miracle long ago, but to ask ourselves:
What might God be trying to show us that our fears prevent us from seeing?
What if the Kingdom of God is already present all around us – like the birds of the air and the lilies of the field – waiting for us simply to trust enough to open our eyes?
I realise I am preaching to myself here… because I often live with an anxiety that robs me of joy.
In the end we have two options:
to live with a deeper trust that there is a greater wisdom and compassion at work in the universe that undergirds our lives…
or to believe that everything ultimately depends on us alone.
And if that were the case, anxiety really would be our only option.
And so on this Mothering Sunday, may we begin to let go and trust, that the eyes of our hearts might be opened to see the signs of God’s nurturing love and grace around us, and that in place of anxiety we might know the gift of joy.
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