Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?   

The rabbi in question is Jesus, and (at first glance) his answer is neither convincing nor comforting. “Neither this man nor his parents sinned,” Jesus says, “He was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.” Does Jesus mean to suggest that God caused this man’s blindness so that he could work a miracle?

But maybe that’s taking his words too literally.  Maybe it’s not a really question of cause and effect. Maybe instead what Jesus is up to is shattering the connection between suffering and SIN the question presupposes. Jesus breaks out of the false alternative, which insists that someone must have sinned, with the only question left being “who sinned, this man or his parents?” And he points us instead to the healing, all-powerful love of God.  

Then, Jesus does something remarkable. He spits in the ground, spreads mud on the man’s eyes, and sends him to wash and be healed. In other words, Jesus does the work of God, and invites the man to participate in that work himself.

As it’s commonly presented in philosophy textbooks, the problem of evil is an intellectual problem. God is all-knowing, all-powerful, and absolutely good, yet horrible evil and unspeakable suffering exist. The usual solutions are to deny God’s existence, to somehow qualify what it means for God to be all powerful, or to maintain that suffering contributes to a greater good.    

On one level, that’s a fascinating exercise, and I’ve written a term paper or two about it myself. Yet none of these explanations seems to help us when we’re actually suffering. More often than not, they sound like the glib explanations of Job’s comforters. They are blasphemous words that only deepen our pain.

Maybe, suffering calls for another kind of response. Rather than going through intellectual gymnastics, we might show some Christlike solidarity and compassion. Instead of empty words, we might offer a strong, tender, and loving presence. If we offered any words at all, we would offer only gentle words of comfort and blessing. And we might look for resiliency and strength in the wounded one, and over time help them name that strength and act upon it, so that they might learn to live in gratitude and perhaps share in the mission and movement of Jesus, sharing their God-given gifts and strengths with others.

It is here, I think, that the fact of Jesus spitting in the dirt needs to be highlighted. (Not that I’d recommend this method of healing!)  John is pointing us to the power of touch and the physical nearness of Jesus. The Son of God has come into our flesh. And he is showing us who God is, and what God’s work is like.   

Too often, when we read John’s Gospel, we are overwhelmed by the seemingly otherworldly character of Jesus. How easily we forget John’s central affirmation: That the Word became flesh and lived among us, full of grace and truth.   Jesus became one of us. He lived, breathed, and spat in the mud. This is the ultimate act of solidarity—to be with us in flesh and blood. To share the life and struggles of us all, including our suffering and death.

At the same time, Jesus doesn’t get caught in the same trap so many of us do. He doesn't confuse compassion with being nice, or fall into co-dependent, enabling behavior. We can get so overwhelmed by the suffering of others that we trip all over ourselves trying to help. And so, we unwittingly stabilize them in their dependency and weakness. We forget the many occasions in Scripture when Jesus challenges others and focus on his role as a miracle worker.  Jesus heals the man, but he invites him to participate in his own healing, when he says, “Go and wash in the pool of Siloam.”   Only when the man does this is he healed.  Jesus does not lose himself in the suffering of others. He comes alongside us in the flesh, while remaining who he is—the Son of God and Savior.

If we want to find where God is in human suffering, we should look for God as the source of strength and integrity.   God is the one who invites us into wholeness, no matter where we’ve wandered. No matter how broken we are.   There is suffering that overcomes and defeats us. Jesus shares that too, on the Cross. In the form of a crucified slave, he becomes most fully our Lord and Savior. He triumphs over death itself.

In the story, the only place we catch Jesus committing the sin of theology is in what he denies. This man is not blind because someone sinned. Jesus refuses to see suffering as punishment. He refuses to trap God in the human cycle of tit for tat. But for the most part, rather than thinking or talking about God, Jesus simply does the work of God. He embodies God’s word and wisdom in all he says and does and IS. And he reveals God’s glory in his very flesh.

When we suffer, we need companionship. We need someone who will stand beside us, without trying to fix it for us.   We need someone who will befriend us and help us get strong enough to stand ourselves when possible. God did all these things when God sent Jesus to live and die as one of us, in our flesh.

As Rowan Williams has written “This is what the love of God is like:  it is free and therefore it is both all-powerful and completely vulnerable.” This is what the love of Jesus is like.  He is vulnerable (i.e., woundable).  He is mortal.  And more than that, he actually suffered death and was buried.

And then, but only on the third day, he rose again, breaking the power of sin and death once and for all. The world doesn't know this yet, but it's true.  And it's our job to go and tell people, beginning with ourselves.

In Jesus, we see the glory of God. In the words of Saint Irenaeus, he is the glory of God, because he is the “human being fully alive.” He is the second Adam, God's new humanity. Among other things, he is what we will look like when we are finally liberated from the power of sin and death. He is what we will look like when we finally learn how to love. 

Among many other things, Jesus is the giver of the Holy Spirit of love. Costly, vulnerable love. Righteous, all-powerful love. Sovereign, utterly free love. Dying and rising love that seeks us out when we neither desire nor deserve it. Love that gives itself for neighbors, including those we consider enemies and strangers.

Jesus Christ is God's answer to evil—not as a theoretical problem but as a lived reality. And he is far, far stronger than all the things we think are strong. Stronger than nations and economies. Stronger than armies, bullets, and bombs.  Stronger than disease and contagion. Stronger than suffering. Stronger than death itself.

For the Word became living, breathing flesh.

And we have seen his glory.

Jesus is the glory of God.

He is God at work in the world.