You’re looking right at it, and you can’t see it.
It happens in the kitchen when you’re searching for the mustard. Your spouse says, “It’s right there.” You stare at the refrigerator shelf, scanning back and forth. Nothing. They reach past you and pull it out—right in front of your face the whole time. How did you miss it?
It happens in relationships when everyone else notices the warning signs you somehow couldn’t see. It happens at work when a problem you’ve been staring at for weeks suddenly resolves the moment someone else looks at it. “How did I not see that?” you wonder.
Seeing isn’t as simple as having functional eyes. We miss what’s directly in front of us. We look without perceiving. We stare at the obvious and somehow remain blind to it.
And then there are the moments when sight finally breaks through. The fog lifts. The scales fall. Something clicks into place, and suddenly you see what was there all along. Those moments change everything.
Today we encounter a man who received physical sight from Jesus—but that was only the beginning. His real journey was learning to see who Jesus actually was, even when powerful people pressured him to deny what his own eyes had witnessed.
For four weeks, we’ve been exploring what it means to move from darkness to light—discovering clarity through Christ’s transforming presence. We began with Nicodemus bringing his questions to Jesus under cover of night. We met a Samaritan woman whose noon encounter at a well changed everything. Last week, a royal official trusted Jesus’ word across twenty miles of uncertainty.
Today we complete the journey. A man blind from birth receives sight—and discovers that physical healing is only the first step in truly seeing. His story invites us to ask: what would it take for our eyes to be fully opened?
Sometimes it takes something we’d never choose to finally see clearly. Picture this scene.
The doctor’s words hung in the sterile air: “We found something on the scan.”
In the weeks that followed, everyone had opinions. Her sister insisted the doctors were probably wrong—get a second opinion, maybe a third. A coworker suggested she was making too big a deal of it. Her mother kept changing the subject, as if silence could make the diagnosis disappear. But she had seen the images herself. The dark mass on the screen. The physician’s careful explanation. She couldn’t un-see it.
Something shifted. She stopped postponing the conversation with her estranged brother. She returned to the church she’d been “meaning to visit” for three years. She started praying again—not eloquently, but honestly.
When friends suggested she was overreacting, letting fear drive her decisions, she didn’t argue. She simply said: “I’ve seen what’s true about my life. I can’t pretend I haven’t.” The diagnosis didn’t define her future. But it clarified her present. What she saw changed how she chose to live.
The man in today’s scripture makes a similar journey—from seeing to understanding to declaring what he knows to be true. John tells this story with remarkable attention to how the man’s understanding of Jesus evolves. Watch the progression.
The Pharisees press him: “What do you say about him?” His answer has grown: “He’s a prophet.” Still incomplete, but moving toward something.
Then comes the confrontation. Religious authorities who should celebrate a miracle instead feel threatened by it. They demand he recant: “Give glory to God. We know this man is a sinner.” The pressure is real. These aren’t casual acquaintances—they hold power over his social standing, his livelihood, his place in the community.
His response is one of scripture’s most powerful testimonies: “I don’t know whether he’s a sinner. Here’s what I do know: I was blind and now I see.”
He refuses to deny his experience. And it costs him. They throw him out of the synagogue—a devastating social and religious consequence.
But notice what happens next. Jesus seeks him out. “Do you believe in the Human One?” The man’s honest response reveals a heart ready for more: “Who is he, sir? I want to believe in him.”
Jesus’ answer is intimate and direct: “You have seen him. In fact, he is the one speaking with you.”
The man’s journey reaches its destination: “Lord, I believe.” And he worships.
This is faith as both gift and response. Jesus initiated the healing. Jesus sought him after the expulsion. But the man still had to choose—again and again—to testify, to stand firm, to worship.
In our Methodist tradition, we understand that God is already at work in your life before you ever recognize it. John Wesley called this prevenient grace—the grace that “comes before.”
Think about what that means for the man born blind. Before he ever met Jesus, before he washed in the Pool of Siloam, before he could see a single thing—God was already moving toward him. Jesus noticed him. Jesus chose to stop. The healing wasn’t earned or requested; it was pure gift.
But grace that comes before invites response. God’s initiative creates space for human decision. The man could have denied his experience to avoid conflict. He could have stayed silent. Instead, he testified—and his testimony deepened into worship.
This is how faith works. God moves first. God keeps moving. And at every turn, we’re invited to say yes to what we’re seeing—even when it costs us.
The man born blind faced a choice we all eventually face: deny what you’ve experienced to keep the peace, or testify to what you know is true regardless of consequences.
Some of you have been attending this church—or churches like it—for years without ever personally committing to follow Jesus. You know the songs. You understand the rhythms. But if someone asked, “What has Christ actually done in your life?” you’d struggle to answer. The invitation today is simple: stop observing and start participating. Move from “the man called Jesus” to “Lord, I believe.”
Others of you walked away from faith somewhere along the line. Maybe the church hurt you. Maybe life got complicated. Maybe you just drifted. You’re here today, but you’re not sure you belong anymore. Hear this: coming back isn’t starting over—it’s coming home. The man born blind was thrown out of the synagogue, but Jesus found him. Christ seeks out those who’ve been cast out. Your return doesn’t require perfection, just honesty.
And some of you are active Christians who sense there’s more. You’ve been holding something back—some area of your life you haven’t fully surrendered, some testimony you’ve been too timid to share. The religious leaders wanted the healed man to qualify his experience, soften his claims, play it safe. He refused. What would it mean for you to stop hedging?
Today is Commitment Sunday. The cards in your bulletin aren’t just about money—they’re declarations. They say: “I’ve seen what God is doing. I’m in.”
The good news is that God has been pursuing you longer than you’ve been searching for God. Before the man born blind ever met Jesus, Jesus noticed him. Before he washed in the Pool of Siloam, grace was already in motion. Before he could articulate who Jesus was, Jesus had already decided to heal him. That’s how God works. Divine love doesn’t wait for us to figure everything out. It moves first.
Your “yes” today isn’t the beginning of God’s love for you—it’s your response to love that’s been chasing you all along. John Wesley called this prevenient grace: the grace that comes before, preparing our hearts for the moment of decision. Every nudge toward faith you’ve ever felt, every question that wouldn’t let you go, every unexpected moment of peace in the middle of chaos—that was God, pursuing you.
And here’s what the man born blind discovered: Jesus seeks out those who take the risk of testifying. After the religious leaders expelled him, Jesus found him. Not the other way around. When you step forward in faith—imperfect, incomplete, still learning—Christ meets you there.
The decision doesn’t require certainty about everything. It just requires honesty about what you’ve seen. “I was blind and now I see” is enough.
As United Methodists, we make five promises when we join the church: to support the church with our prayers, presence, gifts, service, and witness.
This week, we focus on witness—share faith—by telling others about Jesus and how God is working in your life. The man born blind couldn’t explain everything, but he could testify to what he’d experienced. That’s enough.
Here’s how to live this out:
Name what you’ve seen. This week, write down one specific thing God has done in your life—a moment of clarity, provision, or transformation. Don’t overthink it. Just name it.
Tell one person. Share that story with someone this week—a friend, family member, or coworker. You don’t need a polished presentation. “Here’s what I know to be true” is powerful testimony.
Complete your commitment card. Bringing your card forward today is itself an act of witness—a public declaration that you’ve seen God at work and you’re responding.
Consider joining a Grace Group for accountability, growth, and encouragement as you practice testifying to what God is doing in your life.
You came into this room with some kind of blindness—we all did. But Christ’s light has been shining on you all along. Today you choose: deny what you’re witnessing or declare it with your whole life. The man born blind chose worship. So can you. Your eyes are wide open now. What will you do?
Will you pray with me?
Light-giving God, we have seen your grace. Give us courage to testify and faith to worship. Send us forward with eyes wide open. Amen.
AI tools assisted with drafting and research for this sermon, working within a theological framework I developed for preaching at McPherson First UMC. Scripture selection, theological direction, and final content remain my pastoral responsibility.
Rev. Andrew Conard 