John 9 tells one of the longest narratives in the New Testament, almost like a one act play. It sets up the predicament that we in the 21st century would call othering. The disciples of Jesus see a blind beggar on the street and want to know if his sad condition is the consequence of his own sin, or the sin of his parents. Jesus turns the question on its head, revealing that sin is not even a question on the table: this man in his condition is a canvas where the glory of God to be revealed. But the healing of the blind man just leads to a new othering from the community of faith that excluded him in the first place. Where his blindness kept him out of the worshipping body before, the fact that his healing was in violation of scripture (it happened on a Sabbath day), leaves everyone in fear of the religious leader’s excommunication should anyone acknowledge that the One who violated God’s Word to heal a man might be the Son of God.
Unfortunately, John 9 (like much of the Gospel of John), has a sordid history of anti-Semitic interpretation. Christians sneer at those Jewish leaders who were too blind to see Christ among them, completely missing the point of the story. Christians can be so moved singing the healed man’s confession, “I once was lost but now I’m found, was blind but now I see!” and yet, continue to establish and maintain communities of exclusion. From its very inception, Christianity has been overly concerned with judging who qualifies as a “true believer.”
And yet, the story of the man born blind in John 9 has an incredibly universal appeal. Any one of us who have experienced transformation through Jesus Christ can relate. Where the universal appeal drops, however, is how one is received into the community of faith after their transformation. If John 9 was originally written to encourage Jewish Christians who had been removed from their first faith communities, I see a direct parallel today to queer Christians who deeply struggle to find inclusion or home in the Body of Christ.
Like the blind man of John 9, queer Christians experience a constant scrutiny and pressure to prove that we are indeed saved by Christ. Prove with scripture. Prove with tradition. Prove with extensive apologetics that will never, never be actually listened to or welcomed by those who have already made up their minds. Our testimony is never enough. Our relationship with Christ is never enough for the Church.
Like the blind man of John 9, so many queer Christians see their families choose the church over them. We hear the church talk about family, and yet we have to go out of our way to discover congregations that might even entertain our belonging.
And like the blind man of John 9, so many queer Christians must cling fiercely to our trust that the voice of Christ speaks louder than the voice of Christians. The voice of Christ speaks louder than the mother who disowned my friend saying, “I’d rather stand by Christ’s side on judgment day than by your side in the flames of hell.” The voice of Christ speaks louder than loved one who said to me, “I am so ashamed of you. But I hope that we can still be cool at family gatherings!” The voice of Christ speaks louder than the benevolent homophobia coming from loved ones who think that their politeness somehow makes their exclusion less painful. The voice of Christ speaks louder than allies in the church who have no idea how condescending their comments can be, “Do you think you’re being too gay?”
Maybe this week’s comic isn’t for everyone. Maybe it’s just for queer Christians, and everyone else can gaze upon our experience and make their minds up from a distance. I get that. But I deeply believe that if the Gospel isn’t good news for queer people, then it’s not good news for anybody. Our stories can inform the Church on the work that needs to be done in the world. Truth be told, my comics are the number one way I meditate and contemplate Scripture, especially as I process my own walk with God. What you guys see each week can be for you, and I hope it is meaningful to others. But it is also just my spiritual journey and process, not some completed PhD dissertation.
I’ve attached a favorite song of mine by Mavis Staples, Build A Bridge.
When I say my life mattersYou can say yours does tooBut I bet you never have to remind anyoneTo look at it from your point of viewGotta build a bridge right over the mountainGotta build it right over the seaGonna build a bridge right over the oceanSo you can walk right over to me