Blind

I wonder what it was like for the blind man, blind from birth. His life void of light, void of color. As he was led about by the arm, he had no images to fill his memory, no comprehension of the sights his companions spoke of.

To him, yellow was the warmth he felt on his face on a summer afternoon. Blue was the scent of the dew in the early morning. Pink was a kiss pressed against his cheek. Orange was the sound of laughter. And black, the only color he had ever seen, was the color he knew the least. With nothing to compare it against, it had no meaning. Black was a question.

And then his life was transformed by an encounter with the Savior. His life was never the same.

I wonder what it was like for him the first time he saw a sunset, the first time he witnessed a bird in flight. I wonder what he thought when he saw a person's eyes light up with laughter. I wonder if in those early days, he spent hours gazing into the flickering flames of a fire. Imagine the excitement, the overwhelmed amazement.

Do you suppose a few days later the blind man sat with his eyes closed, his hands cupped over them, trying to block out the light. Do you suppose sometimes he walked the streets with his eyes closed? He would have known his way be every other sense, but not sight. He had no visual landmarks. He would have no work. No one gives alms to a blind beggar that can see. I'm sure he loved the sights, but they were so strange, so unfamiliar. Do you suppose he found his comfort in the darkness?

It seems extreme and unnatural that he could for a moment desire to give up something as precious as underserved sight in exchange for the old darkness to which he was captive. Why then do we? Why do we, who have seen the Light, forsake it for sins committed in the shadows? Why do we, who have known the safety of the Shepherd, wander to the cliffs? Are we just curious? Why do we trade the feast He has prepared for stale crumbs? It seems unnatural, yet we do, so often choosing the familiarity of the old nature.