He could hear sandals scraping the dust. Then a voice.
“Rabbi, who sinned—this man or his parents?”
He stiffened. They always thought he couldn’t hear, as if the lack of sight meant deafness too.
“I did not sin,” he said, low, hoarse.
The question silenced. Only one man didn't flinch. A calm voice answered, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned. But the works of God will be displayed in him.”
A ragged breath caught in the blind man’s throat. He turned his head toward the voice. Something in it carried heat, not pity. Authority. Fire.
Then he heard something strange—a wet sound, like someone spitting. Then squelching.
He flinched. “What are you—?”
“Be still.”
The man’s hands were warm and rough. They pressed something cool and gritty over his eyes. Mud. The blind man tried to back away but couldn’t. The hands were gentle—but firm. Not controlling. Intentional.
“Go,” the voice said, “wash in the Pool of Siloam.”
Silence.
No reason. No promise. Just the command.
He stood slowly, fingers twitching. The crowd was still there, he could feel them. Watching.
He could stay in the safety of the known—his corner, his darkness, his shame.
Or he could obey.
He turned.
Every step to Siloam was a risk—he staggered into walls and shoulders, heard shouted curses. His fingers scraped stone. His knees buckled once. He kept going.
He felt the water only when it soaked his ankles. Knelt.
Scooped it to his face.
Once.
Twice.
The third time, his hands trembled—
And the world rushed in.
Light. A sky deeper than words, voices that now had faces, water gleaming over each stone ripple. Everything sharp. Everything new.
He gasped and fell backward, blinking hard. Was this real? Had he slipped? Had he hit his head?
A boy ran by chasing a hoop, nearly knocking him over. “Watch it!”
He laughed—a broken, bubbling sound. He laughed again.
I see.
—
The questions came like a swarm.
“Is that the beggar?”
“It can’t be.”
“What happened?”
He tried to answer, but each word led to another accusation. The Pharisees called him in, twice. Demanded explanations. Demanded blame.
“How did he open your eyes?” they barked.
He tried to stay quiet. No one wanted the real answer. Just someone to condemn.
But by the second visit, something in him cracked.
“I’ve told you already. Why do you want to hear it again? Do you want to become his disciples too?”
Gasps. Outrage. Stone-faced fury.
“You were steeped in sin at birth!” they roared, “And you lecture us?”
They threw him out.
The streets were quieter after that. Lonelier, somehow.
He sat by the wall, eyes open, heart raw.
Then he heard soft steps.
A pause.
A voice, that voice. “Do you believe in the Son of Man?”
He stood, almost fell all over again. “Who is he, sir? Tell me, so I may believe.”
The man stepped closer. He wasn’t just a healer. Something radiated off him—deep and slow as the sea, fierce as fire. The light didn’t just shine. It pressed in.
“You have now seen him,” the man said. “He is the one speaking with you.”
The man sank to his knees.
One slow exhale.
“I believe.”
No crowd. No noise.
Just a pair of eyes, once dark, still shining in wonder.
He could hear sandals scraping the dust. Then a voice.
“Rabbi, who sinned—this man or his parents?”
He stiffened. They always thought he couldn’t hear, as if the lack of sight meant deafness too.
“I did not sin,” he said, low, hoarse.
The question silenced. Only one man didn't flinch. A calm voice answered, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned. But the works of God will be displayed in him.”
A ragged breath caught in the blind man’s throat. He turned his head toward the voice. Something in it carried heat, not pity. Authority. Fire.
Then he heard something strange—a wet sound, like someone spitting. Then squelching.
He flinched. “What are you—?”
“Be still.”
The man’s hands were warm and rough. They pressed something cool and gritty over his eyes. Mud. The blind man tried to back away but couldn’t. The hands were gentle—but firm. Not controlling. Intentional.
“Go,” the voice said, “wash in the Pool of Siloam.”
Silence.
No reason. No promise. Just the command.
He stood slowly, fingers twitching. The crowd was still there, he could feel them. Watching.
He could stay in the safety of the known—his corner, his darkness, his shame.
Or he could obey.
He turned.
Every step to Siloam was a risk—he staggered into walls and shoulders, heard shouted curses. His fingers scraped stone. His knees buckled once. He kept going.
He felt the water only when it soaked his ankles. Knelt.
Scooped it to his face.
Once.
Twice.
The third time, his hands trembled—
And the world rushed in.
Light. A sky deeper than words, voices that now had faces, water gleaming over each stone ripple. Everything sharp. Everything new.
He gasped and fell backward, blinking hard. Was this real? Had he slipped? Had he hit his head?
A boy ran by chasing a hoop, nearly knocking him over. “Watch it!”
He laughed—a broken, bubbling sound. He laughed again.
I see.
—
The questions came like a swarm.
“Is that the beggar?”
“It can’t be.”
“What happened?”
He tried to answer, but each word led to another accusation. The Pharisees called him in, twice. Demanded explanations. Demanded blame.
“How did he open your eyes?” they barked.
He tried to stay quiet. No one wanted the real answer. Just someone to condemn.
But by the second visit, something in him cracked.
“I’ve told you already. Why do you want to hear it again? Do you want to become his disciples too?”
Gasps. Outrage. Stone-faced fury.
“You were steeped in sin at birth!” they roared, “And you lecture us?”
They threw him out.
The streets were quieter after that. Lonelier, somehow.
He sat by the wall, eyes open, heart raw.
Then he heard soft steps.
A pause.
A voice, that voice. “Do you believe in the Son of Man?”
He stood, almost fell all over again. “Who is he, sir? Tell me, so I may believe.”
The man stepped closer. He wasn’t just a healer. Something radiated off him—deep and slow as the sea, fierce as fire. The light didn’t just shine. It pressed in.
“You have now seen him,” the man said. “He is the one speaking with you.”
The man sank to his knees.
One slow exhale.
“I believe.”
No crowd. No noise.
Just a pair of eyes, once dark, still shining in wonder.
