Whose fault is it?

The following meditation is written by Anna Carter Florence.


Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?
Why does it always come back to this question?—"Whose fault is it?"

You’re doing dishes in the kitchen when a baseball flies through the window with a crash. Picking your way through the broken glass, you peer through the hole in the window and see two boys, frozen in horror. One holds a baseball bat; the other wears a glove. They are both speechless for exactly five seconds, and then each begins to shout, pointing at the other:
"I told you not to hit it toward the house!"
"What?! You’re the one who made me stand in this spot!"
"But I didn’t hit the ball, stupid!"
"You pitched it! And it was your idea to play in the first place!"
As their voices rise in decibels and the shouting match turns ugly, you realize they are waiting for you to decide: Whose fault is it, that the baseball went through the window?

The couple sits down in the doctor’s office, waiting for her report. They have been trying for two years to get pregnant, with no success; now, they want to know why. Last week they came in for the battery of tests that will begin to give them some answers, but as the doctor sees the tension in their faces, how they are unable to look at one another or hold hands, she knows how the couple is framing their questions:
Is she the one—is it her inability to conceive?
Is he the one—is his sperm count too low?
Is it her organs that are malfunctioning?
Is it his stress that is interfering?
The doctor opens the folder in front of her and takes a deep breath. The question hangs heavy in the air: Whose fault is it, that we cannot have a baby?

It’s your twenty-fifth high school reunion, and you can’t wait to catch up with your old friends. It’s been years since you were all together. Everyone is there—everyone except Joe and Beth. "Aren’t they coming?" you ask, and your friends shake their heads, sadly. "I guess you haven’t heard," says one; "Joe and Beth are getting a divorce." You sit in stunned silence. "No!" you say, numbly; "not Joe and Beth!"
Was it an affair?
Was it a midlife crisis?
Did he hit her?
Did she drink?
"What happened?" you whisper, not even sure you want to know the truth. And there is that question again: Whose fault is it, that this marriage didn’t last?

Maybe it’s human instinct, to find fault. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism, to keep the great void at bay. If we know whose fault it is, at least we have a way to understand what has happened. At least we have a way to explain our part in it. Even better, we may find a way to excuse our part in it—which is to say, to put the responsibility squarely on another’s shoulders. If our only job is to find out whose fault it is, we can be assured of some retributive satisfaction: someone will pay for what goes wrong.
Do you see this, where you are? When the basement floods, when the church budget comes up short, when the sermon falls flat, why are we so quick to ask, "How could this have happened?" And when we determine whose fault it was, why does the fault-finding so quickly turn to blame?

I’m not sure the disciples are looking to lay blame in this scene, by the way. They aren’t out for blood and retribution; they’re just curious. They really want to know: Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind? It’s a fair question for disciples to ask of their teacher, given the theological equations of the day (blindness = sickness = sin = human fault). It’s a fair question for Jesus’ disciples to ask, given the fact that Jesus keeps turning the theological tables. I think the disciples really are open to the possibility that there might be a new and different answer, here. They really want Jesus to teach them. So who sinned, Jesus?—this man, or his parents, that he was born blind?
Jesus’ answer stumps everyone, and it stumps me. No one sinned. He was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.

No blame. No fault. Just an opportunity for God to be seen and known.
I’m going to skip the predestination question, here; it’s a fair one, but unanswerable, in my view, since this story then continues with a miraculous healing, and none of us are really in a position to step into Jesus’ shoes, in that department. What amazes me is how Jesus changes the subject. Who sinned, this man or his parents? No one sinned. No one is the cause of this. No one is the subject, here—except God, and what God might do in this situation.
For me, this changes everything. Whose fault is it, that the baseball went through the window? No one’s fault. No one is the subject, here—except God, and what God might do in this situation. So look around, boys. What do you think God is doing, here? How can we help?Whose fault is it, that this couple cannot conceive a child? No one’s fault. No one is the subject, here—except God, and what God might do now. So look around. What do you think God is doing, here? How can we be a part of it? Whose fault is it, that this marriage ended? No one’s fault. No one is the subject here—except God, and what God might do here. So look around. What do you think God is doing, here? How can we enter in?
It’s a good instinct, changing the subject.

Let God be God.
Let we who are blind be healed.

Anna Carter Florence