The Blindness Of Vision

Acts 9:8 “When his eyes were opened, he saw nothing.”

THE BLINDNESS OF VISION

The road to Damascus was bright that day—too bright for a man whose confidence burned almost as fiercely as the Syrian sun. Saul of Tarsus was sure of himself, sure of his theology, sure of his mission. He was the most convinced man in Israel—and the most dangerous. But when the light from heaven flashed around him, all that certainty went up in smoke. He fell to the ground, blinded by glory, and the voice of Jesus called his name twice:

“Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me?”

When his companions lifted him, he opened his eyes—but saw nothing. Think of that: a man whose sight had guided armies of thought, whose eyes had looked with fury at Christians, now sees nothing. Half an hour before, he had seen everything—the road, the walls of Damascus, the palm trees, the blue sky. Now he sees nothing. And yet, paradoxically, that blindness was the beginning of real vision.

1. When Light Blinds Before It Blesses

Every great encounter with God begins with disorientation. The light that exposes sin also overwhelms the senses. When the radiance of truth breaks into the darkness of pride, the first result isn’t clarity—it’s blindness. Moses hid his face before the burning bush. Isaiah cried, “Woe is me!” Peter fell to his knees and said, “Depart from me, for I am a sinful man.” And Paul? He lost his sight so he could finally see his Savior.

We like our religion illuminated just enough to feel inspired but not enough to be undone. We want to see more of God but still keep seeing everything else the same. Yet the first mercy of heaven is often a holy eclipse. God darkens the false lights so we can behold the true.

2. The Knowledge That Stole the Wonder

Long before Saul, humanity experienced a similar awakening that felt like loss. In Eden, the serpent promised Eve, “Your eyes shall be opened.” They were—but what did she see? Shame. Separation. Nakedness. Some eyes open only to reveal the ruin. And ever since, we’ve mistaken the gaining of information for the gaining of vision.

Modern life is proof. We’ve opened the eyes of science and reason wider than ever, but sometimes the soul grows blind in the process. We can explain thunder, but we’ve forgotten awe. We map galaxies, yet can’t find meaning. Like Milton’s line—“The great god Pan is dead”—the living pulse of nature has gone silent for many. When our eyes were opened, we saw nothing—nothing sacred, nothing mysterious, only atoms and equations.

Don’t misunderstand: knowledge is a gift from God. But when we strip the world of wonder, we dim the very light that reveals His face. Maybe that’s why Jesus said, “Except ye become as little children, ye shall not enter the kingdom.” Children look and still say wow. Scholars stare and say how. The heart that sees only data will one day see nothing worth living for.

3. The Blinding of Petty Sorrows

There’s another form of blindness that saves us—the blindness of perspective. Some people, like Saul before his fall, live obsessed with small injuries and personal irritations. Every slight becomes an offense, every disappointment a grievance watered and fed until it flowers into bitterness. Then one day, perhaps through suffering, or the sight of the Cross, or the death of a friend, their eyes are opened—and the grievances vanish. They see nothing. Why? Because the soul has discovered something greater.

When a person stands before the vastness of grace, yesterday’s slights become invisible. Like stones under a flood, they’re still there, but submerged. The river of divine compassion runs high, and all the jagged rocks of resentment disappear beneath its current. Have you noticed? People freshly forgiven are rarely bitter. It’s when love grows low that we start tripping over sharp memories.

The Cross has a way of enlarging vision until small things fade. “Father, forgive them,” Jesus prayed, and the universe shifted. Forgiven people see differently. They stop counting offenses and start counting mercies. They stop polishing grievances and start polishing grace.

4. When Growth Makes Us Blind to Old Loves

As we mature, we discover that some forms of seeing must die for others to live. A child gazes at a gaudy picture on the nursery wall and thinks it beautiful. Years later, with trained eyes, he sees it again and says, “How could I have loved that?” Progress brings both gain and loss. Education expands sight but kills certain fascinations. When our eyes are opened, we sometimes see nothing—nothing of what once charmed us.

That’s not cynicism; that’s sanctification. God grows us out of childish pleasures, out of shallow heroes, out of naïve infatuations. The books we once adored may now seem hollow; the friendships once idealized now feel thin. Even love itself must be reborn on higher ground. Think of the prodigal—his eyes were opened in the pigpen, and he saw nothing worth desiring there. What once sparkled now stank. When his eyes were opened, he saw nothing—and started walking home.