This Is Where God Does His Best Work

What if the very places you feel weakest are where God wants to reveal His greatest glory? That’s the invitation at the heart of John 9 and the driving question in our reflection for this week. In a short Bible study I did with my friend Beth, we sat with the story of the man born blind and found ourselves returning again and again to one truth: God doesn’t just tolerate our weakness — He chooses to work through it. In the most tender and surprising ways, the spots we try hardest to hide are often the exact places God wants to make something new.

John 9 in a sentence

In John 9 Jesus heals a man who was born blind, and the text makes it clear that the miracle is not about punishment or guilt but about revelation:

"This man was born blind so that God's works might be revealed in him."

That line stopped us. Isn’t it tempting to think our struggles are mistakes, evidence of failure, or something to be fixed quickly and quietly? But this verse flips that script: the man’s blindness was the very place where God chose to display His power and mercy. That’s the kind of paradox that doesn’t fit human logic but fits the logic of the kingdom.

The paradox of weakness: smallness that magnifies God

We live in a culture that applauds competence, control, and polished appearances. In the spiritual life, we can easily carry the same checklist: be better, stop failing, get holy, clean up your life. And when that doesn’t happen, shame sneaks in.

But John 9 and the reflection we shared with Blessed is She remind us of another economy — the economy of grace. There’s a beautiful and honest theology in admitting incompleteness: when we recognize and embrace our weakness, we make room for God to be big. As one of the things we said in the study, “the littler we become, the more we embrace our weakness, the bigger God can become.” It’s an invitation to trade perfectionism for humility and dependence.

Weakness, then, is not failure to hide but fertile ground for God to do His best work. That changes how we pray about pain, disappointment, and the parts of ourselves we’d rather change overnight. God can heal or purify — but either way, He can be glorified through the journey.

The image of clay: being recreated

Verse 6 is simple but incredible: “As he said this, he spat on the ground and made clay of the spittle and anointed the man's eyes with clay.” The physicality of that action is striking. In our conversation we couldn’t help but see the echo of creation — God forming man from dust and breathing life into him. Here, Jesus uses earth and spittle to form and recreate. The man who had never seen is touched and remade.

That image of clay is a prayer. It’s a humble, intimate way of asking, “Lord, could You cover my heart with clay and recast it? Can You give me eyes to see?” The language of being remade is radical because it assumes God’s willingness to enter into our flesh, our mess, our story, and to shape us again.

What would it look like to ask for that recreation in your daily life? Maybe it’s letting God anoint the very place you resist Him — an old habit, a wounded memory, a fear — and trusting that He’s not deterred by dirt or the fact that the work might be slow.

Humility and spiritual blindness: who really sees?

One of the most poignant moments in the chapter is the contrast between the healed man’s clarity and the religious leaders’ blindness. The disciples ask a blunt, human question: “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” It’s a natural attempt to explain suffering with neat categories. But Jesus’ response and the life of the healed man challenge that tidy thinking.

"I came that the blind might see and that those who can see become blind."

When Jesus says this, He’s not only speaking about physical sight. He’s exposing a spiritual truth: those who think they already see — the proud, the self-assured — are often the ones who miss the kingdom. The Pharisees, so sure of their righteousness, miss the work of God in front of them. Meanwhile, the man who acknowledges his blindness receives sight.

There’s a call here to humility: a gentle but firm reminder that we don’t know it all. If we can bring the honest, teachable posture of someone who says “I don’t know,” God can begin to enlighten us. That posture keeps us open to transformation instead of defensive about our identity or expertise.

The healed man’s courage: don’t give up on what you experienced

One of my favorite parts of the story is the man’s persistence. Even when pressured by authorities and questioned by those around him, he refuses to deny what happened to him. He’s been remade — his life has radically changed — and he won’t be bullied into pretending it didn’t.

There’s a practical spiritual lesson here: an encounter with Jesus changes everything. When God reveals His work to you — whether that looks like clarity about a relationship, freedom from an addiction, an unexpected sense of peace, or a conviction to serve — hold on. Be brave enough to testify to what you’ve experienced, even when skepticism or fear shows up.

It’s easy to shrink back, to conform to the crowd. But the healed man models a beautiful courage: an ability to say, “This happened to me, and it matters.” That kind of witness is contagious in the best way. It invites others into the truth of what God can do.

Practical ways to welcome God’s work in your weakness

So how do we live this reality out practically? How do we let God use our weakness rather than try to hide it or fix it alone? Here are a few ideas we discussed and lived through in prayer:

• Practice smallness in prayer. Start with honest words: “I don’t know. I’m afraid. I’m weak.” The spiritual life often begins with admitting our poverty before God.
• Ask for recreation specifically. Use the image of clay. Pray a short petition: “Lord, mold my heart. Make me new.” The concreteness of that image can make the prayer feel tangible.
• Be teachable. Surround yourself with people who can lovingly point out blind spots. Read Scripture with humility and curiosity rather than defensiveness.
• Hold to your testimony. When God moves, even quietly, name it. Write it down. Share it with a friend. Don’t let shame or fear silence the truth of your encounter.
• Practice gratitude for weakness. It sounds strange, but thanking God for places you’re tempted to resent can reframe them as space for grace.
• Resist the urge to explain everything. Not every difficulty needs a rational cause. Sometimes suffering is the soil where God’s glory grows.

Reflection prompts

Use these questions to sit with the story of the man born blind and the work God wants to do in you:

1. What feels like my blindness or weakness right now? Where do I most want to cover up or fix things quickly?
2. Have I experienced moments when God revealed His work through a hardship? What happened and how did it change me?
3. How do I respond when others question my faith or my experience of God? Do I shrink back or hold to what I know is true?
4. What would it look like to pray the clay-prayer for a specific part of my heart this week?

A short prayer

Lord, You meet us in our smallness. Where we are blind, reveal Your light. Where we are broken, shape us with Your hands. Give us the humility to admit our need and the courage to testify to Your mercy. Make us new, so that You might be glorified. Amen.

Final thoughts and an invitation

There’s a strange and beautiful mercy at work when God chooses our weakness as the place to be glorified. It’s not comfortable at first — it asks honesty, patience, and sometimes a willingness to be misunderstood. But it’s faithful. As we said in the Blessed is She conversation, following Jesus often means letting Him work through our suffering, not around it.

If this reflection has stirred something in you — a desire for recreation, a longing to hold to the truth of what God has done, or a prayer for humility — I’d love for you to sit with it this week. Be small. Be teachable. Be brave enough to let God use the broken places in you to reveal His glory.

Our weakest places may just be where God does His best work.