Lent IV                                                     The Rev'd David C. Cobb

John 9                                                      Solemn High Mass                                                                 March 2, 2008

"For judgment I came into this world, that those who do not see may see and that those who see may become blind."

The Gospel will not leave us any self-satisfaction.  Continually things are turned inside out and we are asked to see things – not so much in a different light—or from a different angle, but to see things that contradict everything we know.  At it is ourselves—what we value and what causes us shame, what we count as essential and what is forgettable—if we listen to the Gospel, we will have to look at ourselves differently.  What do I know—not as much as I thought, and perhaps more than I realized. 

The Disciples begin the conversation when they ask Jesus to choose between two obvious explanations—why is this man sitting here, blind and a beggar?  They knew that tragedy like a child born blind meant someone had offended God—who sinned, they ask, this man or his parents. 

They knew there was an explanation that would settle their discomfort and relive them of further concern about this handicapped beggar.   It wasn't a question about what the situation might ask of them, or what the man might need from them; they wanted to work on why it happened, and ignore what it might ask of them.    They knew that if they could distance this suffering and sorrow as soon as they assigned responsibility.  It's good to know some things—particularly things that can soothe my anxiety. 

Jesus pushes past the “why”  that was a distraction.  The world we live in is dangerous, humans are vulnerable.  There are people who carry immense burdens and when we can ask why—to avoid repetition —that's a good question. I want science to ask why people are born blind, why cancers develop, what causes strokes.  It is crucial that someone ask why almost 300 people needed to eat at the Soup Kitchen last Tuesday—I want our military and diplomats to ask why violence erupts. 

Why, is a good question when it helps us understand what we need to do or what can change the situation.  It breaks through “what we know” and lets us learn.  That's not what the disciples asked, they wanted someone to blame so they could walk past a little less disturbed. 

The translation of Jesus' answer is tricky—and we could easily come away with a sense that God was pleased to have an infant born blind—to his parents grief and his own frustration—so that there could be this object lesson.   There are people who would explain the world and its sorrows that way—and it seems to leave God in control and make our world at least potentially comprehensible.  But it leaves God far outside our experience and it lets us think of others as objects and their suffering as “interesting”. 

  

We look for beauty and glory in places where creation is breath taking and harmonious.  We rejoice in plenty and the bounty that flows from the earth and the brimming imagination of human creativity.  The runner who feels delight in the rhythmic power of muscles, the artists whose hands create a reflection that speaks eloquently, there is beauty and joy and it reflects God's glory. 

But God is not afraid of dirty hands and is not unfamiliar with life's difficulties.  And so, Jesus looks at this man, probably dressed in rags, somehow frightening even in his vulnerability.  Here—as much as in any other point of creation—God's glory can break forth.  He sees the one that everyone else ignores, dropping a few coins his way to purchase peace of mind, he sees the one who has nothing to give and whose very existence demands that we justify our well-being.  He sees him in the light of God's desire for wholeness and life. The blind man—like each of us—and even like the darkness of Good Friday—that is precisely where God's work can suddenly break out.  Human suffering—whether it carries blame or simply reflects our mortality—human suffering, as well as any point of beauty and delight—is the place where God's work can unfold.  And so Jesus begins to work. 

In action that echoes the creation story—Jesus takes dirt and breathes into it—spittle is saliva with breath.  Then Jesus sends him to wash—to an act not far removed from the font were we are reborn through the washing of Baptism.  And the man can see.  In place of simple rejoicing and delight, this irruption of the inexplicable into what we know, leads to an interrogation.  The questions and evasions, the authority's inability to take this new thing into their assumptions; you begin to realize we are not as adapt at explaining health and grace as we are at assigning blame.   “We know” so very much and we know that  once we've come to terms with human suffering- once we accept that some people live stunted, impoverished lives—that nothing will break through our explication of how things are to require that we look again at what they might be.  If the disciples thought they could explain the blindness, the restored sight leads to a full investigation and requires witnesses, explanation and a defense. 

I suspect that I go to scripture more like the disciples – trying to find a quick answer that settles down my uneasiness; that's a shame when there is so much more to find here.  And we too often can not accept the new possibility that interrupts our Sabbaths or challenges what we know.  

We read these stories—and its like walking by a mirror or a plate glass window—out of the corner of our eyes, we catch our own reflection.  So what do you know—as they knew that you don't heal on Sabbath and blind men don't get their sight?  What do you need to explain so your conscience will leave you alone? 

Jesus encounters this blind man——he anoints his eyes, and then he sends him off to wash.  And then Jesus steps away, leaving the man to deal with the uncertainty of new sight and to face those who demand an explanation.  There's a model of how our faith works itself out in our lives—we have moments where grace is palpable, Jesus' presence touches us and suddenly we see—not completely and not with perfect understanding—and sometimes it's a two or three step process.  But then we're left with the implications, the challenges, the questions. 

Was the man better off?  He had a place within the community, albeit an unenviable one.   Then, he was expelled, his parents refused to speak for him, the religious authorities deemed him unclean.  He could see, but his prospects weren't promising. 

And Jesus comes to him—stands before him.  The last time they'd stood face to face, he was blind—he did not know—finally after all the assertions of what one person or the other did or did not know.  Here is an honest question—a question on which so much would hang.  Who is he, sir that I may believe?

There is a world of difference between that question and the one that begins this passage.   So what question have you come to ask this morning?  God knows we pass through some unsettling scenes on our way into Church- -and this world and our lives pose questions that frighten or confuse us.  Quick answers, answers with blame or simple explanations are so compelling.  We want to know.  Instead, Jesus stands before us- now with strength to heal, again with open hand to feed, then with words that pierce our assumptions—and then hangs on the tree, dying; and again, he stands alive like no one has ever been alive—I am. 

There is judgment- what we think we know and the answers we devise will finally destroy us; assign blame, explain and categorize—and yet still you can miss God's work unfolding before you.  There is judgment when we are too much like Pilate, dubious that the truth can be known and happy to find what works.  But Jesus stands before us—asking us what we believe, what we are willing to look for, what we can see.  And if we can believe—if only to say, Lord I believe, help my unbelief,  if we can worship—if only to acknowledge that God is God and we are not—if we can put something of faith an prayer into actions- then there is light and we will see God at work—while it is day, and even in that long night that leads to the dawn of Easter.  .