Joel D. Kline
Highland Avenue Church of the Brethren
March 6, 2005
The Fourth Sunday in Lent
A central theme in John’s Gospel is the contrast between light and darkness. The prologue begins with the remarkable affirmation that Jesus has come as light for all people, a light that shines in the darkness, a light that cannot be extinguished by the darkness. Yet the sad truth is that humankind all too frequently chooses to remain in darkness rather than embrace the light. John is not just talking about an intellectual embracing of the truth—a matter of the mind alone. Much more, John is pointing us toward relationship—relationship with Christ Jesus, the One who embodies the light of God and whose Spirit strengthens and empowers us to walk in the light.
This choice between light and darkness is dramatically portrayed in this morning’s lesson from John, chapter nine. The story is not simply the tale of a man blind from birth gaining physical sight, as astonishing as that may be. Much more, the drama vividly places before us the challenge, “Choose this day . . . light or darkness.” Perhaps you remember the text from 1 Peter 2, in which followers of Christ are described as those who have been called “out of darkness into God’s marvelous light.” The consequence, says Peter, is that we find a new identity, a new purpose for living. “Once you were not a people,” asserts Peter, “but now you are God’s people; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy” (1 Peter 2:9-10).
Look with me at the story from John 9. Jesus and the disciples take note of a man blind from birth. True to form, Jesus readies to respond with healing compassion, but the disciples, on the other hand, little see the man as a person with his own needs, aspirations, yearnings, and struggles. Indeed, the disciples see the blind man as nothing more than a riddle to be solved, a puzzle to be deciphered. “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” (v. 2). In their desire for simple solutions to life’s mysteries, the disciples need someone to blame for the man’s blindness. Hence the question, “Who sinned?”
Much like the disciples, we are tempted to view life as something akin to a moral slot-machine, assuming that if we do the right thing, if we put into that slot machine the appropriate actions, something good will result. On the other hand, should we sin, punishment is sure to follow. I recall a member in my first congregation who had a recurring health problem, so much so that she found herself over the years in and out of hospitals, frequently in nursing homes for lengthy periods of follow-up care. It was astounding—and painful—to see the number of persons who would suggest to her that if only her faith were strong enough, she would be healed. The only way her lengthy struggles made sense to many folk was if she were somehow responsible for her illness, if she were to blame.
But Jesus suggests that there is far more mystery, far more complexity, to this matter of illness and health. And so he answers the disciples’ question about who sinned with words that, at first glance, have their own issues. For Jesus answers, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind that God’s works might be revealed through him.” Is Jesus suggesting that God quite arbitrarily chose this man to be blind from birth, knowing that there would be a later opportunity for Jesus to restore his sight, thus bringing glory to God? Or might Jesus be implying something far deeper here? Is not Jesus proclaiming that it is possible that, out of the peculiar mixture of good and evil, of struggle and confusion, that defines life—out of this mixture something new may well arise? And not long into the story’s progression, something hopeful does indeed ensue, as sight is given; healing and new vision follow Jesus’ touch. It is a powerful reminder that ours is a God who is in the business of making all things new.
And yet, when something markedly new does in fact happen right before them, when the man’s sight is restored, no one seems to take the time to express wonder and amazement. No one pauses to give thanks; no one joins in celebration with the man who had been blind from birth, but who can now see. Because the healing event is beyond the ordinary, because it does not fit into a conception of the way things are, because it goes against the grain of usual patterns and ways of experiencing life, the people react with confusion and fear. The people couldn’t even agree on whether or not the one before them was the same man, questioning among themselves, “Isn’t this the one who used to sit and beg?” While some said yes, many others said, “No, it is only someone similar to the blind man.” Face to face with a transformed life—a sign of God’s new creation, the people were puzzled. Even when the man himself repeatedly attests, “I am the man,” still the debate rages.
Not even the blind man’s parents want to become overly involved. When the religious leaders call them in for questioning, the parents, fearful of risking the negative judgment of those who have the power to expel them from the synagogue, respond defensively. For such expulsion would cut them off, not only from religious practice, but much more, from the very center of community life. Anxious as they were for their own social standing, their reputation, their livelihood, the parents let their son take the full brunt of the religious leaders’ questioning. “This is our son, and he was born blind,” they assert, “but we do not know how it is that he now sees, nor do we know who opened his eyes. Ask him; he is of age. He will speak for himself” (9:20-21).
More than any others, the Pharisees, the religious leaders of the day, react with fear. It is as if they sense the danger of losing control, of losing their grip on the activity of God. Should they allow persons to attribute the work of God to Jesus, an itinerant, uncredentialed, unaccredited preacher with no apparent background and social standing and training, things might well spiral even more out of their control. And so the religious leaders several times call the man who has been healed from blindness in for questioning. Each time they grill him about Jesus, pushing him to join them in decrying Jesus as a sinner, since the healing occurred on the Sabbath. Indeed, the Pharisees become so insistent in their questioning that the exasperated man finally concludes, “Maybe you yourselves want to become his disciples.”
Almost beside themselves with rage, the Pharisees drive the healed man out of the synagogue, betraying their fear of something new bursting forth in their presence. And yet, my friends, does not faith, by its very nature, take us beyond ourselves, opening us to the radically new? In a book entitled Inviting the Mystic, Supporting the Prophet Katherine Dyckman and Patrick Carroll, two spiritual directors, define faith as a matter of handing over the direction of one’s journey to Another, giving up the illusion of control. “The effect of faith,” write the two authors, “is that we are no longer firmly based within ourselves;” there is a sense in which we are allowing God to overtake us. We are placing our trust in the very One who embodies grace and compassion, peace and loving-kindness, mercy and self-giving love.
Jesus, knowing that the healed man had been driven from the synagogue, seeks him out, offering a gift even more remarkable than physical sight. Jesus offers spiritual vision—the ability to see as God sees. Jesus invites the healed man to place his trust in the light, to choose this day the pathway that leads to light and life. The apostle Paul speaks of this as coming to live as children of the light—becoming light-bearers, embodying the very spirit of Christ in our relationships with one another and with the world around us.
Jim Forest, formerly General Secretary of the International Fellowship of Reconciliation, tells of meeting a woman named Donna Eddy, a teacher in Milwaukee who is active in the Coalition to Abolish the Death Penalty and who adamantly speaks out against easy access to handguns. Asking her how she came to have such strong convictions, Donna shared an intriguing personal story. While still a college student, she had a pizza-delivery job, and one night found herself face-to-face with several boys who demanded the money she was carrying. The boys were carrying small handguns.
Recalling the event, Donna shared, “All I had was twenty dollars belonging to the pizza shop. It wasn’t my money; I didn’t care, but I didn’t take them seriously. Those guns looked like toys to me. As far as I was concerned, they were just kids playing a game. So I just got back in the car. Then one of the boys pointed the gun at me and started to cry. ‘But I could shoot you,’ he pleaded. I decided I’d better give him the money, but he didn’t give me a chance. He pulled the trigger.”
Continued Donna, “Thank God those boys ran as fast as they did or I would have done some terrible harm to them. I gunned the engine and used my car as a weapon, chasing after them. It took me about ninety seconds to come to my senses. I thought to myself, What are you doing? If you catch up with them, are you going to run over them?”
“So I drove to the police station, but all they did was tell me I was a fool for delivering pizzas in that part of town. I still didn’t realize I had been bleeding—I told the police it must have just been a pellet gun. But they said a medic should take a look. It was only at the hospital that I realized that I’d been shot!”
Donna was fortunate. The bullet had hit her belt buckle, angling off to the side, creating a superficial wound. Much more, it created for her a life-changing experience. Said Donna, “That was the day I learned I had the potential for that kind of violence. For ninety seconds of my life, primitive rage ruled. If I’d had a gun, at least one of those boys might be dead today.”
In response, Donna embraced a new way of seeing, every bit as much as the man in today’s Gospel story takes on a new way of seeing and experiencing life. Both choose the way of light over darkness. Both choose to trust in the goodness of God, even when life seems out of control. Both choose to value all of life, all creation, as precious gift from God. Both take the risk of faith.
This morning’s Gospel story is a drama about seeing. Ironically, the ones who are most convinced that they see clearly—the religious leaders of the day—do not see at all. They choose to remain in darkness. In his book Ruthless Trust Brennan Manning reminds us that “to trust in the love of God in the face of the marvels, cruel circumstances, obscenities, and commonplaces of life [that is to say, in all of life’s ups and down, all of life’s changing circumstances] is to whisper a doxology in darkness.” Could it be that the Pharisees were unwilling to whisper the praises of God in times of apparent darkness? Only when the Pharisees thought they were in control of things, only when they believed they were in charge, did they consider doxology and praise a possibility. And even then, all too often, it was praise of self rather than of God.
What about us? Are we willing to whisper our doxologies in times of darkness? Are we willing to let go of our illusion of control, to trust in the goodness of the God who even now is in the business of making all things new? Are we willing to embrace a new way of seeing, to choose the pathway of Christ that leads to life and to light? May it be so this day and all our days. Amen.
Thanks be to you, O God, for the beauty of creation, for the promise of the approaching spring season, for the bounty of all your good gifts.
Thanks be to you, O God, for the gift of relationships—for friendships and loving relationships that encourage and support us, nurture and uphold us, challenge us and draw forth from us more than we had ever expected.
Thanks be to you, O God, for the gift of Christ Jesus our Redeemer, the One who sets us free from self-centeredness and fear, the One who fills our lives with meaning and wholeness, the One who enables us to see with new eyes—the eyes of compassion and grace, the eyes of peace and mercy, the eyes of self-giving love.
Lord of each of us and Lord of all of us, we pray for your forgiveness for those times when we fail to embrace your good gifts, when we choose to go our own way in life rather than trusting in your goodness and seeking your vision for our living. Forgive our times of shortsightedness, O God; forgive our warring madness, our trusting in our own strength alone rather than looking to you as our Rock and our Redeemer. Forgive us and create within us new hearts—hearts for serving, hearts of compassion, hearts eager to extend your grace. We lift up our eyes—and our voices—to you, Lord God, and celebrate the wonders of your love.
God of healing and wholeness, hear us now as we hold before you those in special need of your healing presence. We pray for those struggling with depression and anxiety, for those experiencing brokenness in family or other significant relationships, for those who feel all alone in life. We pray for our PADS guests, and we pray that our community might place greater and greater priority upon providing affordable housing for all.
We hold before you now those struggling with illness, and pray your healing touch. Hear our prayers for . . .
O God, in you we are ever thankful, and we lift up our voices, praying for peace, yearning for the coming of your kingdom on earth, thirsting for that day when nations no longer teach the ways of war, when bombs are transformed into instruments of healing and life, when all humanity chooses to live in your light and in your love. In the name and spirit of Christ Jesus, who came among us as Prince of Peace, we pray. Amen.