I brainstormed for this sermon in the furnace room this week. Why was I brainstorming in the furnace room? Well, on Thursday we played hide and seek with the bus kids. Because I’m apparently a super-competitive hide and seek player with sixth graders, I decided to hide in the furnace room. Figured I’ve spent enough time in there already throughout my time here, it’s a space I’m fairly comfortable in, so I might as well go there. And it turns out it was an excellent hiding place, so I had lots of time sitting there in the semi-darkness to ponder this Gospel text about what it means to be able to see.
I got to thinking about the text because of how my vision shifted. When the door first closed behind me, it was really dark in there. I had decided to kneel behind the water heater, to give a little more cover in case someone actually decided to look in the furnace room. But it was so dark that instead of walking behind it, I actually first walked into it, and then had to feel my way around with my hands. But, as I mentioned, no one thought to look in the furnace room, so I sat back there for a while. And it wasn’t long before my eyes got used to the low light, and I could actually see pretty well. I could see the old toilet that is being stored in there for reasons I am unclear of. I could see the handle of the snowblower, hanging out for the Murphy’s Law reason of knowing that the day we put it away in the garage for the season is the day it snows again. I could see the extra air filters leaning up against the furnace next to me. The longer I sat there, relaxed and quiet, the more I found I could see. By the time I gave up on them finding me and came out, about ten minutes later, the furnace room didn’t even seem dark anymore, more just sort of dim.
And here’s the funniest thing that happened. That whole ten minutes I sat in there, someone did open the door and look in. But because their eyes had not had to adjust to the darkness, even though they were standing in the light, they couldn’t see me, huddled in the darkness. The light, which we normally think of as helping us to see, actually prevented them from being able to see.
And that part, the part where the person in the light looked in and couldn’t see, while the person in the dark, me, could see just fine, is what really got me thinking about the sermon for today. I sat there, quietly chuckling and my ingenuity and thinking, that sort of irony is basically the problem in our Gospel text this morning.
Our story this morning was Jesus healing the man born blind. At least, that’s what we call it, but in reality the healing itself takes all of two verses, and happens mostly off scene. “[Jesus] spat on the ground and made mud with the saliva and spread the mud on the man’s eyes, saying to him ‘go, wash in the pool of Siloam’ (which means Sent). Then he went and washed and came back able to see.” That’s all there was on the miracle part. No flashy healing, no grand revelation. The man born blind didn’t even ask for healing. Which, if you think about it, is one of the kind of weird parts of the story. I mean, basically, the man was just sitting there, begging and minding his own business when out of nowhere some random stranger just came up to him, rubbed spit-mud in his eyes, and sent him off in search of a particular pool of water. I always kind of wonder if the man born blind’s first thought might have been, hey, I’m already a blind beggar. And now I’m a blind beggar with your weird spit-mud in my eyes. Thanks a lot, random stranger. But something about Jesus caused the man to decide to give it a whirl, or maybe he figured he didn’t want the mud on his face, might as well wash it in the way the guy suggested, what was the worst that could happen. And he went, and he washed, and came back able to see.
But again, all this, even though it is the miracle from which the whole story is named, is really only the set up for the true conflict in the story, what happened when the man born blind came back able to see. Because here this guy comes back, and it’s a crazy miracle right, “was blind but now I see,” we sing songs about it. But the other people, they were not amazed. They wondered if it was even the same guy. “Was this the man who used to sit and beg?” “No, no this is some other random guy who just looks a lot like the guy who used to sit and beg.” And the man’s like, no, hey, guys, it’s me. Same guy. Same guy you’ve been walking past, throwing a few coins to, for years now. The man called Jesus—this is his first understanding of Jesus’ identity, just a name, the man called Jesus, but it is something. The man called Jesus made mud, spread it on my eyes, and now I see.
But they didn’t believe him. So they went and brought some Pharisees to see him, to see if his words could be true. Now the Pharisees, of all people, should have recognized what was going on. Because the Pharisees were the most educated people in the community. It took a lot of years of learning and study to become a Pharisee. If there was a miracle taking place, the Pharisees were the ones best trained to recognize it. And this miracle seems especially tailor-made for them. One of the central metaphors of John’s Gospel is seeing as the first act of discipleship. Being part of the kingdom of God first means seeing. Remember way back when Jesus called the disciples, he told them to “come and see.” And the woman at the well urged the townspeople, “come and see.” Well, now this guy is seeing, which is like a huge neon arrow pointing a revelation of God, and the Pharisees missed the point entirely.
And I think the Pharisees missed it, because they could see too well. Like the hide and seek game, where Emerald couldn’t find me because he had too much light around him, the Pharisees missed the miracle because they were too well educated in the ways of the law. And their education got them caught up in the fact that Jesus had done this miracle on the Sabbath, and it blinded them to the fact that, who cares the day, a miracle occurred.
And if I’m honest with myself, I can’t really blame the Pharisees for missing it. I think the Pharisees make a mistake that we’re all guilty of at times. The mistake of being so in the light, so convinced that we are right, that we cannot see the ways in which someone else might also be right, and maybe that contradiction is OK. As I thought about the Pharisees, I kept thinking about our current political climate, where it seems like things have to be one way or another, either this or that, and if you are this and I am that, then there is no way that we could ever find any common ground. I’ve talked before about how hilarious I find the Starbucks cup controversy every Christmas, where folk either rush out and boycott Starbucks, because clearly their Christmas cup is not Christmasy enough, so they must be trying to oppress religious freedom, or folk rush out and BUY Starbucks every year, because their Christmas cup is not restrictive, so clearly Starbucks is pro-religious diversity. Friends, Starbucks just wants to sell you coffee. As a corporation, they do some things that are really ethically good, and some things that are really ethically not so good, so come to whatever conclusion you want about supporting them, but don’t base it on cup design. And Starbucks is a silly example, but we do this. We do this for all sorts of things. We make an opinion, based maybe on logic, maybe not, but then we cling desperately to that opinion, even when something comes around that invites us to change our minds, out of fear that we might look foolish.
Our knowledge, the Pharisees knowledge, and the pride in that knowledge, can blind us. But the man born blind, he didn’t have that roadblock in front of him. He couldn’t see, and the great irony of this story is the very fact that he could not physically see, is what made him able to experience the revelation of Jesus. The event of God’s revelation happened to him, it was experiential knowledge more than it was head knowledge, and the experience moved him to a greater understanding of God, a greater seeing than the Pharisees, with all their wisdom, could reach.
So we’re talking about baptism this Lent. And what I love about baptism, about both the sacraments really, baptism and communion, is that they communicate the revelation of God in a way that is beyond words. You don’t have to fully understand what’s happening in these waters, around this table, in order for it to move you. In fact, sometimes I think trying to fully understand can actually get in the way. I’ve said before that I think my godson Karl, who’s three, gets the total, uncontainable, overwhelming love that God has for him more than I do, because Karl doesn’t get stuck in his own head. While I get stuck in big, churchy words like justification and consubstantiation and homousious, Karl just knows that in these waters God said, you are my child, and that’s enough for him.
And here’s the last thing that’s really cool about this story. See even man born blind, even our hero, did not get all the way to faith, all the way to understanding who Jesus was on his own. He came pretty close through his own wonderings, first knowing Jesus as The man called Jesus, then calling him a prophet, then saying he was from God, but that’s as far as he was able to get. But after he got kicked out for being snarky to the Pharisees. And, as an aside, is there a better comeback in scripture then verse twenty-seven, when the Pharisees have asked the guy the exact same question for the fourth time and he responded, “I have told you already, and you would not listen. Why do you want to hear it again? Do you also want to become his disciples?” That is just classic dry humor. But anyway, after he got all snarky with the Pharisees and they threw him out, Jesus, who, you may have noticed, was not present for the entire middle of the story, came and found him again. And when Jesus found him, he asked him “Do you believe in the Son of Man?” To which the man answered, “And who is he, sir? Tell me, so that I may believe in him.” This guy, who has just done all this great testifying about who Jesus is, who was given sight by Jesus, was now standing face to face with Jesus, and still did not recognize him, still did not fully know who he was. Even the now seeing man who once was blind could only come so far on his own. So Jesus reached out and took the next step, completing the revelation by identifying himself. “You have seen him, and the one speaking with you is him.” Basically, I am he. To which the man replied with a full confession of faith, “Lord, I believe.” And he worshiped him.
And so, as we journey through this Lent, and especially as we enter into Holy Week and the Great Three Days, I invite you to, like the man born blind, let go of the things you do not know, and let your experience guide you. Touch the water in the font, taste the bread and the wine. On Palm Sunday shake palms and shout things you don’t understand. On Maundy Thursday eat soup, on Good Friday sit in darkness. On Easter Sunday smell lilies, hear trumpets and wonder at the mystery beyond understanding. Don’t get so caught up in what you have to know, but instead find yourself in places to let Jesus meet you in the unknowing. Let Jesus reveal himself to you, so that you might, even in your uncertainty proclaim, Lord, I believe, even in that which I do not yet understand. Thanks be to God. Amen.
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