Unblinded by the Light

Sermon

If I were to ask you to close your eyes and name ten things you just saw, would you be able to do it? Probably yes—either because this is such a visually stimulating place or because you’ve been here often enough that you could remember what is visible in the front of the sanctuary.

If I were to ask you to close your eyes and tell me what the banners look like, would you be able to do that? Or what the stoles the pastors are wearing look like?

Now close your eyes. Given the sound of my voice, what is the expression on my face? You can open your eyes now.

I would absolutely hate not being able to see—not being able to see the colors of spring or the way the light dances through the stained glass windows, not being able to see the faces of my beloveds. But seeing doesn’t tell us everything—we might listen more attentively to the organ prelude with our eyes closed; we might walk by a daphne bush and immediately recognize it by the scent even without having to look at it.

The gospel writer John is playing around with our understanding of sight this week, playing around in so many ways that it’s almost dizzying. We need to sit down and close our eyes and regain our equilibrium.

Remember that John loves double-entendres. Know, too, that light is a big theme in the fourth gospel. Without light, we cannot see; without light, we are blind. John is having fun with us.

All week I have wondered why on earth the gospel writer John included this story. I understand it from a structural point of view. The gospel is divided into two parts. The first part is the book of signs. John doesn’t describe the amazing feats of Jesus as miracles, but as signs. A miracle points to the power of Jesus; a sign points us to something else beyond Jesus, the larger picture of things.

In John’s gospel, the signs become bigger, in a way, and as they get bigger, Jesus gets into more trouble. We go from turning water into wine, the first sign, to raising Lazarus from the dead, the last sign, and with each one, the religious authorities grow more concerned and more threatened until they decide this sign-maker must be stopped, once and for all.

Healing the blind man is the next-to-last sign, and the controversy with the religious authorities is described so clearly. Don’t you feel bad for the once-blind man? Here he is, having been relieved of his lifelong disability, and no one celebrates. Rather, they major in the minors. They worry about the appropriateness, the legality, of the act, not the fact that this man now has a brand-new life.

Well. Back in John 1, Jesus is described as the light of all people—Jesus is the light of the blind man, the light of his parents, the light of the disciples, and the light even of the religious authorities. But light is a tricky thing. Light can enable sight; it can also blind.

For about thirty years, I have had on-and-off-again issues with my retinas. Every once in a while I have a retina tear which needs to be lasered back together, and because of this, I am super vigilant whenever something weird happens. Last week when I was in sunny California with my mom, I noticed some new symptoms, so I saw the eye doctor on Tuesday.

Now examining the retina requires that the pupil be fully dilated so the doctor can shine an incredibly bright light into it to look around. It’s not painful but it is very uncomfortable. And when the doctor is looking into my eye with that bright light, I can’t see a thing. (By the way, no new tears. All is well.)

Remember the solar eclipse a few years back? We were all reminded not to look directly into the sun. Even the lights shining on the chancel here can be a bit much.

But… last week when I was in California with Mom, after the one sunny day, an atmospheric river blew through and we were without power for two days. It is very dark at night when there are no lights and no stars and no moon and all your devices have run out of juice. It’s the kind of dark where you can’t see anything as your eyes strain for some glimmer.

But what about the light of Jesus? If, indeed, Jesus is the light of the world, is it an enabling light or a blinding one? John would say it depends on who you are.

For the once-blind man, Jesus is the light of life. He can see—literally and figuratively. He sees all the annoying people coming up to him and asking him how he got better and who did it. But with each annoying conversation, he also sees more and more who Jesus is. He is a man named Jesus. He is a prophet. He is not a sinner. He is a healer. He is from God. He is the Son of Man, the one to believe in.

The Pharisees are blinded to the light, if not also blinded by the light. They cannot see the new life granted to the once-blind man; all they can see is this rabble-rouser who broke the command about doing work on the Sabbath. All they can see is this teacher who is exposing their hypocrisy. They see a man who is challenging their power, the power of the religious institution, the power of their status, with the power of the love and justice of God. They choose not to see what is right in front of their eyes.

And what about us? Does the light that is Jesus show us what we need to see, or does it blind us? Maybe it depends on who we are too. But maybe not.

Just as I needed a flashlight when I was in the dark in California last week, so might we need the light that is Jesus to help us see. In the gospels we read story after story of Jesus noticing people that others didn’t notice, didn’t see. He saw sinners and impoverished people. He saw generous widows. He saw anguished centurions. He saw hungry crowds. He saw outsiders. He saw angry Pharisees. He saw unfaithful disciples.

And when he saw them, he shone light on them so that others would see them too, see their suffering or their need or their hypocrisy. So who does Jesus help us see?

Jesus has helped me see a friend get a new life. I met this friend twenty years ago. He was unhappy and showed it in many ways. But after some excruciating changes in his life—some self-imposed, some not—he began to change. He is kind and gentle and a new man. Part of this change happened because through all of it, he never let go of his belief that Jesus loved him, whether he was snarky and miserable or magnanimous and joyful. My friend helped me see how he was changed by the warmth of Jesus’ love.

Who does Jesus help us see?

What do we see when a person comes into worship and it looks like they’ve been down on their luck? Maybe they can’t look anyone in the eye. Maybe they look like their addiction is winning. Maybe it looks like they haven’t had a decent meal in a while. Who does Jesus see? A beloved child of God.

Many of us wear beautiful woven cotton scarves made by talented women in Guatemala. Jesus helps us see them not only as artists but as survivors of a brutal civil war, as sisters who literally looked out for each other and gave each other a home, as storytellers who will not let the horrors they lived through be forgotten but who also bring hope to their stories.

A few years ago when a couple lived in their car in our parking lot, how did Jesus help us see them? At first we saw them as a homeless couple, down on their luck. Then we saw them as people we could share a meal with, help. Then we saw them as a couple devoted to each other; as parents, as soon-to-be grandparents. Finally, we saw them as our neighbors, and when they found a new place to live, we rejoiced with them.

How does Jesus help us to see? With eyes of compassion, with eyes of kindness, with eyes that do not judge. That’s the problem with the Pharisees in this story—they are seeing with eyes of judgment. Is this man a sinner? Did he break the Sabbath law by kneading the mud and spit? Is he of God or not?

I believe we have a choice about how we see the world and each other. The other day I was talking with some friends and one of them brought up how exhausting it is to deal with, as she put it, the whiners. You know the type—they always find something to complain about, to criticize. We all nodded—been there, done that.

Then another friend suggested this. Next time a whiner comes to you, listen to them. Then close your eyes, take a deep breath in and a deep breath out, and then remind yourself that when you open your eyes, you see a broken person. Perhaps that will help.

Not all faith things come easily or naturally to us. I wish I could tell you that loving someone unconditionally is as natural as breathing, but you know as well as I do that isn’t true. It is unnatural for everyone but the saints to love unconditionally, and I bet they would tell you it’s hard work.

Seeing someone as broken or seeing someone as God’s beloved child doesn’t come naturally either. It requires that we get beyond ourselves, let go of our egos and our neediness and our own brokenness to be present to the other. It’s a way we live out our faith, a way we follow Jesus. And you don’t have to do it… but if the shoe were on the other foot, wouldn’t you want someone to treat you that way?

The last thing I’ll say about all of this is to acknowledge that there isn’t always much we can do about how people see us. And let’s admit that we do hide parts of ourselves; rarely have I met the fully authentic, what-you-see-is-what-you-get human. We hide the ugly parts, the scared parts, the insecure parts. So what people see isn’t really all there is to us.

Perhaps the once-blind man could hear or feel how people saw him, if they offered a kind word or a coin or a piece of bread, or if they spat on him or kicked him or walked by without a word. And the blind man never asks Jesus for healing; for all we know, Jesus was just another unseen but heard person walking by. Until Jesus sees him. Sees him and heals him. Heals him and gives him a new life.

However much of yourself you hide or show, know that there is Someone who sees you for all that you are, the good, the bad, the ugly. The frightened, the angry, the lonely. The hopeful, the faithful, the graceful. And seeing you, he loves you. And heals you. And offers you new life, too.