That all may see

Sermon based on John 9

Preached at Frazer Mennonite Church

We like to act like people today don’t think like the Pharisees did two thousand years ago.  We like to think that our theology is more evolved than connecting our physical ailments or disabilities to our sin.  But, let me tell y’all something. This kind of thinking that we heard from the Pharisees in John 9 still happens in the church.  Christianity has passed this idea down, generation to generation.  

I hear folks say–when something bad happens–what have I done to deserve this?  And when something good happens, I hear–God is blessing me! Or God really loves me!

Even in the Christmas tradition of Santa Claus, we tell our children that good things come to good children, and bad children get coal in their stockings.  

This is an idea that still pervades our theology and our world view.    

When I was preparing to take family medical leave to be with my mom in her last days, a pastor who I worked with came to me and told me that my mom was dying because she didn’t have enough faith.  A pastor. Who didn’t know my Christian, God-fearing, Jesus-loving, Spirit filled mama. That pastor is very lucky that I’m a pacifist.  

We pass along this idea that God gives us good things because we’re good, and therefore when we are bad, God must be sending us bad things.  

Friends, this is not how the world works.  This is not how God works. 

And this encounter between Jesus and the blind man and the pharisees is an example of this truth.  

If you heard this text and thought, “This story is hilarious and ridiculous!” then good job.  Your listening ears are on. This story reads like a Monty Python sketch. It is over the top.  And it is meant to be that way. It is ridiculous to prove a point.  

The question the disciples asked was, “Is the man’s blindness his fault or his parent’s fault?”

And Jesus answered easily–it was neither the parent’s or the child’s fault.  Then he healed the blind man, who–by the way–never asked to be healed. Jesus just strolled up on this man, put a mixture of dirt and saliva on the man’s eyes, told him to wash it off in the pool of Saloam, and strolled off.  The man never saw Jesus, never had a formal introduction. 

The blind man was seeing for the first time, because of someone he’d never met putting mud in his eyes.  And this set the Pharisees spinning.

The Pharisees asked the formerly blind man what happened, and he told them plainly.  And then the Pharisees began to argue between themselves about Jesus. They were all agreed that Jesus was a bad man, but the question that confounded them was exactly in what way Jesus was bad.  Some of the pharisees were concerned that Jesus healed on the sabbath. Others didn’t believe that it was Jesus who had healed the man because “How could a sinner heal?”  

Still in disbelief, the Pharisees went to the parents of the once blind man and asked them what happened.  The parents knew what happened to their son, but also knew that telling the truth would mean they couldn’t enter the temple.  So, they deflected the question, and sent the Pharisees back to their now seeing son.

The Pharisees began to interrogate the man about the healing, and the man was genuinely confused,  “Why do you want to hear my story all over again? Do you want to become disciples of Jesus too?”

(Which you have to admit, is a pretty funny response.)

And the Pharisees became so angry about this sighted man’s response to their questions that they threw him out of the temple.  

I also find this pretty funny.  Because this man was blind, he was considered unclean.  So he had never been allowed in the temple. And now, with sight, he was no longer allowed in the temple, because he had spoken from the heart to the religious authorities.  

So, the story of the blind man ends where it begins–with him outside the temple.  Except now he can see. And–it seems–the Pharisees cannot.  

In this long convoluted and hilarious story, we hear Jesus start with–it’s not the blind man’s fault that he’s blind, and it’s not his parent’s fault either.  And the story ends with Jesus saying that to be born blind is not the sin, but claiming to see and understand probably means you have some sin to deal with.

My mom entered hospice the week of her 45th birthday, with more grace than I’d ever seen from her.  She just relaxed into it. She had said all she needed to say to family and friends. She had taken the trip to the West Coast she always wanted to take.  She had given money away. She was ready to go.  

And her comfort with this made me very uncomfortable.  Because I was still going to be here. And I needed her help, her wisdom, her insight.  

One evening while she laid in her hospice bed she told me she believe that she was being healed in her death.  As her daughter, who was left behind to contend with the enormous absence of her in my life, I did not respond well to this.  

But there was wisdom, gentleness and kindness on her face and in her voice when she replied to me, “I don’t understand it now, but in my death, I will understand it better.  I can’t wait to sit at Jesus’ feet and have all my questions awnsered.”

For my mom, her death was a kind of healing, because as she was dying, she was understanding better who God was.  As she was dying she was seeing things more clearly than ever. As she was dying, she was experiencing the powerful presence of God.  

It wasn’t something I could understand at 22.  I still struggle. But I do understand it a little better.  Mom’s observation begins to make more sense.  

Mom’s healing was not about trying to have more faith, it was not to be found in more medical treatment, or with a better diet.  Mom’s healing was being found in giving up her control and need to understand, and relaxing into the arms of her God.  

Of course there were people that didn’t understand her attitude.  Some said it was a sin for her to stop fighting this disease, even though cancer was all over her body.  Others said she was giving up on God’s healing. Everyone had their opinions, and wanted to tell me what was wrong with my mom’s plan.  But mom knew that healing would come for her in resting, trusting, and holding on to God and to her family.

We pass on these theological ideas that sickness, defects, or imperfections mean that we are less than, that we are sinful.  We ask God why this happened to us, and not someone else. We wonder what we could have done to prevent such a disease or illness.  

Jesus’ answer here in the story is this–it’s not our fault, it’s not our parent’s fault.  But it is so that God might be glorified. 

Jesus’ answer to this question doesn’t make me feel any more comfortable.  In fact, I’d rather have an easy answer here, I would rather be able to point to someone’s sin and say, “Oh it makes sense that this illness happened.”  I don’t exactly want God to be glorified, to look better, or to be worshipped because of this man’s blindness, or that woman’s cancer.  

And even though this is what it sounds like in our ears, I don’t think this is what Jesus is saying here.  Our afflictions and infirmities aren’t to make Jesus look good, or to make us want to fall on our knees and worship God.  In reality, these illnesses just happen, by products of an imperfect world. They happen to the best of us.  

Where God is glorified, where God’s presence is fully known and understood, can happen most clearly when those difficult things happen in our lives.  I have heard–time after time–testimonies of this in this congregation. God showed up, God was glorified, in the form of a candle left on a doorstep in the middle of the night, in rides to the hospital, in meals, in folks sitting in uncertainty with us, with no easy answers.  

This is where God is made known.  This is where God is glorified.  

When my mom was dying, God was glorified in a visit from my closest friends, who took me out for dinner, and didn’t ask about my mom.  They only wanted to know how I was doing. God was revealed, God was glorified in our decade long tradition of walking in the Race for the Cure every Mother’s day.  We’d laugh together as we walked, and when I got quiet, they’d hold my hand or squeeze my shoulders. Those two friends were the presence of God for me, helping me to see and experience God in grief and anger and times of despair. 

This is the difference between sight and blindness.  Jesus–particularly this Jesus in the gospel of John–wants us to see God’s presence and glory, even in the worst life throws at us.  Our blindness is in getting derailed by why something happened, and what we did to cause it. We get distracted by the why, and miss all the signs of God’s presence with us in it.  

I do not speak these words easily or tritely–God is always there for us.  And we cannot always see it. But Jesus was sent to us to help us see, to free us from our blindness.  

We might not have healthy bodies or minds, but Jesus came to heal us from our blindness to God’s presence.  

Watch for God among you because God is here. AMEN.