The Fourth Sunday in Lent

Cartoons are like stories; sometimes they’re just fun, and sometimes they make a point or raise a question. Like the cartoon that showed two people riding in a car. We see them through the rear window, the husband sitting on the left, driving, and his wife in the passenger seat, far to the right against the door. And she says to him, "Do you remember, dear, how years ago we used to drive all snuggled up close to each other?" And he says, "I haven’t moved."

"Who’s moved?" It’s one of the great questions in church history.

The stories we read in the Bible today make a point. They also raise questions, questions like, "Who’s blind?" and "How do we see?"

When God decided to replace Saul as King of Israel, he told the prophet Samuel that the new king would be one of Jesse’s sons and that Samuel should go find the new king. And when Jesse brought his oldest son, Eliab, to Samuel, Samuel said, "Boy! Eliab sure looks like a king to me. He’s big and strong and handsome. Surely, here is the Lord’s anointed!" But the Lord said, "Pay no attention to his outward appearance and stature, for I have rejected him."

And before the story is over, Jesse presents seven sons to Samuel for an interview, all of them with long, impressive resumes. But the Lord rejects all seven, because, as the Scriptures tell us, "The Lord does not see as a mortal sees. Mortals see only appearances, but the Lord sees what is in the heart."

So Samuel has to send Jesse out to the pasture to fetch his youngest son, little inexperienced, ruddy-faced David, before he is able to find the son whom the Lord wants him to anoint. "This is the man," says the Lord, "and Samuel anoints David in the presence of his brothers, and the Spirit was with David from that day forward."

How do we see? We see only appearances. But the Lord sees what is in the heart.

Plato, too, tells a story about seeing. Plato says that we human beings are like people who are sitting on a ledge inside a large cave, people sitting with their backs to the opening of the cave, and chained in such a way that they cannot turn around to see the mouth of the cave.

Behind them, at the opening of the cave, there is a great amount of light, because outside the cave, where the chained people cannot see, the sun, or a fire, is burning brightly. And between the light and the backs of the people in the cave, there are other people who are carrying puppets in such a way that the light behind them makes the puppets’ shadows appear as figures moving along the wall of the cave in front of the people who are chained inside the cave, much like people watching a movie.

We are like those people chained inside the cave, says Plato. We see the shadows of the puppets, and because we cannot turn around to see what’s really happening, we grow accustomed to watching shadows and we begin to think that the shadows of reality are reality, when if fact what is real is something we cannot see at all, because of our chains, because we do not turn to face the light and what is real.

How do we see? Later this month, on March 22, we will celebrate the feast day of James DeKoven, one of the saints of the Episcopal Church. And that’s another story.

I know a little bit about James DeKoven, because he was one of the founders of my seminary, Nashotah House.

One of the things I know is that DeKoven was a holy and devout man, a man of prayer. He was also a teacher and a man of vision who established a seminary and served in schools and parishes throughout the Midwest, and a faithful priest. In 1874, he was elected Bishop of Wisconsin. But although he was duly elected bishop by the people of his diocese, he was never permitted to serve as bishop, because he was not the kind of priest the doorkeepers of the Church wanted. The bishops and standing committees of the dioceses of the Church refused their consent to his election and consecration.

The following year, in 1875, DeKoven was elected Bishop of Illinois, but again he never served as bishop, because the standing committees and bishops of the Church again found him lacking.

The problem was that in Holy Communion DeKoven saw Jesus in a way that was different from the way the bishops and standing committees saw Jesus. DeKoven was what used to be called a "high churchman." He was sympathetic to Catholic ritual in worship. He was a sacramentalist. He believed that outward signs such as genuflection, incense, and the use of candles on the altar were important, because they symbolize the real presence of Christ at Holy Communion. And because DeKoven believed in Christian liberty, he believed that Christians who saw such signs as important should be free to use them in their worship.

But the doorkeepers of the Church in DeKoven’s day were low-churchmen. They saw such outward signs only as relics of a kind of religion they did not approve of. They insisted that everyone should see Jesus the way they saw Jesus, and worship the way they worshiped. Chained to their own view of piety, they could not see DeKoven’s faithfulness and integrity. They did not see into the heart of the man himself, nor did their vision penetrate beyond the bread to the Body of Christ himself.

So DeKoven was rejected as bishop of both Wisconsin and Illinois. And now, today, over a hundred years later, with the clearer vision of hindsight, we remember as one of the blessed of God a saintly, holy, spirit-filled man whom the doorkeepers of the Church in his own day rejected, because they did not see beyond the shadows of appearance.

It has happened over and over again throughout history that we mortals see only appearances, and so, because of our blindness, we have rejected what the Lord has anointed. The books of the prophets and the saints are full of such stories.

Who’s blind? How do we see? There was a man who was blind from birth, says John. And this is our story.

The disciples’ first question was where to place blame. "Who sinned," they asked, "this man or his parents?" They wanted to know who the good guys were, who was blameworthy, and who was not.

And this made me think of another cartoon. In an episode of "Baby Blues," five-year-old Zoe comes to her mother with a story about her little brother. "Mom," she announces, "I have good news and bad news." "What’s the bad news?" Zoe’s mom asks. "The bad news," Zoe says, "is that Hammie colored on the wall!" "OK, Zoe, what’s the good news?" "Hammie colored on the wall, and I didn’t!" says Zoe.

And Jesus said, "Blame is beside the point. It’s not that either this man or his parents sinned. The question is, "Can we see God’s grace here? Cannot God and hope be found even here, in a man born blind?" asks Jesus. "Isn’t it possible that this man was born for a divine purpose all his own, not to be the focus of our desire to control or place blame, but born just as we all were born, born so that he, and we, might see and know the grace of God?"

And Jesus spat on the ground and made a paste with the spittle, and he spread it on the blind man’s eyes. And Jesus said to the man, "Go and wash in the pool of Siloam." And the man went and washed, and when he came back he could see.

And you would think, wouldn’t you, that everybody would be just tickled to death to witness such a miracle! Wouldn’t you? But if you think that, then you don’t know the Church very well.

Like the church in Peggy Payne’s story, in her novel, Revelation. The story is about a Presbyterian minister, but he could just as well be an Episcopalian. The minister is in his backyard grilling steaks one evening when he hears the voice of God speaking to him. It was a theophany, an appearance of God, the kind of revelation that would change his life. He would never be the same again. And you’d think, wouldn’t you, that everyone would be just tickled pink that such a revelation took place in their congregation. But the rest of the story tells of the price the pastor pays for the revelation. Do the leaders of the congregation rejoice with him? Not exactly. The do provide a paid leave and free psychiatric care.

Like the leaders of the Church in Jesus’ day. In John’s story, the Evangelist needs exactly two verses to tell us how Jesus gave sight to the man born blind, but he needs thirty-six verses to tell us about the controversy.

It was, you see, the Sabbath. Making paste out of soil and spittle was work. And the Bible said that work was not supposed to be done on the Sabbath. And the pharisees were the doorkeepers of the Bible and the Church. "Wait a minute!" they cried. "Wait a minute! Only God can make a blind man see, but this man can’t be from God because he doesn’t keep the Sabbath the way we do! He’s a sinner. How could a sign from God come from a sinful man?"

And they asked the man born blind what he thought. They asked him who he thought Jesus was anyway. And he said, "I don’t know. All I know is that I was blind, and now I can see. He must be a prophet."

"Oh yeah?" they replied. "Well, this healing is uncredentialed, uncertified. Who does Jesus think he is, out here granting vision without training and certification? Who does he think he is, healing in ways it’s not supposed to be done?"

And they wouldn’t believe it. Maybe it was just a trick of some kind, they argued. Maybe he wasn’t really the man who was born blind at all, but a different man who could see all along and who was just pretending to have been healed. So they grabbed his parents. "Is this your son, lady, this man running around saying he’s been healed and trying to make something big out of this Jesus? How is it that he can see now, if he was born blind?"

"We don’t know," they said. "Ask him. He’s old enough to speak for himself."

And they grilled the man a second time. "Tell the truth now," they said, "because we know that this man Jesus is a sinner. If he weren’t a sinner, he would keep the Sabbath as we do, and not go around making it possible for people to see today. What did he do to you?"

And the man said, "I don’t know if he’s a sinner or not. All I know is that I was blind, and now I see."

And the pharisees (remember now, these were the religious authorities, the experts in religion, the members of the standing committees and the priests and bishops of their day) the pharisees shouted at him abusively, and said, "You are that sinner’s disciple! We are disciples of Moses. And we know that God spoke to Moses, but we don’t know where this man came from. And we don’t want to have anything to do with him, or with you."

And the man who had been healed said, "That’s extraordinary! Here’s a man who has opened my eyes, something only God can do, and yet you don’t know where he comes from and don’t want to have anything to do with him? If this man Jesus were not from God he could do nothing."

Who’s blind? Who’s moved?

And the pharisees shouted, "Who are you to lecture us? You’re a sinner, too. You were born and bred in sin, blind from birth!" And they threw him out of the church, where Jesus found him once again, this time outside the church, outside where Jesus, too, had been thrown.

You see, the doorkeepers of the Church wanted to keep control of things. They wanted to keep the church the way it was, chained to appearances. It wouldn’t do to let someone just turn to the light. The blind man, a beggar, was important to them as long as he was blind, and a beggar. Chained as he was to his blindness, they had someone to define, someone to control, someone to explain the shadows to, someone to be important for, someone to support their purpose and meaning, which was to be the definers of blame and sin and righteousness, someone whose purpose was to receive their alms. They could feel good about that.

But Jesus and grace mess it all up! "If someone is permitted simply to pass out light for free, if someone is permitted to go around just giving out sight to the blind like supermarket coupons, what’s to become of us, the keepers of the door to salvation?" they ask. "If purpose and meaning and sight are granted free for the asking, what’s to become of us, the brokers of blame and righteousness and truth? If sight is restored and begging made unnecessary, what’s to become of alms? If grace just happens, what’s to become of blame and control?"

If a man born blind has a purpose all on his own just because he was born, if just anyone can be an occasion for demonstrating the power and grace of God, if a man who is clearly a sinner is given hope and meaning and purpose just like that, then what’s to become of us? Sight is a problem for the pharisees. Jesus and light and grace are a problem.

It’s sobering, isn’t it, to realize that if Israel had gotten the king Samuel saw, they wouldn’t have gotten the great David, Saint David. It’s sobering to realize that the standing committees and bishops of the Church slammed the church door on James DeKoven, a man the Church now celebrates as one of the saints of God. It’s sobering, isn’t it, to realize that the same people slammed the door of the Church door on Jesus, and on the man he healed. Who’s blind?

"Sir," the Greeks later say to Philip, "we would see Jesus. Show us the Light who offers sight to those who can’t see. Take us to the One who offers hope and meaning and purpose to us who have no hope, no meaning, no purpose. Take us to the One who offers God, grace and sight.

Who’s moved? Who’s blind? And how shall we see?

God’s word to us today is the same as his word to Samuel and the pharisees: "Relax! You have good news! You are blind, but you were born so that you may know and share the glory and grace of God. Relax. God loves you. Seek out for your fellowship those like Philip, those who have somehow seen Jesus along their way. Invite into your fellowship all who would see him. Love them. Love them as you yourselves would be loved. And then relax, and let God do his stuff! We’re in good hands, as Huston Smith reminds us. And in gratitude for that we ought to share one another’s burdens.

Sight happens. Grace happens. God happens. Lord, heal us.

In the Name of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.