Sunday, June 28, 2015

A Tale of Two Daughters


Mark 5:21-43
21When Jesus had crossed again in the boat to the other side, a great crowd gathered around him; and he was by the sea. 22Then one of the leaders of the synagogue named Jairus came and, when he saw him, fell at his feet 23and begged him repeatedly, "My little daughter is at the point of death. Come and lay your hands on her, so that she may be made well, and live." 24So he went with him.
And a large crowd followed him and pressed in on him. 25Now there was a woman who had been suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years. 26She had endured much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had; and she was no better, but rather grew worse. 27She had heard about Jesus, and came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak, 28for she said, "If I but touch his clothes, I will be made well." 29Immediately her hemorrhage stopped; and she felt in her body that she was healed of her disease. 30Immediately aware that power had gone forth from him, Jesus turned about in the crowd and said, "Who touched my clothes?" 31And his disciples said to him, "You see the crowd pressing in on you; how can you say, 'Who touched me?'" 32He looked all around to see who had done it. 33But the woman, knowing what had happened to her, came in fear and trembling, fell down before him, and told him the whole truth. 34He said to her, "Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease."
35While he was still speaking, some people came from the leader's house to say, "Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the teacher any further?" 36But overhearing what they said, Jesus said to the leader of the synagogue, "Do not fear, only believe." 37He allowed no one to follow him except Peter, James, and John, the brother of James. 38When they came to the house of the leader of the synagogue, he saw a commotion, people weeping and wailing loudly. 39When he had entered, he said to them, "Why do you make a commotion and weep? The child is not dead but sleeping." 40And they laughed at him. Then he put them all outside, and took the child's father and mother and those who were with him, and went in where the child was. 41He took her by the hand and said to her, "Talitha cum," which means, "Little girl, get up!" 42And immediately the girl got up and began to walk about (she was twelve years of age). At this they were overcome with amazement. 43He strictly ordered them that no one should know this, and told them to give her something to eat.


Sermon: “A Tale of Two Daughters”

Once upon a time, there were two daughters.  The oldest was raised in a struggling Jewish family.  Though they didn’t always have enough food to go around, they were happy.  Her parents were kind to her.  They took her and her siblings to temple.  She didn’t have the nicest clothes, but she was clothed in love and acceptance from her family, and that was enough for her. 

As this daughter grew up, she began to dream of having daughters of her own.  She knew that soon her father would arrange a marriage for her and, though the thought of some stranger was terrifying, it was also incredibly exciting.  Before long she would have a family, the highest status she could achieve in her time.  She knew this would all happen soon because she was now a woman, biologically speaking.  But after a couple of weeks, this daughter became worried.  The bleeding wouldn’t stop.

Her family tried to hide it at first, saying she had a stomach ache when her friends came to visit, and claiming she was busy working when suitors came calling.  But after a month, they feared the worst.  She would not stop bleeding.  This wasn’t just a health crisis, though it was certainly that.  This was a faith crisis – in those days, bleeding made a Jewish woman ritually unclean.  Constant bleeding made her constantly so.  Perhaps they could abide the judgment of friends and neighbors, but this poor family feared the judgment of God. 

The father came to his daughter’s bed one day.  As he took in her anemic, exhausted frame, he trembled with sorrow.  His heart broke as he broke hers with his words, “You cannot stay here any longer, daughter.  We cannot afford the cost of making you well.  But more than that, we cannot afford God’s judgment on this house – there are the other children to consider.  You will not be a wife.  You will not be a mother.  You must go, and pray for God’s mercy on your impurity.”

The daughter’s spirit was as broken as her body.  But she got up, and looked her father in the eye one last time, not daring to touch him and make him unclean.  She cried, but wouldn’t wipe the tears away in defiance.  And she left her family.  At 12 years of age, she was a daughter no more.

At this same time, another daughter was born.  She lived a very different life than the first.  This daughter was born into a wealthy family.  Her father Jairus was an official of the synagogue.  They lacked for nothing – rich food, luxurious clothing and, most importantly, love.  But when she was 12 years old, this daughter started feeling ill.  It began with chills and a fever, but by day three, she had excruciating pain in her stomach and couldn’t keep anything down.  A week later, she could barely lift her head, and was only taking in tiny amounts of water from a cloth held to her mouth. 

Her father Jairus was desperate.  He tried every healing ritual he knew.  He prayed and prayed.  One day, a neighbor came and told him that the Jewish healer from Nazareth had just arrived to town.  Before he even had time to think, Jairus was out the door and sprinting to the Sea of Galilee, where his boat would arrive.  He would try anything to save his daughter.

At the same time, our first daughter was sleeping in a little dirty corner of town and heard a commotion.  She was still bleeding – now a woman in her mid-twenties, who looked much older than that.  She was filthy, hungry, and desperate to be saved from such an abysmal existence.  She managed to focus enough to hear what the crowd was saying, catching snippets like, “Jesus,” “healer,” and “Sea of Galilee.”  It was her last hope to be made well.  She pushed through the crowd, ignoring the cries of outrage that followed her touch.  She ran, as fast as her weary legs would take her. 

But Jairus got there first, and sprinted up to this healer named Jesus.  The crowd parted for him.  He was, after all, a man of privilege.  But that didn’t matter now.  All that mattered was saving his daughter.  He threw himself at the feet of this healer from Nazareth and begged, “Please, healer!  My little daughter is about to die.  I’ve tried everything.  Come, lay hands on her, that she may be made well and live.”  Jesus reached down and helped the desperate dad to his feet.  And they began to make their way through the crowd to Jairus’ house.

The other daughter watched, weeping for a father who cared for his daughter as hers never had.  As they passed in front of her, her hand reached out of its own will, grabbing the tattered robe of that healer.  “Maybe if I just touch his robe, I’ll be made well,” she told herself.  She hoped he wouldn’t even notice that she’d made him unclean and touched him.  She hoped for an invisible healing – she was so used to making herself invisible. 

But the healer stopped when she touched him.  She no longer cared, though.  She felt free!  The bleeding ended, just as suddenly as it had come 12 years earlier.  She trembled, not with fear, but with joy. 

“Who touched me?” Jesus asked. She threw herself at his feet, just as Jairus had done, and told him everything: of her family, her hopes, her illness, and her shunning.  He looked at her with pure love and acceptance and said, “Daughter.”  Daughter!  She wept to be called this once more.  “Daughter,” he said, “your faith has made you well.  Go in peace, be healed of your disease.” 

She stood on newly strengthened limbs, and turned to leave.  But just then, someone ran up to Jairus saying, “Sir, your daughter is dead.  Don’t trouble the healer any longer.”  His world collapsed, just as the other daughter’s world was made right.  But as he turned to leave, Jesus touched him on the shoulder, and said, “Do not fear, only believe.” 

So they continued the journey to Jairus’ house, and could hear the weeping and wailing already.  The newly-healed daughter followed at a distance, wanting to see what would happen to this man’s daughter.  Jesus told the mourning crowd that the little girl was not dead, but sleeping.  And delirious with grief and anger, they laughed at him.  But he went into the little girl’s room anyway. 

Seeing her small frame on the bed, he reached out and touched one of her folded hands, thus being made unclean for the second time that day, by a second daughter.  She stirred at his touch!  “Little girl,” he said gently, “get up.”  Up she got; another daughter restored.

She came out to the mourning crowd and they hugged and kissed her with joy.  The other daughter watched, from a little distance.  She didn’t have a family to cheer her recovery and wholeness.  But she was not bitter.  She wept with joy for that little girl getting the chance at a life she never had.  And she turned and walked away, head held high, breathing in the warm afternoon air, feeling at peace.  She was a daughter of Israel.  Jesus had made it so. 

She realized then that she had been a daughter all along – that a loving God had claimed her as a child from her first breath to her last.  She understood in her newly-whole body that she was loved and accepted by her Creator.  This daughter then pitied her father for the terrible choice he felt he had to make in shunning her.  But mostly, she pitied that he believed that’s what God wanted him to do.  God doesn’t disown daughters – God brings daughters home again.  God makes them whole. n

This tale began, “once upon a time,” but it’s no fairy tale.  That healer from Nazareth still creates family out of those who are forgotten.  Jesus still works wholeness out of brokenness.  He still calls to all of the children of this world, even us, saying, “Do not fear, only believe.” Believe we are all daughters.  Believe we are all sons.  Believe are all God’s own, no matter what life brings. 

If that is true, then what could we possibly have to fear?  Amen. 

Sunday, June 21, 2015

Be Still


June 21, 2015
Mark 4:35-41
35On that day, when evening had come, Jesus said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.” 36And leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. Other boats were with him. 37A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. 38But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” 39He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. 40He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” 41And they were filled with great awe and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?”


Sermon: “Be Still”

When I was five years old, I took swimming lessons.  One of the first things we learned to do was float on our back.  I remember the experience very vividly.  My teacher had her arms under me, and told me to lean back, push my legs up toward the surface of the water and float, trying to be as straight and still as possible.  For a brief moment, all was well: I looked up at the blue sky above me, felt her arms holding me up, and was at peace.  And then she took her arms away, without warning.  That peace was engulfed in fear, as I was engulfed by water.  I couldn’t hold myself up, and underwater I went, taking a big shocked gulp of water. 

I was probably only under water for a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity.  When I came up for air, I was furious.  Three feet of solid five-year-old fury.  I got out of the pool, tears streaming down my face and proclaimed with wild indignation, “You moved your arms!  You promised you wouldn’t!”  It was several more years before I actually learned to swim and, if I’m honest, I still get a little nervous if my head is under water for too long.

It was a scary experience for a five year old.  But that’s nothing compared to the experience of a five year old at Emanuel AME Zion Church in Charleston this week.  She had to be still, too.  This little girl had to play dead while her family was killed around her because of the color of their skin.  I’ve wept for her this week.  I’ve wept for them all.  I’ve wept that we live in a world where five year old African American children have to play dead, be still, to survive, in church of all places.  I pray that that little girl finds the courage to be in church again.  And I pray that all of us will find the courage to stop the storms of racism engulfing our country.

That question the disciples asked Jesus during that sudden storm on the Sea of Galilee seems hauntingly appropriate now: “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”

It was, and is, a fair question.  Storms on the Sea of Galilee came suddenly, with no warning, because that sea is in a valley.  How Jesus slept through one is bizarre.  Perhaps he was especially worn out from teaching parables to pressing crowds.  He snoozed on, until the disciples woke him up with that question.  But he didn’t answer their question first.

He dealt with the storm first.  He rebuked that wind, and told the sea to be still.  Only when the surface of those tumultuous waters was glassy and smooth and calm, did he respond to those terrified disciples.  He didn’t respond with an answer (Jesus seldom did).  Instead, he asked them questions of his own:  “Why are you afraid?  Have you still no faith?”

This is one of those times when having a written word fails us.  I want to know Jesus’ tone of voice when he asked these questions.  They sound harsh, but was he breathless and teary-eyed after calming the storm as he said them?  Did he put his hands on their shoulders and softly ask?  Was his voice full of frustration, or was it thick with pity?  

We’ll never know.  But we do know this: Jesus calmed the storm first.  And those gail-force winds, that churning sea, were no match for him.  He spoke peace right into that storm, until all was still.
You see, he did care that they were perishing after all.  He still does. 

Sometimes, it might feel like he’s sleeping through the storms of our time.  It might have felt that way for that little five year old girl in Emanuel AME Zion Church.  It might feel that way when the unspeakable happens, when hatred we thought was ancient history bubbles up from just under that falsely-smooth surface and the waves crash, the storm rages, and we perish. 

“Do you not care?” we plead.  And Jesus answers, not always to us directly, but he definitely answers the storm.

“Peace, be still!” he demands, and the storm obeys.  In recent days, in our recent storm, he’s said this in so many ways:

-In the teenage children of Sharonda Singleton, who was murdered in that prayer service, who instead of meeting hatred with hatred, publicly uttered the three most powerful words to their mother’s killer, words that stop storms in their tracks:  “We forgive you.”

-In the people who gathered at Emanuel AME Zion Church Thursday night to pray, proclaiming that, though it had been the scene of an unspeakable tragedy, that church was still, and would always be, a house of prayer.

-In the courage of Debbie Dills, who tailed the suspected murderer for 30 miles until police could apprehend him, saying it was God who heard the prayers of the people of Charleston and used her to answer.

-In parents who teach their children to love, not hate, and in everyday efforts to bring racial reconciliation and an end to the sin of weaponized racism.

We have many questions for Jesus in these days.  I know I do.  But asking questions of Jesus, instead of answering on behalf of him in the midst of storms, is a much wiser path.  It takes faith to ask questions.  It takes even more to trust that, if he doesn’t answer us, he will answer the storm itself, bringing a sort of peace we will never understand fully. 

Faith means asking those questions.  Faith also means knowing that, even in the storm of hate that raged in Emanuel church, Jesus never let go of the saints gathered there.  He never removed his arms from under them, supporting them, even in their last moments on this earth.  And he will never stop commanding storms of hatred, prejudice and fear to be still, until they listen. Will we join him?  Amen.

Sunday, June 14, 2015

How Long Will You Grieve?

Image Source
Preached at the June 11 Meeting of the Presbytery of Coastal Carolina and at Cameron Presbyterian Church on June 14

1 Samuel 15:34-16:13
15:34Then Samuel went to Ramah; and Saul went up to his house in Gibeah of Saul. 35Samuel did not see Saul again until the day of his death, but Samuel grieved over Saul. And the LORD was sorry that he had made Saul king over Israel.

16:1The LORD said to Samuel, “How long will you grieve over Saul? I have rejected him from being king over Israel. Fill your horn with oil and set out; I will send you to Jesse the Bethlehemite, for I have provided for myself a king among his sons.” 2Samuel said, “How can I go? If Saul hears of it, he will kill me.” And the LORD said, “Take a heifer with you, and say, ‘I have come to sacrifice to the LORD.’ 3Invite Jesse to the sacrifice, and I will show you what you shall do; and you shall anoint for me the one whom I name to you.” 4Samuel did what the LORD commanded, and came to Bethlehem. The elders of the city came to meet him trembling, and said, “Do you come peaceably?” 5He said, “Peaceably; I have come to sacrifice to the LORD; sanctify yourselves and come with me to the sacrifice.” And he sanctified Jesse and his sons and invited them to the sacrifice.

6When they came, he looked on Eliab and thought, “Surely the Lord’s anointed is now before the LORD.” 7But the LORD said to Samuel, “Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, because I have rejected him; for the LORD does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the LORD looks on the heart.” 8Then Jesse called Abinadab, and made him pass before Samuel. He said, “Neither has the LORD chosen this one.” 9Then Jesse made Shammah pass by. And he said, “Neither has the LORD chosen this one.” 10Jesse made seven of his sons pass before Samuel, and Samuel said to Jesse, “The LORD has not chosen any of these.” 11Samuel said to Jesse, “Are all your sons here?” And he said, “There remains yet the youngest, but he is keeping the sheep.” And Samuel said to Jesse, “Send and bring him; for we will not sit down until he comes here.” 12He sent and brought him in. Now he was ruddy, and had beautiful eyes, and was handsome. The LORD said, “Rise and anoint him; for this is the one.” 13Then Samuel took the horn of oil, and anointed him in the presence of his brothers; and the spirit of the LORD came mightily upon David from that day forward.


“How Long Will You Grieve?”

Church is weird, y’all.  I hope this isn’t news to you! 

We are weird for lots of reasons.  We think it’s really cool to wear matching colors on Pentecost.  We think any kind of food can be vastly improved upon if it’s turned into casserole form.  We like it when people clap, just not too much.  Then, we get all squirmy.  We speak in code:
the peace of the Lord Jesus Christ be with you all…
the Word of the Lord…

But one oddity about us rises above the rest: we think about death.  A lot.

Sometimes, we church people unintentionally say unhelpful things when facing death, things like:
         “Everything happens for a reason.”
         “Be strong.”
         “God needed another angel.”
         “God never gives you more than you can bear.”

These words fall short in bringing comfort (except of course to the person saying them, who wants to be emotionally removed from the situation as soon as possible).

You could throw Yahweh’s words to Samuel from our reading this morning into the mix:
         “How long will you grieve?”
Ouch.  Sounds harsh, doesn’t it?  Samuel’s not grieving a death, well, not exactly.  He’s grieving that Saul, this king the people of Israel begged him for, has been such a disappointment.  He’s grieving that he ever had any part in the whole mess.

And yet Yahweh doesn’t tell him to rest.  God doesn’t tell him to take a nice vacation, or perhaps have a casserole.  God tells him to get over it.  (A casserole would have been much nicer.)

But God didn’t have any time to waste, you see.  Yahweh had plans for a new king for the people of Israel.  “I’ve provided for myself a king among Jesse’s sons.” God said.  Karl Barth points out that “provided” can be helpfully parsed as pro-video: God has seen beforehand, selecting a boy-king with wisdom and vision, and Samuel had a crucial part to play in it all.  His lingering grief was getting in the way of that.  You see, sometimes, you need to be pushed out of your grief so you can imagine a new reality.

I think now is that time for the Presbyterian Church (USA), for the Presbytery of Coastal Carolina, and for our individual churches.

You don’t need me to tell you we are a grieving people.  We have lost Calabash church to another denomination.  We will lose more.  It is like losing a family member.  No, wait, it’s not like losing a family member, it is losing a family member.

But this has all just happened in the past year.  So why should we be pushed out of grief already?  Is God that cruel?  Is this preacher that insensitive?
It would seem cruel and insensitive if we were in the early stages of grief.  We’re not.  We are being pushed out of grief because we didn’t just start it.  We in the church have been grieving for decades, my friends.  Grieving positions of power in business, government and social life being lost.  Grieving that full pews on a Sunday were a given, but now they’re not.  Grieving that our grandkids won’t come to church unless we tell them “Why?” and that “Because it’s just what you do” doesn’t seem to cut it.

We have been grieving for a very long time.  And so, I believe the God who asked Samuel that question first, asks it of us now, not with anger or mockery, but with true, deep, sadness, “How long will you grieve?”

To grieve is to be human -- we all know it.  Like I said, we weird church people are well acquainted with death.  And so we all counsel people in grief.  At our best, we say things like, “It’s not your fault.  Stick to the basics.  Don’t try to do too much.  Eat, sleep.  It’s not selfish to focus on yourself right now.” 

But what if that’s all you ever do? 
What if our churches have been sticking to the basics for decades – focusing on food and rest for us, but not even realizing there’s anyone else out there?  What if God is pushing us forward the way Samuel was pushed?

We don’t need a king now.  We also certainly don’t need leaders who keep the church held hostage in exile.  What we do need is bravery.  To stop looking on outward appearance, even if that is an expensive building being contested. 

We need to look at hearts, as God does, starting with ours.  We need to understand that those who feel they have to leave this family of the Presbyterian Church (USA) do so not out of hatred or bitterness or anger or self-righteousness.  They leave because they grieve – grieving a church they believe has changed too much, changing from their understanding of scripture.

And those who stay – those who advocate for change in the church, who understand this to also be about scripture, do not do this because of pride or arrogance or self-righteousness.  They call for change because they grieve – grieving a church that has changed too little in terms of justice over these past decades, and thus become irrelevant, detached, an exclusive club. 

We may not share the same interpretation of scripture.  We many not share the same understanding of what purity looks like.  But you can be sure that we share the same grief. 

It all comes down to grief.  And we see in the story of Samuel and David that grief can be immobilizing, or it can be a catalyst. 

The world doesn’t need a grieving church.  They’ve had too much of that.  The world needs a brave church.  A resurrected church.  A Pentecost church.

So how do we move past our grief?  Well, we don’t. 

God pushes us past our grief.  Samuel wasn’t ready.  David certainly wasn’t.  But when God calls you, you don’t say “yes” yesterday and you don’t say “yes” tomorrow.  You say yes right now, with tears rolling down your cheeks and fear in your heart. 

Samuel trusted the wild ideas of God enough to get past his grief and go to people who expected the worst from him.  “Do you come peaceably?” they asked, with knees knocking together in panic.  No doubt, they probably said this because they knew Samuel had anointed Saul as king – that same Saul who liked to hack people into pieces and call it justice.

“Actually, I do come peaceably,” He said.  “I come to sacrifice.”  Sure, he had a heifer with him, but that’s not really what he was sacrificing.  Samuel was sacrificing his sorrow, his grief, so that the story of God working in human history, the story of the people of Israel, his own story could continue.  He didn’t know which of Jesse’s sons was the Cinderella to his King Fairy Tale.  All he knew for sure was to go to people who made him nervous, who were terrified of him in return, and speak peace to them, expecting that in the middle of it all, God would show up.

We may not know the whole path of moving past our grief as a church, but goodness, what a wonderful way to start!  Go to people who make us nervous.  Speak peace.  Sacrifice our grief.  Trust God.  See what happens.

Notice I did not say form a committee, nor did I say develop a 14-point plan for community outreach.

This will look different in our different communities.  I’ll tell you what it might look like in mine.  I live in the small but proud town of Cameron.  If you want to go to the library, you go to Vass, which is 6 miles up the road.  (That’s also where the Piggly Wiggly is, if you’re interested, and you should be!)  Anyway, the other evening, I went to our little local library.  It was after-hours, but I wanted to return a (much-overdue) book. 

As I pulled up to the library, I saw something I didn’t expect: there was a family in a van, with all the doors and windows open to stave off the heat.  There was a teenage boy propped against the hood of the van, with an old laptop on top.  I suddenly realized that he was there to access the wi-fi to do his school work.  As I drove away, I noticed an honor student bumper sticker on that old van.

And my church has wireless internet all the time.  How easy would it be to “speak peace” to my community by offering free internet access to students in the area who are technologically impoverished? Internet access is becoming, if it hasn’t already become, a human rights issue.  Kids who can access internet at home can do their work.  Kids who can’t, can’t.  Perhaps that’s what ‘speaking peace’ looks like for us.

Think about, pray about, what it looks like for you and your community. 

We as a church have to get past our grief.  We can still feel what we feel, we can still have regret and sadness.  I’m pretty sure Samuel felt regret for that whole Saul situation the rest of his days.  But we can’t let that stop us from being the church, the body of Christ in this fractured world.    We can’t let that stop us from being a part of God breaking a peaceable kingdom into this world even now, using broken people like us to do it.

How long will we grieve?  It’s been long enough. 

Amen. 

Sunday, June 7, 2015

A Blinding Grace

Tommy Edison, movie critic and youtube sensation.

June 7, 2015
2 Corinthians 4:13-5:1
4:13But just as we have the same spirit of faith that is in accordance with scripture — “I believed, and so I spoke” — we also believe, and so we speak, 14because we know that the one who raised the Lord Jesus will raise us also with Jesus, and will bring us with you into his presence. 15Yes, everything is for your sake, so that grace, as it extends to more and more people, may increase thanksgiving, to the glory of God.
16So we do not lose heart. Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day. 17For this slight momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure, 18because we look not at what can be seen but at what cannot be seen; for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal.
5:1For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.

Sermon: “A Blinding Grace”

There’s a fairly famous movie critic named Tommy Edison.  He’s reviewed everything from The Hunger Games to Fight Club to Batman movies to Swarzenegger action flicks. 

But unlike his contemporary, Roger Ebert, Tommy does not review movies with stars.  He reviews them with eyes – giving a great film “4 out of 4 eyes opened.”

This makes sense when I tell you that Tommy Edison was born and remains blind.  With his wit and humor, his insight and wisdom, Tommy reviews movies not based on their fancy costumes, how attractive the stars are or their special effects.  Tommy, unable to see all that, sees instead the actual story, the heart of the movie. 

Tommy also makes YouTube videos answering all sorts of questions about blindness with humility and joy.  He does not want anyone feeling sorry for him, nor does he pity himself.  Instead, he names the benefits of his blindness:

He goes on airplanes first.
His electric bill’s cheaper than sighted people’s (no lights, of course).
He got out of gym all through school.
All of his other senses – sound, taste, touch – are heightened.
And finally, he says simply, that he can’t see race or beauty to judge other people by.  What comes out of their mouth and their heart, that is all he has to go on.  And this is a gift.

Like the words of Paul in our text from 2 Corinthians, he looks at “what cannot be seen.”

We sighted people have such a hard time with that, don’t we?  We’re constantly told that image is everything.  Our worth on the inside is often decided by what we look like on the outside.  We go through life like movie goers captivated by what’s attractive or not, by what’s dazzling or costs a lot of money, by the “special effects” of nice homes and cars, laptops and smartphones.  And, sadly, we miss the plot of it all.

Sometimes, blindness is a gift, you see.  Sometimes, we need to look, not at what can be seen, but at what cannot be seen; for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal.  Sometimes, we need to be blinded by the grace of God.  Like Paul was on that road to Damascus.

Paul started down that road full of hatred, lusting for power, with violence in his heart.  The only way he would come to the other end of that road a changed person was for God to strike him blind.  To strip away all the ugliness he saw in others, all the perfection he saw in himself, until all he saw was one thing: grace.

Only when he was blind, could he hear God calling to him, convicting him: “Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?”  God blinded him, not with the darkness of his own soul, but with brilliant light, until he finally saw who he was.  Not the armor, not the money in his pocket, not the strength of his muscles.  He saw his heart for the bitter, scared thing it was.  And he changed.

Because that’s what grace does – it changes things, if we let it.

Paul could have easily gotten up from that flashy moment and said, “Well, that was weird!” and shook it off.  Instead he turned his entire life around, giving up his bitterness and violence as best he could, knowing that he’d always be a work in progress, prone to drawing battle lines.  He believed, even when he couldn’t see it, that grace could change him for the better.  And he wrote the conflicted church in Corinth to tell them about it.

Quoting Psalm 116, he urged them to keep the faith, even as they faced affliction on every side, so that grace might become superabundant, to the glory of God.  He reminded them that the things we see are only temporary, and that there is an invisible, eternal grace woven through all of this life and the life to come. 

He wrote of the outer nature wasting away, while God renews our inner nature.  So is Paul telling us that our bodies are meaningless and we should just eat donuts and French fries all day to get to that sweet by-and-by sooner?  Well, no.  Is he telling us that we get to escape the hardships of this life because there is a better life to come?  Definitely not.  Is he telling us we should ignore the real physical needs of people’s bodies – food for the hungry, shelter for the homeless, love for the brokenhearted?  Absolutely not.

I believe Paul is trying to get us to realize that the only way we will see this world and ourselves clearly is through the eyes of grace, allowing the Spirit to blind us from all the distractions that do not matter in the end.  Allowing the Spirit to work grace in us from the inside out. 

This means that we as people of faith do not have the luxury of treating others as less than human because of how they look, what mistakes they have made or how unworthy we think they are.  We have to look on others with grace.

This doesn’t necessarily mean blind forgiveness, but it certainly means refusing to hate.  It means believing that, because Jesus rose from the dead, he has the power to resurrect any of us, all of us, to a new and better life.   It means that, when we have the chance to perpetuate gossip, we don’t, and instead pray for all involved.  It means we believe in the power of God’s grace to change things.  It means we rise above because Christ rose above it all. 

Tommy Edison, that blind movie critic, was once asked if he could see any color at all.  He laughed and said, “Well, no, because I am blind!”  “But,” he explained, “I can see light and dark.  I can enter a room and know if the sun is shining through the windows or not.  I can detect the presence or absence of light.”

Perhaps that’s what it means to be blinded by grace, to only see the presence or absence of light, and not all the other distractions.  Where is there light?  Places of hope, of forgiveness, of friendship and community?  How can we lift that up and celebrate it? 

Where is there darkness?  Places of hatred, violence, bitterness and greed?  How can we bring light there, or at least open the shutters a little?

This brings to mind one of my favorite poems, one you’ve surely heard: “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night,” by Dylan Thomas.  A poem that reminds us, like Paul does, to rage against the dying of the light.

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.


Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,


Do not go gentle into that good night.


Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


And you, my father, there on that sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.


Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


In the name of the Creator who first spoke light into the world, the Redeemer who blazed beyond death raising us with him, and the Spirit who enflames even the darkest heart with eternal grace, Amen.