Phil Kniss: Resurrection...ready or not

April 24, 2011 -- Easter Sunday

Matthew 28:1-10

Watch the video:

...or listen to audio:

Podcast Powered By Podbean

...or download a printer-friendly PDF file: click here

...or read it online here:

What a wonderful, joyful, celebration

of resurrection life we’ve been having today.

It started at the stroke of midnight this morning,

when those of here waiting in Vigil last night,

were filled with joy and wonder

as the season of Lent gave way to the season of Easter,

as the darkness in this room was transformed to light,

and the shadows suddenly filled with bright color,

and the high songs of praise began.

The Lenten season for quiet penitence and suppressing alleluias is over,

Today we sing “Alleluia” with utter abandon.

A few years ago on Easter Sunday, I counted, ahead of time,

the number of times we would sing or say the word “Alleluia”

including the great Hallelujah Chorus we end with.

It was 98—just two short of a hundred Alleluias!

So in my sermon I had us all say two more alleluias,

in unison, just so we could hit 100.

This year? No worries!

We’re already over the top.

Even before the Hallelujah Chorus,

we will have said or sung 153 Alleluias.

If you want to count the Hallelujah Chorus, be my guest!

Friends in Christ, the season of fasting is now over.

It’s time for feasting!

And time for drinking freshly home-roasted coffee again.

I don’t think I ever enjoyed my morning ritual

of hand-grinding and French-press-brewing

a perfect cup of coffee

as I did this morning, after 40 days without it.

I was so ready for that cup of coffee.

After 40 days of your own Lenten fast,

whatever form it may have taken,

you are probably, along with me, so ready for Easter.

After a long, cold, wet, on-and-off-again winter,

we are all so ready for spring and sunshine and gardening.

A number of you have lost loved ones in recent days or weeks.

Or are facing irreversible illness,

or other life-draining experiences of suffering and loss.

In your journeys of grief, and of physical or spiritual suffering,

you are, no doubt, so ready for an Easter-like transformation.

No matter what the source or degree of emptiness—

from the minor self-imposed fasts that some of us undertook,

to the deepest of loss and grief that some of you had thrust upon you,

we are ready to see the fasting end and the feasting begin.

We are so-o-o-o-o ready for resurrection!

But are we really?

Are we really ready for Easter?

I mean, do we really want to know what’s coming next,

now that the tomb has been burst open?

Do we really want to be a part of it?

We’d better think twice.

If Easter was only about celebrating life,

lifting our spirits in joy, and singing alleluia,

then of course we’re ready . . .

In this wounded world,

we’re always ready for something that brings joy.

But if Easter means what I think it means—

we’d better think again.

If Easter means opening up a whole new horizon in life,

If Easter means throwing open the gates to a world

where God is turning everything on its head,

If Easter means letting go of a world

where we are familiar with the terrain,

where we know the contours—

Then maybe we better think twice

before we claim to be ready for Easter.

_____________________

Julia Esquivel, a Guatemalan woman who was both poet and theologian,

wrote a poem entitled, “Threatened with Resurrection.”

The poem inspired Parker Palmer to write about his own hesitation

to fully embrace resurrection.

Palmer recognized something in himself.

Maybe we can identify.

Sometimes, he wrote, he fears life itself,

he fears the movement toward new life,

more than he fears death in its various forms.

To illustrate, he told a joke from a Woody Allen movie,

where a man went to see a psychiatrist,

and complained that his brother-in-law, who lived with them,

thought he was a chicken.

He said, “My brother-in-law cackles, he pecks at the rug,

he builds nests in the corners.”

Psychiatrist said, “Bring him in, I think I can cure him.”

The man says, “Oh, no, Doc. We don’t want that.

We need the eggs.”

Sometimes, Palmer commented, our little pathologies, our illusions,

are actually useful to us in some way, so we cling to them.

We need the eggs.

He also referenced another story,

an ancient tale about the apostle Peter.

Legend has it that Peter walked up to a blind beggar,

crouched in the dust by the city gate.

Peter put his hands over the blind man’s eyes, and said,

“In the name of the resurrected Christ, may your sight be restored!”

Immediately the healed blind man jumped up, eyes wide open,

his face full of anger, and screamed at Peter,

“You fool! You have destroyed my way of making a living!”

Whereupon he gouged out his own eyes, and collapsed into the dust.

That legend may be hard to believe,

but the kernel of truth it reveals about us,

might ring true, even if we don’t want to believe it.

We may suffer from blindness,

but at least we know how to “make a living” from it.

The idea of doing away with our blindness,

and seeing more fully and completely,

can be threatening to life as we know it.

Jesus’ resurrection puts us to the test.

It tests our willingness to move into new territory,

to live a larger life than the one we are so familiar with.

Our blindness is no fun, of course.

Illusions are not something we aspire to.

But at least we’ve gotten familiar with them.

We know what to expect.

Resurrection forces us out of our comfortable home turf,

and onto a whole new terrain.

You know, all the Gospel stories about Jesus’ resurrection,

tell about the fear of those who witnessed it.

In today’s Easter story from Matthew 28,

not only did the Roman guards faint dead away,

the two Marys who came to the tomb were also struck with fear.

The angel had to comfort them, I suppose, to keep them from fainting.

“Do not be afraid;

I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified.

He is not here; for he has been raised.”

Then the angel gave them more news,

and instructed them to tell the rest of the disciples

that Jesus was going ahead of them to Galilee,

and would soon make an appearance to them.

So what did they do?

They “left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy.”

With fear and great joy.

Yes, you can be afraid and joyful at the same time.

If anything can do that to you, resurrection can.

Then Jesus himself met them on their way.

And upon his greeting,

they fell to the ground, taking hold of him,

and Jesus, like the angel, said to them,

“Do not be afraid . . . do not be afraid.”

In Jesus’ presence they were again, no doubt,

filled with fear and great joy.

Joy . . . because they knew that there was something

inherently good and marvelous and life-affirming

about seeing Jesus standing there in front of them.

But fear . . . because they could only glimpse how much

their lives were about to turn upside down,

and take them places they knew nothing about.

In his book, Parker Palmer asked, (and I quote)

“If I lived as if resurrection were real,

and allowed myself to die for the sake of new life,

what might I be called upon to do?

What strange and difficult tasks might be laid upon me?

What comforts taken away?

How might my life be changed?”

Believing the resurrection is only the beginning.

God invites us to live a resurrection life.

In the Easter story in John 20,

it tells how Peter and John went to see the empty tomb . . .

and believed.

They believed. And then they turned around and went back home.

Looking, I imagine, for some semblance of normal.

I wonder whether we are ready to do more.

The Risen Lord Jesus Christ,

asks us to lay down our own agenda,

and take the risk of walking into new life.

And along with that invitation, Christ makes a promise:

I will walk with you.

I will never leave or forsake you.

You can trust me.

This invitation to a resurrection life,

is not only for us personally, as individual Easter disciples.

The church is invited to be an Easter community.

As a church we are called to live a kind of life

that often stands in stark contrast to the world around us,

that refuses to define life on the world’s terms.

That’s not easy to do.

The culture around us is in the business of peddling illusions.

Telling us we “need the eggs.”

Trying to sell us all manner of little “deaths,”

claiming they are life.

Easter turns the world’s notion of life upside down.

It threatens the egg business.

It threatens our blindness.

Resurrection life is a threat to life as we know it.

It’s a threat we are called to walk toward, to embrace.

But what a joyful, exhilarating, thrilling threat that is.

Julia Esquivel, the Guatemalan who wrote the poem

“Threatened by Resurrection,” described resurrection this way:

“There is something here within us

Which doesn’t let us sleep, which doesn’t let us rest,

Which doesn’t stop pounding deep inside.”

If the thought of being resurrection people,

can keep us awake at night, heart pounding,

we might on the right track.

May God give us courage.

May God give us grace.

Alleluia! Alleluia!

—Phil Kniss, April 23, 2011

[To leave a comment, click on "comments" link below and write your comment in the box. When finished, click on "Other" as your identity, and type in your real name. Then click "Publish your comment."]

Phil Kniss: Tilted Toward Christ

April 17, 2011 -- Palm Sunday

Matthew 21:1-11, Philippians 2:5-11, Isaiah 50:4- 9a, Psalm 31:9-16

Watch the video:

...or listen to audio:

Podcast Powered By Podbean

...or download a printer-friendly PDF file: click here

...or read it online here:

It seems to me,

whenever we write about Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem,

we should put quotation marks around the word “triumphal.”

And whenever we speak the word we should use air quotes.

(“Triumphal” entry)

This scene that unfolds in the Gospel of Matthew chapter 21,

could only be seen as “triumphal” in some larger, cosmic sense,

and only well after the fact.

At that time, on the ground, this “triumphal” entry

had to be one of Jesus’ most discouraging public acts,

and for the people, as it unfolded,

one of Jesus’ most disappointing and disillusioning public acts.

It was the beginning of what felt like Jesus’ betrayal of the people.

Over the centuries, we have spiritualized this story,

and focused on one small part of it—

that is, the people’s ecstatic, beautiful, and unhindered praise

of the God who saves: “Hosanna to the Son of David!”

“Praise to God in the highest heavens, the God who saves us!”

And it’s right and good that we remember and celebrate this part.

That glory given to God by the people,

and the glory we are called to give today,

are indeed beautiful to behold,

and a worthy offering of praise to the God who still

is the God who saves.

“Hosanna” should still, today, be our heart-cry,

as we long for God to work in this broken world.

“Hosanna in the highest heavens! God, save us all!”

So let’s keep waving our palms!

But let’s also not forget the complete Gospel story.

This parade into Jerusalem, you need to understand,

was not just a happy celebration for Jesus, the much-loved rabbi.

They weren’t following him with palm branches and song

because he was kind to children and healed people

and told interesting stories.

That could have been part of it.

But this march into Jerusalem was a political march.

No question about it.

The crowds were openly chanting Messiah language

straight from the prophets and psalms.

“Hosanna . . . save us . . . Son of David!”

Jesus, they believed, was the long-awaited Messiah to deliver them

from the foreign oppressors.

They thought Jesus was on his way to storm Herod’s palace

where he would throw out the Romans,

and take over the throne of David,

and they would be a free and independent people,

once and for all.

They truly believed this.

Never mind the fact he was riding a donkey,

and had no army with him.

For someone who had turned water to wine,

and a bag lunch into a banquet for thousands . . .

For someone who cured people born blind,

made the lame walk,

and raised the dead . . .

They had no trouble believing he could also walk right into

the palace and make Herod’s army fall to their knees,

if that’s what he wanted to do.

There was going to be a blood-less coup.

He was a miracle-worker and he was their Messiah,

their Savior from the Romans.

“Hosanna . . . save us . . . Son of David!”

_____________________

In recent weeks, on CNN and every news outlet in the world,

we’ve watched scenes unfold in the middle east,

that, while they are certainly different in many ways,

also bear some uncanny resemblance to this parade of palms.

Think about it.

The elements of the Gospel story almost mirror

the story that unfolded in Egypt a couple months ago.

In both stories, we have

the oppressed people

the brutal regime

the passionate hope for deliverance

the public demonstration

the dancing in the streets

the noisy celebration.

There are stark differences, of course,

in the use of violent force for instance.

I’m not suggesting that these revolutions in the Middle East

are somehow the triumphal entry revisited.

I’m only pointing out that this passionate and emotional longing

for freedom from oppression

that we see demonstrated over and over around the world today,

is exactly the kind of longing expressed by the people

who hailed Jesus as their savior-deliverer.

It is exactly the same. It is the emotional equivalent.

We need to understand this,

if we are to understand this whole Gospel story.

Because when we grasp it,

it makes perfect sense why the people turned on Jesus

at the end of that awful week.

It makes perfect sense why no doubt the same persons

shouting “Hosanna, hosanna” at the beginning of the week,

were shouting “Crucify, crucify” at the end of the week.

Because Jesus let them down . . . utterly.

Upon entering the city, he did not storm Herod’s palace.

In fact, he didn’t even seem interested in the palace.

He went directly to the temple,

and started unleashing his righteous anger not against Herod,

but against his own people,

who were profiting commercially from the worship of God.

We didn’t read that far in today’s Gospel passage.

We stopped at verse 11, with the hosannas ringing in our ears.

Now listen to verses 12 and 13.

“Then Jesus entered the temple and drove out all who were selling and buying in the temple, and he overturned the tables of the money changers and the seats of those who sold doves. He said to them, “It is written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer’; but you are making it a den of robbers.”

It’s not to say Jesus didn’t care about Herod and Caesar.

I’m sure he had deep feelings about Roman oppression.

But Jesus had an even deeper concern.

His own people were losing their way.

It wasn’t just Rome that kept them from living full and free.

They were doing it to themselves.

They had forgotten what it meant to love and serve God

with their whole heart, soul, mind, and strength,

and to love their neighbor as themselves.

Their faith and Jewish identity could thrive,

even under the most brutal outside oppression.

But it wouldn’t stand a chance if they destroyed it themselves.

They were not treating each other with justice and compassion.

The wealthy were taking advantage of the poor.

The widows and orphans were not being cared for.

Those who had position and power were abusing it,

including, inside the very walls of the temple.

In the name of worship, money-changers were

making a profit off the less fortunate.

Jesus’ own people were a people divided.

Lost without a shepherd, Jesus observed, with tears,

as he looked over the city.

They were a people who lost sight of who they were,

a people too confused about their identity

to realize their biggest problem wasn’t Rome.

So Jesus, with the kingdom of God on his mind, and in his heart,

walked into his people’s Holy Place in their Holy City

and confronted his own people with the truth

they didn’t want to hear.

He knew full well what this confrontation would cost him.

It would cost him his overwhelming popularity with the people.

It would cost him the loyalty of even his closest disciples.

It would cost him his life.

In a matter of days, Jesus went from exaltation to humiliation,

from fullness to emptiness.

And his did so resolutely.

Knowing precisely that’s what he was doing.

Even in the face of everyone around him

trying to remake him into someone else,

he didn’t lose focus.

As today’s epistle reading from Philippians says,

Jesus, “though he was in the form of God . . .

emptied himself, taking the form of a slave . . .

he humbled himself

and became obedient to the point of death,

even death on a cross.”

Amazing, but we are called to do the same.

As a church, we are called to have the same attitude as Jesus.

Verse 5 of Philippians 2, in the New Revised Standard, says,

“Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus.”

I love the NRSV translation, almost all the time.

But with this verse, they could have done better.

Makes it sound like I, as an individual,

have to somehow get Jesus’ brain inside my brain,

so that I can think like Jesus thinks.

As if I, individually, can think my way into faithful living.

That’s not at all what the original text intends.

First of all, the “you” is plural, not singular.

Paul is talking to the church, as church, as community.

Secondly, the word translated “mind” isn’t really about thinking at all.

It’s about our attitude, our orientation, our leaning, our tilt.

So when Paul writes “let the same mind be in you that was in Christ,”

he’s literally saying,

you all, as a church community, must be tilted toward Christ.

I did a little word study on this word the NRSV translates “mind.”

I learned some interesting things.

The original word, “phro-NE-o” can include thinking,

but it’s about so much more than thought.

It includes “care, regard, feeling, affection.”

It refers to an “underlying disposition.”

Perhaps the closest word is “attitude.”

And “attitude” means a lot more than the mood you’re in.

You might know attitude is a term in geometry.

It refers to the angle of a certain line or object,

in relation to some other line of reference.

When an airplane is flying, it’s angle, in relation to the horizon,

is called its attitude.

In other words, tilt.

I think that sheds some light on how to read Philippians 2.

We, as a church, as a community of the Kingdom,

are called to assume a certain attitude, a tilt toward Christ.

We are called to orient ourselves, as Christ is oriented.

We are called to lean in the direction Christ leans.

When Jesus entered Jerusalem at the beginning of that fateful week

he had a decided tilt.

He was tilted toward the Kingdom of God,

the kingdom of justice and peace and healing

and blessing for all peoples.

As much as the people wanted him to tilt their direction

and become a political savior,

As much as the religious leaders wanted him to tilt their direction

and become a supporter of their institutional interests,

As much as Rome wanted him to tilt their direction

and calm down any revolutionary talk,

As much as everyone else wanted Jesus to tilt in the direction

that would serve their own interests,

Jesus was tilted toward the Kingdom of God.

Jesus was oriented toward, was inclined toward,

had the attitude of, the Kingdom of God.

That’s the kind of clarity, in the face of resistance,

that gets people into trouble.

That’s what put Jesus on the cross.

It was his deep, unstoppable love and compassion for his lost people,

when others obsessed over other concerns,

legitimate though they were.

For Jesus, there was only one thing.

And we are called to same kind of clarity.

To be willing to empty ourselves, as servants of God,

as the church of Jesus Christ.

We are called to have the attitude of Christ.

To be tilted toward Christ,

wherever it might lead.

And for that matter, we do have a clue where it might lead.

We know where this tilt took Jesus.

And we are, today, beginning a week-long journey

of remembering and re-enacting the consequences

that Jesus suffered from assuming his particular tilt.

And by so doing, we are reminding ourselves

that it’s our journey, also.

No, more than likely, we are not personally

headed toward public execution for our faith.

Although some in this world are still taken in that direction.

But we can expect resistance,

even strong and powerful and coercive resistance,

when we as a people . . . tilt toward Christ.

We don’t necessarily know from where that resistance will come.

It may come from external outright enemies and adversaries.

It may well come from within ourselves.

There are powers at work whose aims look appealing,

but are contrary to the Kingdom of God.

We must be alert to those powers that would have us align ourselves

with the cultural values of wealth and possessions and

and pleasure and personal security at any cost.

And instead assume the attitude of Jesus who humbled himself,

willing to lay himself empty and bare

for the sake of the Kingdom, and

for the sake of the one who called him.

This week, with the apostle, let us resolve to empty ourselves,

to lay down our agenda,

to reorient our lives toward the person and priorities of Christ,

to tilt, together, toward Christ.

We may look odd, over against our culture,

when we assume this kind of tilt,

but we’re in very good company.

God’s people have always met with resistance—

Hebrew patriarchs and matriarchs,

early Christians,

nearly all the reform movements since then, including Anabaptists,

and Christians today who stand up to oppressive powers.

Being tilted toward Christ is never the path of least resistance.

So let’s reflect on what that might mean for us.

Reflect, in silence, in scripture, in song.

I invite us to take the Hymnal Worship Book, and turn to #550,

“Living and Dying with Jesus”

This is a hymn that comes out of recent context, that of Croatia,

where being tilted toward Christ had life and death consequences.

It’s good for us to remember what this kind of tilt can mean,

even today.

When you’ve found the hymn,

lay the book in your lap and take your bulletin order of worship,

opening it to the scripture response printed there.

As we begin our journey into Holy Week,

I’m going to read some more of the lectionary scriptures of the day,

from Isaiah 50 and Psalm 31

scriptures that remind us of the direction this week is heading.

These aren’t the kind of scriptures we usually seek out to read . . .

but they are the scriptures we need to hear occasionally.

And this week is one of those occasions.

So let’s sit in silence just a moment,

then listen to the scripture, concluding with the response printed,

then sing together this song of faith and hope.

[silence . . . then read . . .]

(from Isaiah 50:4-9)

The Lord God has given me the tongue of a teacher,

that I may know how to sustain the weary with a word.

The Lord God has opened my ear, and I was not rebellious,

I did not turn backward.

I gave my back to those who struck me,

and my cheeks to those who pulled out the beard;

I did not hide my face from insult and spitting.

The Lord God helps me;

therefore I have not been disgraced;

therefore I have set my face like flint,

and I know that I shall not be put to shame;

he who vindicates me is near.

Who will contend with me?

Who are my adversaries?

Let them confront me.

It is the Lord God who helps me . . .

(from Psalm 31:9-16)

Be gracious to us, O LORD, for we are in distress;

our eyes waste away from grief,

our souls and bodies also.

For our lives are spent with sorrow,

and our years with sighing;

our strength fails because of our miseries,

and our bones waste away.

We are the scorn of all our adversaries,

a horror to our neighbors,

objects of dread to our acquaintances;

those who see us in the street flee . . .

Leader: But we trust in you, O Lord;

We say, “You are our God.”

All: Our times are in your hand;

deliver us from the hands of our adversaries.

Leader: Let your face shine upon your servants;

All: save us in your steadfast love.

—Phil Kniss, April 17, 2011

[To leave a comment, click on "comments" link below and write your comment in the box. When finished, click on "Other" as your identity, and type in your real name. Then click "Publish your comment."]

Barbara Moyer Lehman: Bones, breath, life, hope

April 10, 2011 -- Lent 5

Ezekiel 37:1-14; John 11:1-45

Watch the video:

...or listen to audio:

Podcast Powered By Podbean

On the Fifth Sunday in Lent, Pastor Barbara Moyer Lehman proclaims the good news that with the Spirit, there is the possibility of new life, even in bones long dead and dry.

[To leave a comment, click on "comments" link below and write your comment in the box. When finished, click on "Other" as your identity, and type in your real name. Then click "Publish your comment."]

Michael King: When Our Story Is Bigger than the Teachings

April 3, 2011 -- Lent 4

John 9:1-41

Watch the video:

...or listen to audio:

Podcast Powered By Podbean

...or download a printer-friendly PDF file: click here

...or read it online here:

The story of the man born blind is also the story of people blinded by their own teachings. Again and again as Jesus’ encounter with the blind man unfolds, we see that his literal blindness is paralleled by the spiritual blindness of many in his faith community. The story invites us to ask what in our own teachings, our own doctrines, our own understandings or practices of faith, may be precisely what prevents instead of allows our seeing God.

Before pursuing that question, let’s look more closely at the story. The first blindness we encounter is that of the man. As Jesus was walking, we learn, he sees this “man blind from birth.”

Immediately we’re told of a second blindness, which is that of the disciples. When they see the man, they ask, “Rabbi, who sinned, the man or his parents, that he was born blind?” What blinds the disciples is their belief, an orthodoxy of their day, that sin must be the cause of any such affliction.

Then as soon as Jesus heals the blind man, we meet a third type of blind person, this time the religious leaders. What they see is that lots of their favorite teachings or practices have been violated. They see that a man who had to have sinned, otherwise he couldn’t have been blind, is involved in a miracle. This can’t be right. They see that the miracle has been done on the sabbath. This has to be wrong.

Since they can find no way to make all this hang together, they decide the man couldn’t have been blind in the first place. Aiming to confirm that it’s all a hoax, they ask the man’s neighbors and then parents.

The parents don’t have a clue what’s going on. But at least they dare to see that something has really happened, rather than trying, with the religious leaders, to change reality itself to fit their beliefs. This is what they say: “We know that this is our son, and that he was born blind; but we do not know how it is that now he sees, nor do we know who opened his eyes. Ask him; he is of age. He will speak for himself.”

They are also, the text explains, just plain protecting themselves. This is a time when if people disagree with the leaders, if they claim to have found a way to salvation different than the leaders insist on, they can quickly find themselves excommunicated. So the cautious parents do their best both to tell the truth about their son and to avoid telling it in such a way as to inflame the leaders.

Of all the people in the story, the parents are probably most like many of us. Many of us just kind of muddle along, just try to get along, just try to avoid lying about what we see or telling the truth about it so boldly that we get in trouble. We’re not the religious leaders, who care more about their doctrines than about the real sufferings and miracles of real life and so shut their eyes when something challenges their pet views.

But neither are we the blind man, the only one so aware of being blind that he truly longs to see. After Jesus had finished saying he was the light of the world, “he spat on the ground and made mud with the saliva and spread the mud on the man’s eyes.”

We’d probably flinch from the down-and-dirty treatment, the paste of spit and dirt, the blind man accepts to find healing. But this is what Jesus does, in an act hinting at God’s creating of humans from the dust, and the blind man obeys when Jesus orders, “‘Go, wash in the pool of Siloam (which means sent).’ Then he went and washed and came back able to see.”

His neighbors and acquaintances can’t make heads nor tails of this, any more than could we. Imagine our reaction if someone we knew to be blind showed up seeing, then claimed it was the doing of this guy who rubbed on spit and mud.

The religious leaders step in to straighten everything out, to make clear that this man’s story must be wrong. They practically torture him into recanting. Listen as they order him to turn against Jesus:

”Give glory to God! We know that this man is a sinner.” He answered, “I do not know whether he is a sinner. One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see.” They said to him, “What did he do to you? How did he open your eyes?” He answered them, “I have told you already, and you would not listen.”

What stands out here is the contrast between two approaches. The leaders make reality fit the truth they think they already know. Their doctrines become for them more important than real life.

The man has no clear doctrine anymore. He’s mostly mystified. He can’t fathom what has happened to him. He can’t even be sure whether Jesus is or isn’t a sinner. He’s sure of only two things: first, once he was blind but now he can see. Second, he was healed by this man Jesus.

Now eventually his being sure of these two things leads him to affirm even more. Seeing is good; Jesus has done this good thing. How could he have done this good thing if he wasn’t from God? Therefore he must be from God and not a sinner.

Imagine the impudence. Born blind and a beggar. Now he dares to share the insights his experience has given him. The leaders will have none of it. “‘You were born entirely in sin, and are you trying to teach us?’ And they drove him out.”

Notice that right to the end nothing gets through to the leaders. They don’t care if God himself comes down and tells them they’re blind. If he does, it’s clear who’s wrong: God just doesn’t get it. What’s startling is to realize that according to John, this is what has just happened. God himself has come through Jesus and the leaders have preferred to think themselves rather than God the true seers.

Now in another time, in relation to another text, I’d preach the need for accountability to truths larger than our own, to teachings of the church, and against relying only on personal experience. In our individualistic era that sermon is often one we urgently need. Yet this particular text pulls me and us, I believe, another direction. This story alerts us to the dangers of loving our community’s doctrines even when they go against our personal experience.

This text invites us at least for today to stop being the timid parents who see that something big has happened to their son but who aren’t about to say so much it gets them kicked out. This account gives us permission to be the son—and to ask where the doctrines are blind and where our life experiences give us eyes to see.

If I dare be a seminary dean for a moment, I’m reminded here of the fact that as dean I’ve developed several leadership themes, areas of emphasis it may be productive for me to keep in view at EMS in times ahead. One theme I’ve called “transforming the shadows” and described as:

fostering through the content of studies and the spirit within which seminary life unfolds a fierce love for the church able to celebrate that the church is the real body of Christ and also is ever shadowed by failures and fallibilities; shadows named rather than suppressed can become, through the saving grace of God in Christ, sources of transformation grounded in authenticity rather than causing unacknowledged subversion of stated values and commitments (Luke 7:36-50).

For me, transforming the shadows includes seeing life as it really is, whether it fits our teachings or not, rather than being so committed to this or that teaching that we can only see what’s there if it fits the teaching and just plain can’t even see reality if to see it would clash with doctrines we may love more than truth itself.

So think about it. In what messy, spit-and-mud ways have you and I found healing we wouldn’t dare share in church? When we hear anyone including me preach, what things do we hear that are just too shiny, too pious, too far removed from our own mucked-up way of being touched by Jesus to ring true?

We do all have blind spots; none of us can see raw reality without bending it one way or another. So we do all need the church to help us perceive what we can’t see for ourselves. There is a time to submit to the gathered community’s larger vision. But this story warns us that religious leaders then or now, seminary deans not least, can get it just plain wrong, even willfully and horrifyingly wrong.

So how do the leaders and their followers risk having it wrong now? What do you see that they, that I, don’t see? What do you see that the church doesn’t see? For today trust your own sight, not only the church’s, and see what you see. Then, in whatever ways God calls you to, come back. Even if it doesn’t fit the church’s usual understandings, come back to report how you’ve seen Jesus and what Jesus, the son of God, has done for you.

[To leave a comment, click on "comments" link below and write your comment in the box. When finished, click on "Other" as your identity, and type in your real name. Then click "Publish your comment."]