Fourth Sunday in Lent: March 6, 2005.

1 Samuel 16:1-13

Psalm 23

Ephesians 5:8-14

John 9:1-41

First Reading

The initial focus in this account of the anointing of David is not David but Samuel. Samuel continues to grieve over the mess that Saul has become, to the point that Yahweh tells him sternly to take up the accoutrements of his prophetic office and be about the business of anointing Israel's new leader. Samuel goes reluctantly and with the fear that Saul will hear about his treason and pursue him to kill him.

But Samuel does not yet understand what God is up to with the family of Jesse of Bethlehem. Upon arriving, Samuel himself is greeted with fear; the village elders assume that he is the bearer of judgment or difficulty for this poor "suburb" about an hour's march south of Jerusalem. Quite to the contrary, Samuel invites them (and the clan of Jesse in particular) to the sacrifice that God has commanded. But what does a king look like? Conscious of the task for which he has been sent, Samuel keeps watch for the right candidate among the seven sons of Jesse. In the process, he repeats a misconception foreshadowed in 1 Samuel 9, that a king must look like a king (tall, handsome, etc.). Thus, when Samuel sees Eliab, the elder son, he assumes him to be the chosen of God. But Yahweh has a different standard in mind, one that sees to the heart of the person rather than mere outward appearance. The boy David, summoned from his duties with the flock, is the one to be king. Once anointed, the Spirit is poured out upon him from that day forward. David is soon pressed into Saul's service as musician and eventually armor bearer. Samuel returns to Ramah, a town in the hill country of Ephraim, which is his birthplace, residence, and eventually the site of his burial.

Psalm 23 begins in metaphor ("The Lord is my shepherd") and continues as an exposition of that theme. The poetry of the psalm defies complete understanding. We are not able to discern whether or not it is composed as an expression of the liturgical life of the community or as the experience of the spiritual life of the psalmist. It is not clear whether the Hebrew verbs are to be translated in present or future tense, thus it is unclear whether to construe the psalm as a celebration of present reality or a statement of hope for the future. It is, however, a clear confession of confidence in the divine shepherd, borrowing both the royal and the pastoral implications of the metaphor as evident in Israel's history.

Mays (Interpretation: Psalms) suggests that the exposition is "connected to the language of Israel's testimony to its salvation in the exodus." Israel does not lack during its wilderness wanderings. The people are led in paths of righteousness like a flock (Exod 15:13). Israel is given the promise of God's presence and protection throughout their journey. God sets a table of manna and quail and water from the rock before them in the wilderness. And, finally, goodness and loving kindness mark the relationship between God and the people whom God leads into a promised land. Mays further comments that the place of Psalm 23 at Christian funerals is especially appropriate in that it celebrates in words of trust the eschatological reality of eternal life with God in the face of the final enemy who has not yet been destroyed for us. Through the eyes and words of the psalmist, we see what is to come for all the faithful.

The letter of Paul to the Ephesians may, indeed, be a letter written late in the apostle's career to all the churches of the Lycus valley among whom it was widely circulated. Scholars generally date it to the years of Paul's imprisonment in Rome, 61-63 C.E. It is concerned with the mystery of salvation and the supremacy of Christ as well as reconciliation between Jewish and Gentile Christians.

Our particular passage is a part of an exhortation calling the believers to a new life in Christ and is rich with the imagery of light and darkness. Walter Taylor (Augsburg Commentary: Ephesians) suggests that verses 8-14 are part of a response to Paul's warning in verse 6 to beware of those who would deceive the believers with empty arguments that might lead them into the salacious behavior defined in 5:3-5. As baptized believers, they are children of light and meant to reflect the light that is Christ ("you are light in the Lord") to the world around them. Our text closes with what many scholars believe to be a quote from an early Christian hymn celebrating the resurrection, although influenced by Isa 29:19 and Isa 60:1.

The healing of the man born blind continues the pattern we have seen in Jesus' conversations throughout the Gospel--a focus on a symbolic element and an extension of that element around which the evangelist's theological propositions are framed. With Nicodemus it was wind and spirit; for the woman at the well it was water and worship. Here in John 9 it is light and sight ... or, rather, the ability to see clearly the purposes and workings of God.

The disciples see a reason for the man's blindness in the traditional understanding of the relationship between sin and suffering. The neighbors literally do not believe their eyes that this one might be the same man. His parents are blinded by their fears of separation from the community. And the Jewish leadership cannot accept the man's newfound sight without accepting the ability of Jesus to perform such a significant sign. Therefore, they can accept neither. All of them are blind by virtue of their unwillingness to let the light of God in Christ inform and illuminate the miracle that they experienced. In a fitting, if not disturbing, end to the saga, the man who was formerly blind makes the confession of Jesus as Lord even though it means for him that there is no other refuge in this world but the one before whom he falls in worship. Is this indeed the price of our own illumination?

Pastoral Reflection

It starts, I suppose, when we are children, and there is a broken window or trampled flowers or stolen cookies ... and Mom wants to know who did it. "I want an explanation," she demands, and rightfully so. It teaches us responsibility when we have to explain that it was really our little sister who broke the window, trampled the flowers, and ate all the cookies. With a little luck, that's that. The deed is done; the guilty caught and punished; justice is satisfied.

Would that it always worked so easily. But assigning responsibility is generally more complex. The simple justice we long for eludes us. We begin to worry that the line that separates our lives from chaos and unpredictability is dangerously thin. When things go wrong, it's not just about shattered glass; it often means a shattered world. And immediately, almost reflexively, we begin looking for more than an explanation. We look for someone, something, to blame, to take responsibility for the upset of our lives, our hopes, our dreams.

A good example might be the aftermath of September 11. The events of that day tore apart our expectations (our delusions, some would say) about our own security. Immediately folks began pointing fingers, and the likely causes included everything from abortion doctors to Islamic zealots. We've probably all seen the same thing happen in hospitals and at sick beds. If we could only name the disease, we could blame the disease, and we could take some control over it. If we just get an explanation, if we know who to blame, we can assure ourselves that it's someone or something else that's broken and we're going to be OK. The world isn't really as out of control as it seems. Thus our balance is restored, however fragile that balance may be. It's a bit like sweeping the evidence of our brokenness under the rug of our consciousness and choosing to believe that we're still in charge.

That's what the disciples are up to in the Gospel lesson appointed for this day. "Who was it, Jesus? Huh? Who sinned that this man was born blind? His mom, his dad, maybe even he himself before his birth?" And in pointing the finger, or fingering the guilty, we know we're really OK. What Jesus is supposed to do is to say that one or the other did it so we know who is really in trouble, and then go ahead and heal the man just because Jesus is Jesus and he's a nice guy who does stuff like that.

Except that Jesus doesn't do stuff like that. First of all, Jesus refused to indict anyone in this blinding, because it ultimately doesn't matter. The man is blind. That's all there is to it. And if we could identify the crime and the criminal the man wouldn't need a savior; he'd need a lawyer and a judge and enough savvy to save himself. There is no gospel in assigning blame.

Avoiding (or dismissing) the blame game, Jesus simply heals the man. Jesus goes toe to toe with the forces that keep this man born blind from seeing, and Jesus defeats them ... as if the glory of God is evident in the working of grace regardless of who's to blame.

Please note that in these few verses we are given a whole new perspective on dealing with suffering and hurt. Please note that in Christ, accusation is replaced with acceptance and explanation with encounter. You know the old proverb about how when you point your finger accusingly at someone, you're really pointing three fingers back at yourself. Well, here Christ bids us trade that gesture of blame for the outreach of healing, which is just what he does. Christ touches the man's eyes and opens them to sight and to faith. And so Christ touches our hearts with the word of grace and opens us to new life. Jesus invites us to trust that, regardless of the cause of human suffering and sorrow, there is really only one solution: the saving, healing, merciful grace of God in Christ Jesus.

We, the body of Christ, are invited to mimic our Lord--to be the healing, enlightening touch of God in a hurting world. Then, as it was in the life of a man born blind, Christ's glory will be seen, and the man's joy can be shared--at least among those whose eyes are opened to see anew in God. DLN