I preached this sermon at St. Lydia's on Sunday, February 5 as part of our exploration of the book of John. The text is John 9:1-41; read it here.
As a kid, I had a real thing for the movie The Sound of Music, starring Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer.
This will tell you something about the kind of child I was.
I watched the movie a lot. Now, if you you’ve seen it, you may remember a certain song, sung by Julie Andrews after Christopher Plummer confesses his love for her, his nanny, who not only sits far below him on the social ladder, but is also, you know, going to be a nun pretty soon.
Anyway, she sings this song called, “I must have done something good.” And it’s all very romantic and I remember as a kid being very taken in by it, until one day when my mother, who must have been nearby in the in the kitchen, blurted out, “Oh God, I hate this song.”
“Why?” I asked.
And she said, “It’s bad theology.”
This will tell you something about the kind of house I grew up in.
The premise of the song, “I Must Have Done Something Good,” is that because such a truly wonderful thing has happened to Julie Andrews, (namely, Christopher Plummer falling deeply and madly in love with her) she must have at some point in her life done something good, so as to deserve it.
They lyrics, which, after my mother’s outburst did indeed seem a little bit weirdo, go like this:
Perhaps I had a wicked childhood
Perhaps I had a miserable youth
But somewhere in my wicked, miserable past
There must have been a moment of truth.
For here you are, standing there, loving me
Whether or not you should
So somewhere in my youth or childhood
I must have done something good.
It’s a world view that assumes that God is mercilessly fair, doling out rewards to those who “do something good,” and punishment to those who have done something “not so good,” like a cosmic accountant balancing a column of figures.
You can easily play it backwards, too, arriving at the understanding that if something goes wrong in our lives, like an illness, a lost job, or a death, we must have done something bad. And then it gets dangerous, as we read punishments and fault into hurricanes, earthquakes, epidemics.
It’s a notion that is strangely self centered: assuming that the world revolves around US and our actions. Each blessing or hardship we experience can be traced back, with the simplicity of unwinding a mathematical formula, to it’s source, which always has something to do with US.
Who sinned, the disciples ask Jesus.
This man or his parents?
Who did something bad that he ended up like this?
Jesus’ response?
No one.
Who sinned?
Who is the sinner?
It’s a question that this story repeatedly asks,
the words “sin” and “sinner”
coming up again and again in the text.
The words are pointed at each character in turn,
like an accusatory finger.
Who is the sinner?
Is it this blind man?
Or was it his parents?
Is is Jesus, who breaks the law on the Sabbath?
The Pharisees are the ones asking all the questions,
scurrying to interview the characters involved,
fastidiously checking the books,
adding up figures,
making accusations.
For them,
life is a simple equation,
and the goal is perfection -- to avoid mistakes.
They witness a miracle,
a teacher who touches a man
and heals him,
and see only that he has broken a rule.
With a vigor that has come to define them,
they begin their calculations.
The math is stable and predictable.
But a man who was blind, now able to see?
Well, there is nothing predicable about that.
Try as they might to keep their eyes focused on the paper,
to carry the one and move the decimal point,
there is a question that begins moving within them:
Surely, the query,
Surely, we are not blind...
Are we?
Even they seem unconvinced by their own math,
though they’ve double checked all their work.
They’re beginning to feel that perhaps they’re working on the wrong problem.
Or maybe, just maybe,
this doesn’t have anything to do with math.
Maybe they’ve been asking the wrong questions.
Teacher, who sinned, this man or his parents?
No one, Jesus answers.
Neither this man nor his parents sinned.
he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.
The question is not about math.
It’s not about rules.
It’s not about fault and it’s not about blame.
It’s not about something that might have been
if only we had tried harder,
done more,
been different.
These are questions that go no where.
And in fact, in the end, what we’re talking about is not a question at all.
It’s a voice.
It’s a voice that you hear,
faintly and far off
through a thick haze of blindness.
It’s a voice that, though distant at first,
soon cuts through the night like a knife.
It’s a voice that knows you for who you are,
every corner of your being,
the part of you that longs to respond,
and the part of you that cringes away in fear.
It’s a voice and then it’s a touch:
a salve for that part of you
that you secret away in hiding.
That wounded, vulnerable piece of you
that is so badly in need of healing.
It’s a touch and then it’s a command,
to go and wash,
and immerse yourself in the one who has been sent to save you,
the one who has stooped low to find you where you are,
not because you deserve it,
and not because you earned it,
but simply because you are loved.
There are no ledger books,
no cosmic tally sheets,
no carried ones or decimals.
There are no points.
There is no earning it, no deserving it,
no paying for all that you are not.
There is only what you are already:
a creature through whom God’s works are revealed.
Yes Emily! I love The Sound of Music and Julie Andrews too but your sermon is much more true and beautiful. Thanks for sharing.
Posted by: www.google.com/accounts/o8/id?id=AItOawnqMenTs2IKMq_zJc5QUTp9ofwKd921o_8 | 02/11/2012 at 03:18 PM