based on John 9:1-41 for the fourth Sunday in Lent

Earlier last week, with students, we ended up talking about theodicy. That big theological question: Why does God allow bad things to happen? But as the conversation unfolded, we started noticing something underneath the question itself. Because frankly… it’s not a very good question.

The question assumes a few things right from the start.
First, it assumes a kind of cosmic “sky-daddy” God who is actively controlling every single event in the universe. Many of us simply don’t see God that way. Second, it quietly assumes that when bad things happen there must be some explanation that fits a tidy moral system. Maybe someone sinned. Maybe God is punishing someone. Maybe God just doesn’t care.

Do you see how the question itself limits the world we’re allowed to imagine? It narrows how we think about God before the conversation even begins. And that is exactly what happens in the Gospel reading today.

When the besties (aka, the disciples) see a man who was born blind, they ask Jesus, “Who sinned? This man or his parents?” Notice what they’re doing. This isn’t really curiosity. It’s control. Another way of saying the same thing might have been: “Jesus, please confirm our current world view is correct."

But Jesus refuses the premise. Neither the man nor his parents sinned, he says. And then, instead of launching into a theological lecture, Jesus engages in magical creation: he kneels down and makes some mud.

Mud. Messy, sticky mud. Not even with just water, no, this time with spit. Regardless of the element that made the dirt into mud, we've now got mud-- the  very same stuff Genesis tells us God used to create the first human, the Adam.

Soil. Water. Breath. The ingredients of creation. And here they are again, right in front of everyone. No lofty theological debate. No philosophical defense of God. Just this nice little grouping of mud, a couple humans, and a good ol' rinse off in the local pool.

It’s almost as if Jesus said, “Well shucks… looks like the original pair didn’t quite come out right. Would you like me to fashion you a new set? Go on over and rinse them off, and see how these work for you.”

Creation story, happening again. God’s kingdom coming near through earth, water, consent, and action between two people.

Meanwhile… Everyone else is missing the entire show, in favor of intellectual debate and argument. “I was blind, and now I see” simply was not enough for these people. Instead, the neighbors argue about whether this is even the same man. The religious leaders interrogate him. His parents panic.

This man’s body becomes a battleground for everyone else’s ideas about how the world is supposed to work. The whole scene gets embarrassingly close to the logic we still hear today: “Well… what was she wearing?” You know, the kinds of questions we tend to ask when we'd rather assign blame and preserve the status quo, than face reality.

Every authority figure in this story keeps asking questions that reveal their preferred world view and attempts at control:

“How can a sinful man be from God?”
“Is this really your son?”
“Was he really born blind?”

They’re not looking at what is here and now. They’re trying to force this moment back into their tidy set of intellectualized preferences about how the world is supposed to work.

An excellent way to remain in power.

Systems of power stay in power by controlling the narrative, controlling what counts as truth, and controlling what we understand as reality. The less connected to our bodies we are, the easier it becomes to push ourselves into performing all kinds of oppressive and damaging acts.

Meanwhile, the formerly blind man sticks to his lived experience with a simple statement:

“I was blind. Now I see.” ...

Now, we are living in a pretty muddy moment ourselves (full transparency: have we ever not been living in a pretty muddy moment?).

And just to be clear: I’m saying muddy, not blind. Many people in the blind community rightly point out that blindness is not a good metaphor for ignorance or misunderstanding. So let’s not go there.

Mud is messy material. Mud doesn't stay contained really well. Mud spreads around one way or another. Gets under fingernails, ruins the Sunday best, etc.

But-- mud is also the material of creation. It's the stuff of the Kingdom of Heaven come near. Mud is not an intellectual argument about God- mud is the stuff God used to create us in God's image.. and then took on himself, incarnate in the body of Jesus.

And that's an important thing that's easily lost in this story John gives us. The kingdom of heaven doesn’t arrive through perfect theological explanations that check out. It arrives through spit, mud, collaboration between a couple people, and a rinse-off.

And in this whole story, only two people seem to recognize that this is the case-- and those two people also happen to be the only two people who had their hands in the mud: Jesus. And the unnamed formerly blind man.

The world will keep asking the wrong questions. The wrong questions are excellent tools for leading us away from where we need to be. They are perfect for helping to keep the status quo, to preserve those authoritarian and violent images of God that so easily keep us primed to pay that violence forward. 

But here, the author of John, through Jesus, shows us something else. The kingdom of God breaks through in a way that is absurdly accessible. Not through spirals of vast and winding intellectual argument (And do not get me wrong. I identify strongly with process theology, flirt with radical theology, and happily bathe in affect theory writing by folks like Brian Massumi and Erin Manning. I love a good intellectual spiral.). But-- what we see in this story is that the kingdom of God come near manifests through simple, humble participation. By joining Jesus in the mud, along with the rest of creation, getting ourselves dirty in the messy work of healing right here, right now.
Amen.

- Pr. Sam

Folks who were here in person on Sunday had a bit of mud painted on the back of their hand at the start of the sermon. Perhaps you would appreciate an opportunity to play in the mud, and pay attention to how it feels:

Reflection Practice

Place some mud on your hand(s).
Take a moment to notice what it feels like to carry the dust of creation on your skin. Feel it drying and cracking. Also notice how it doesn't stay put very well- it has a way of smearing about.
Consider where Christ might be inviting you to join the work of healing in this very muddy world, and how that might also smear about and bring others into the work.

Wash it off when you're ready. Some of the people at University Lutheran kept it on clear through to snack time after worship!

Based on Matthew 17:1-9 | Transfiguration Sunday
The Choir sang this stellar arrangement of of Brightest and Best for this service, at my request. So, this sermon is in part referencing the lyrics in this arrangement, and the season of Epiphany as a whole.

So! This is it. THIS is the end of Epiphany. Jesus telling his besties not to say anything about what they saw.
Shhhhh. It’s a secret?

It feels a little opposite of epiphanic, doesn’t it? It also feels a little bit like Jesus is in “do as I say, not as I do” mode. Last week he’s telling people not to hide their light under bushel baskets, and this week he’s keeping secrets...

Believe it or not, there’s a sensibility and a throughline to what we’ve been walking through since a couple Sundays after Christmas. (That’s the one where we heard about Jesus being baptized.)

On that Sunday, we talked about repentance as a turning point. We noticed that Jesus himself was at a turning point toward justice. And in that moment, he received a little back pat from God: “This is my Son, with him I am well pleased.” We even remembered our own baptisms that day, getting our hands wet and blessing one another.

Then, for the next two weeks, we heard two different versions of Jesus collecting his besties. One version was “Come and see.” The other was “Follow me.” We talked about the simplicity of those words, and how checking in with one another and actually listening can be an incredible way to walk in the way of Jesus.

THEN we heard the Beatitudes. Not commands. Not corrections. Just recognition of what is. Blessed are you. As you are. Right now.

If you were here in person at University Lutheran, you had an opportunity to listened to one another and even write beatitudes for each other. Another reminder of what walking in the way of Jesus looks and feels like.

And finally, last week, we talked about Salt. And Light. About refusing to be diluted or diffused. About not losing our roots in favor of the comfort of oppressive systems. About living so rooted in who God made you to be that your you-ness becomes a living fulfillment of the law, which is to love one another as Jesus loves us.

That’s the road we’ve been on. You can see how it all works together, centering us, funneling us toward becoming exactly who God made us to be, discovering our collective power within that imago-dei-ness.

And now we reach another turning point: Matthew 17.

Jesus climbs a mountain with three of his besties. He’s been telling them that if he sticks to this path, it’s going to cost him his life. They are not thrilled about this plot development.

And then, suddenly, he is radiant. Dazzling. You’ve never seen a more fabulous queen! This is not a costume change. Not added sparkle. It is Jesus more fully revealed. So rooted in his saltiness and light, so integrated in the joys and sorrows of his humanity, that he is literally glowing.

And it totally freaks out his friends. In the most human ways possible, they say, “This is amazing! Let’s commemorate it. Build tents. Freeze the moment. Institutionalize the glow.”

Can you blame them? When something is that clarifying, that beautiful, that undeniable, don’t we instinctively try to hold on to it? But it also all kinda freaks them out-- and suddenly they are also on the ground, in the dust and the dirt. Hiding their faces. We've got our contradictory cloud: Bright and shadowy at the same time. And the voice: “Listen to him.” Jesus tells them not to be afraid. And then they all head back down the mountain. 

Simple, right?

:) 

Some people say what happened up there is proof of Jesus’ divinity. Others suggest Moses and Elijah were there as a comforting reminder that everything would be okay, kind of like loved ones appearing to us in dreams. At the very least, Moses and Elijah do represent the law and the prophets, the fullness of Israel’s story converging in Jesus.

But what I see is this: A Jesus who has been living with integrity and courage comes to another turning point. Parallel to his baptism. He chooses, again, to commit to love above all else, no matter the cost. And he gets another back pat, similar to the baptismal back pat: “This is my beloved Son. Listen to him.”

Have you ever been around someone so clear about who they are and what they’re called to do that they glow? Maybe not constantly, but in moments for sure.

Maybe you’ve experienced that yourself. A moment of clarity. A moment of being unencumbered and fully yourself. A moment when God felt unmistakably near and you were both entirely present and somehow transcending yourself and the moment?

Those experiences orient us like stars. They help us keep moving. They also help us appreciate the beauty of blackness, of the dark, of mystery itself. A star, light of any kind, does not eliminate the shadows. If anything, it makes the surrounding mystery more noticeable.

Jesus’ glow-up does the same. It reveals that being our most real, salty, light-bearing selves involves accepting joy and sorrow together. Love and loss. Radiance and grief.

Another way to put it: Jesus’ glow-up, that miraculous turn and dedication to love 
and only love no matter what the cost is God showing us--in a visceral way-- that there is nothing we’re going to do to fully prepare ourselves or even stand in the way of joy or sorrow,

AND it is within that very acceptance and vulnerability of reality that we find our greatest power, right alongside Jesus.

Betrayal. Suffering. Confusion. Grief. Sadness. Joy. Laughter. Peace. All of it stays. Even God Incarnate, Jesus the Christ says yes to all of it.

And the glow? The glimmer? The epiphanic illumination? That's not about escape or exception. It's a sign of confirmation.

• Confirmation that we are being who God called us to be.
• Confirmation that we are not losing our roots.
• Confirmation that we are choosing the way of Jesus as best we can.

It is also a warning.

• Don’t build monuments to the mountaintop.
• Don’t get stuck trying to preserve the glory days.
• Don’t let fear or the desire to control lead the way.

The radiance is not the destination, though it is a nice experience along the way.

So, here we are, headed into Lent.

Ash Wednesday is at hand, Lent is basically here. Smudged foreheads. Honest reckonings. Practices that strip us down to what is real are all coming for us. And, though it might seem counterintuitive... We might say that those three they’re the brightest, and best— 

Three little stars of the mourning. Not m-o-r-n-i-n-g... but m-o-u-r-n-i-n-g. Headed down, into a new season with Jesus, figuring out how to accept what Jesus has already come to accept: the highs and the lows. 

There’s secrecy, because these three don’t yet understand that the glory and the power and the radiance (Jesus’ or theirs) isn’t in the mountaintop— it’s in the cross.

Brightest and best are the stars in their mourning,
Dances in the darkness, and strengthening might
Star in the east, a horizon adorning...
Hearts finding guidance to cross, and their call...


----------------
Join Us as We Enter Lent
Sunday Worship During Lent: 10 am (email me for the Zoom link if you can't join in person)
Holy Week Services (Palm Sunday through Easter)

University Lutheran Church
Palo Alto | Near Stanford University
A welcoming, LGBTQ-affirming Christian community