In Your Light We See Light
A Sermon Preached at the Cathedral Church of St. Mark on the Fourth Sunday in Lent, March 19, 2023 by the Rev. Holly Huff.
Hearing our Old Testament reading today, I’m reminded of Monty Python’s insight that “Strange women lying in ponds distributing swords is no basis for a system of government.” In our reading from 1 Samuel, we see the mildly amusing parade of all of Jesse’s sons one by one in front of the prophet Samuel clutching his horn of oil, to see who the Lord has chosen to be king in place of Saul. Jesse has a lot of sons but after seven have each been presented and turned down—nope, not that this one, nope not that one--Samuel has to ask if Jesse happens to have any other, additional sons. Well, actually, yes, there is the youngest one, comes the answer, but he’s out in the fields watching the sheep. He’s not your guy. But Samuel says, bring him here. And this unlikely kid with great skin is named the heir, the one the Lord has chosen. Thus begins the rise (and fall) of King David, with Samuel learning that “The Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.” It’s a theme across scripture and particularly across the call stories: God’s power is made perfect in weakness and God chooses to work with and through the unlikely and unbecoming: Moses, the murderer with a lisp, is sent to set his people free. Jacob the trickster—which is the nice word for liar—struggles with God and becomes the namesake of all Israel. Mary too young, and Elizabeth too old: each is made fruitful beyond imagining. And so there’s hope for each of us, then, in all our weakness and unlikeliness, because The Lord does not see as mortals see; we look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.
We are so quick to judge. One of the things that keeps us from seeing clearly, the log in our eye blocking our vision, is our certainty that we see rightly, our overconfidence that, having glossed the outward appearance, we know what’s what, we can pronounce judgment. As Carrie our parish administrator used to tell her CCD kids, “There’s only one judge, and he’s not hiring.” God sent his Son into the world not to condemn the world but to save it. To save it and to see it—in Jesus God sees each of us and all creation clearly, with eyes of love, looking on the heart, not judging or dismissing but bringing us slowly slowly to the full flourishing of life we were made for. God’s loving gaze holds us, without condemnation or the judgment we expect.
I still have the remnants of an image of God as the fearsome watcher with the search beam, out to zap me the second I mess up. When I’ve lived under that fearful picture, I’m inclined to hide! To stay safe by staying hidden, fearing the light. “Once you were darkness, but now in the Lord you are light. Live as children of light!” the letter to the Ephesians implores. God is trustworthy—so step into the sunshine, that light of diffuse loving awareness that heals and purifies whatever it touches. God’s unconditional love redeems more than we dare to hope. “Everything exposed by the light becomes visible, for everything that becomes visible is light.” All the parts of ourselves that have been shamed and rejected, the things about ourselves that we’ve deemed unworthy and intolerable—in the light of God’s love these too get woven into the tapestry of our life, every thread where it’s meant to be. Everything is accepted and, being accepted, becomes acceptable. The sun shines on the just and the unjust and in that light it all gets put right. “Sleeper, awake! Rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you!”
Christ will shine on us. “I am the light of the world,” he says, as he opens the eyes of the man who was born blind, making mud with his saliva, spreading it over this man’s eyes, and sending him to wash in the pool. It’s a call back to creation, the spirit hovering over the waters, the separation of earth out of the water. “Let there be light.” In Christ creation is reprised and restored. “It is finished,” Jesus says on the cross, the last words of the first truly human human being. All things are being made new. The man born blind is given his sight: he no longer has to sit on the roadside and beg. Made new. Then, after the myopic discussion about how his eyes were opened and whether it was okay for Jesus to open his eyes on the Sabbath and are we really sure this was the same blind man who use to beg not just a lookalike—this man finds himself on the outside once again, driven out by religious authorities in love with their own certainty, confident in what they see of the outer appearance. The Lord does not see as mortals see; we look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart. Let this be a warning to us Christians—how do we too cruelly leverage our religious institutions and our religious certainties against our neighbors, to retain our artificial sense of the orderliness of the world while utterly missing the miracle right in front of us, and missing too the chance to rejoice with those who are set free and made new? True religion of course is meant to open us up to reality, ever fresh in each moment, unobstructed by preconception and judgment.
And yet this man whose sight was restored is driven out. “I was blind and now I see!”—a likely story. He’s an outcast once again. And Jesus comes to find this man, as he comes to all outsiders, even those unlucky enough to think they’re on the inside—Jesus comes to him in pure, radiant love. Sleeper, awake! Christ will shine on you! The light of the world, the true light that enlightens everyone has come into the world. The son of Man comes to seek out and save the lost. The man asks, “Who is the Son of Man? Tell me that I may believe in him.” And Jesus says, to this one whose eyes he has opened: “You have seen him!”
What do we see, when we see Jesus? Jesus is the face of God for us. The visible image of the invisible God. He is God’s love poured out for us in human form: without reservation, without condition, as free as living water gushing up to eternal life. Jesus shows us the character of God and shows us that God is worthy of trust. “In him there is no darkness at all.” And living as children of light, we can start to let all our judgment and preconceptions, all our shame and hiddenness be swept into the light and made into light, too.
We start to let God open our eyes. What does it mean to see clearly? To look on the heart the way God does? The 23rd psalm is as good an expression you can find of what it is we see when we see clearly, when we look not on outer appearances but with a heart perceptive to the divine light that is always shining, even in the valleys shadowed by death and despair. We see Jesus matching us step for step on every wilderness journey, providing for us in parched places. In the old language on page 476 in the Book of Common Prayer in front of you, if you’d like to follow along. Let’s speak this together.
The LORD is my shepherd; *
I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; *
he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul; *
he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his Name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil; *
for thou art with me;
thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; *
thou anointest my head with oil;
my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, *
and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.
Lord, open our eyes and teach us to see. Show us the way to green pastures and still waters in the midst of affliction; reveal your steadfast presence with us in the valley of the shadow of death. Give us the blessed sight of enemies who have become friends and companions at the banquet table you spread out before us all. And give us by your grace the faith to know that goodness and mercy are always being poured out over us, following us wherever we go.
Sleeper, awake! Rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you.