My children will never know a world in which the Internet doesn’t
fit in the palm of your hands.
I never knew a world in which the moon was out of reach.
My parents never knew a world in which telephones were nowhere
to be found.
My grandparents never knew a world in which automobiles were
outnumbered by horse-pulled carts.
We’ve changed a lot in the past hundred years. We’ve changed
even more in the past thousand. And, in the two-thousand years since Jesus
walked the earth, we’ve changed so much I doubt he would even recognize the
world we live in. But don’t fool yourself into thinking that everything is
different.
This Sunday’s gospel lesson (John 9:1-41) is a story about
sin. Jesus and his disciples walk past a man whom John reckons as “blind from
birth,” and the disciples ask, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents,
that he was born blind?” If you’re preaching this week and are tempted to say, “We’ve
learned a lot since then,” I beg you not to. For the sake of your congregation,
don’t relegate this born-blind-means-someone-sinned mindset to the past. It’s
still as prevalent today as it was two-thousand years ago.
For starters, let’s stop and realize that Jesus lived in a
time when most people had moved past a cause-and-effect understanding of sin
and divine judgment. Sure, there were the crazies who stood on the street
corner and said, “If you don’t repent of your sin, God’s going to send his
judgment upon you.” Sound familiar? Yes, Fred Phelps of Westboro Baptist Church
has recently died, but there will always be someone to pick up his ungodly
cause. But most faithful people in Jesus’ day had figured out that people aren’t
born blind because their parents sinned. The religion of the day—“post-exilic
second-temple Judaism” to use an overly complicated term—wasn’t built on the
premise that we’d better do right or else God’s gonna get us. Instead, being
faithful was about showing up at the appointed times, remembering the story of
God’s people, structuring one’s life around the mandates of the faith, and
living in right relationship with God and neighbor.
But still people ask the question, don’t they? In this
story, it’s the disciples. Or, put another way, the disciples ask the question
that all of us—ALL of us—ask when we encounter an inexplicable tragedy: “What
caused this to happen?” We want cause and effect. And, when we can’t find it,
we use the divine calculus of sin and punishment to explain it. Katrina and New
Orleans—the only people I’ve heard attribute the disaster to divine judgment
are the same people who’d rather use the Old Testament than the Weather Channel
for the ten-day outlook. A child born with a serious disability—most of us
understand that even unfortunate genetic mutation is a part of life, but those
who won’t acknowledge the role of DNA in life are the ones who talk about blindness
as a punishment for sin. The more we understand about how the world works the
easier it is for us to let go of a need to ascribe tragedy to sin and judgment.
But still there will be unanswered questions.
If we don’t understand something, we go looking for an
answer. God is that which can never be fully understood or comprehended. God is
infinite. And that means God is as good a target for the things we can’t
explain as anything else. But the people in the pews don’t need to hear how far
we’ve come—that we don’t look at a child born blind and ask who sinned. Because
we do. We still do it. Maybe not with someone else’s blindness-from-birth but
in whatever other ways hit us personally. Cancer. Car wrecks. Divorce. Famine.
Floods. When we’re in the midst of a tragedy bigger than our rational capacity
for explanation, we jump to the level of things we don’t understand. Dear
preacher, help us understand that it’s not our sin that has brought these
things upon us. That’s not how God works. The disciples’ question is our
question. The Pharisees’ question is our question. We need to be reminded of
the answer even though we already know what the answer is.
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