Lent 4, Year A

"Oh, the comfort — the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person — having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together; certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then, with the breath of kindness, blow the rest away”, It was a quote from Dinah Craik, a 19th century novelist and poet. Well before Lent began, one of my facebook friends posted the quote along with three words of her own, “I want this.” Yes, who wouldn’t want this?

This kind of comfort of feeling safe with a person stands in odd contrast with the events in today’s gospel reading from John 9. It is an unusually long reading. What is even more unusual is that Jesus is not there for most of it. Jesus says he’s the light of the world, and then performs a miracle out of dirt and spit, and then exits the scene. The focus of the rest of the scene is on a man who simply tells the truth.

The man who was born blind and can now see becomes the target of a long series of repeated questions. John tells us his neighbors kept asking him, "Then how were your eyes opened?" He answered, "The man called Jesus made mud, spread it on my eyes, and said to me, `Go to Siloam and wash.' Then I went and washed and received my sight." They said to him, "Where is he?" He said, "I do not know." The man tells the truth about his experience with Jesus, and he tells the truth about what he does not know about Jesus. Then the man is brought before the Pharisees. The Pharisees also began to ask him how he had received his sight. He said to them, "He put mud on my eyes. Then I washed, and now I see." Again he tells the truth about his experience. The Pharisees debate the healing on the Sabbath, and debate whether Jesus is a sinner. They ask the man, “What do you say about him? It was your eyes he opened." He said, "He is a prophet." Then the Pharisees begin the series of questions to the man’s parents, which his parents answer truthfully. Then the Pharisees go back to the man and talk to him about Jesus by announcing, “We know this man was a sinner.” Again the man tells the truth about what he has experienced and tells the truth about what he does not know: He answered, "I do not know whether he is a sinner. One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see." They said to him, "What did he do to you? How did he open your eyes?" He answered them, "I have told you already, and you would not listen. Why do you want to hear it again? Do you also want to become his disciples?" Then they reviled him, saying, "You are his disciple, but we are disciples of Moses. We know that God has spoken to Moses, but as for this man, we do not know where he comes from." The man answered, "Here is an astonishing thing! You do not know where he comes from, and yet he opened my eyes. We know that God does not listen to sinners, but he does listen to one who worships him and obeys his will. Never since the world began has it been heard that anyone opened the eyes of a person born blind. If this man were not from God, he could do nothing." They answered him, "You were born entirely in sins, and are you trying to teach us?" And they drove him out.

He is a very appealing guy, this man who just keeps telling the truth, no matter what. He just keeps telling the truth over and over, no matter how many people don’t believe him, no matter how alone he is, no matter how hostile the reaction. And the reaction is hostile; it moves inevitably toward the holier-than-thou condemnation: “You were born entirely in sins, and are you trying to teach us?” Still, he holds on to the truth of his experience of God no matter how much people condemn him for it. His experience of God is like seeing. Once you’ve seen something, you can’t unsee it. Once you’ve felt the freedom that comes from telling the truth, you can’t go back to lies anymore.

That’s why it takes only one truth-teller to destabilize this entire system. As with any dysfunctional system, when one member of the family starts to get healthy and starts to tell the truth, that is seen as a huge threat that must be squelched, shamed, or silenced. The Pharisees try each of these methods to get the truthteller to change his story, or to submit to their “authority.” They tell him that because he is a sinner his experience of God cannot possibly be genuine: "You were born entirely in sins, and are you trying to teach us?" And, as John’s gospel puts it, “they drove him out.”

He has experienced a God who operates outside the rules they think God must follow. Jesus healed this man on the Sabbath, and he experienced it, and he told the truth about what he knew, and he told the truth about what he didn’t know. He kept on telling the truth despite all the people pressuring him to do otherwise; he kept on telling the truth even when they drove him out.

And then we come to these beautiful verses: Jesus heard that they had driven him out, and when he found him, he said, "Do you believe in the Son of Man?" He answered, "And who is he, sir? Tell me, so that I may believe in him." Jesus said to him, "You have seen him, and the one speaking with you is he." He said, "Lord, I believe." And he worshipped him. Jesus’ miracle of making the blind man see is a great thing, certainly. But the emotional and spiritual intensity of the story isn’t in the big crowd scene, it isn’t with his neighbors or his parents or the Pharisees, it’s here in this quiet close-up of the two men. The man who tells the truth, and Jesus who tells the truth. So gently that we might not even notice it, John tells us, “Jesus heard that they had driven him out, and when Jesus found him…” “…when Jesus found him…”

He is a man who can see, and a man who tells the truth. And so he is a man who knows the truth when he sees it, and in this quiet conversation he believes in Jesus. Truth-tellers often find each other, and often recognize each other, and often find God and are found by him in moments a lot like this one. The Pharisees don’t know what they’re missing.

Telling the truth is a hard topic to have a conversation about. If you’re having a discussion on telling the truth, someone will inevitably say that there are times when it’s better to tell a little white lie and then go on to give examples that seem very innocent and reasonable. And granted, there are always situations in which someone will use “telling the truth” as an excuse to be mean or insulting, or as an excuse to violate confidentiality, or as an excuse to make us all feel awkward about hearing Too Much Information.

In discussions of lying, people will always chime in with “it’s okay to tell a lie when…” The little white lies do seem pretty innocent and reasonable most of the time. We claim that our small lies make other people feel better. But I wonder how often our lies are really altruistic and how often their real purpose is to make the other person like us better. That’s the source of most of the little lies I have told in my life, as well as the semi-dishonest exaggerations and evasions. And if you think that a priest should not tell a lie, you are right, and you have also just proved my next point: that all of us can make a strong case for why it is okay for us to tell little lies in various situations, but being lied to is something we really do not like. We can have those long discussions about when it is or is not okay to lie, but Jesus has already given us the best standard: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” If you wouldn’t want someone to lie to you that way, don’t lie that way to someone else.

It does seem like the little lies make relationships easier, make people feel better, make people like us more, and so, people tell me, it’s okay to lie sometimes. But then people complain to their priests and their bartenders that their friends are superficial and their spouses don’t understand them and their children seem so distant. Is there a connection here? We tell little lies about ourselves, and then we wonder why people don’t understand us. We tell little lies about the people we love, and then we wonder why the closeness fades. We tell little lies to make people like us better, and even if we succeed, we find that the person people like is a fictional character with our name. We become so accustomed to these little lies that they creep into our relationship with God, and even our prayers are attempts to make ourselves seem better than we are. We are afraid that telling the truth will get in the way of good relationships. Then we read a quote that says, "Oh, the comfort — the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person — having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together; certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away” And we think, “I want that.” We want the comfort of telling the truth.

We want to make people like us. But really we can’t make people like us. What we can do is tell the truth. When we tell the truth, the people who like us will find us. We’re all tempted to try to make Jesus like us. But even with all our good behavior, we can’t make Jesus like us. When we tell the truth, Jesus will find us.

The quote is a description of friendship, but it is also one of the best descriptions I’ve heard of personal prayer: “Oh, the comfort — the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe… — having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together; certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away” The forgiveness of sins: God with the breath of kindness blowing the rest away.

It is a statement of faith to say to God, “I want that.” It is the good news of the gospel that God says to you, “you have it.”