When the man born blind receives sight from Jesus, his world is irreversibly changed, but not his isolation from his community. Jesus Christ draws close to him (even when no one else does), transforms him for new life, and sends him into the world to bear light.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The fourth Sunday in Lent, year A
Text: John 9:1-41

Beloved community, wherever you are at this moment, may the peace of Christ be yours.

What a time it is to hear this story from John’s Gospel. To hear about Jesus’ curative touch, when we are being told to stay 6 feet away from one another. To hear about an experience of physical restoration, when we are facing a pervasive virus and rising death tolls.

And yet there is so much in this ancient story that feels so relevant right now. This is a story about a man miraculously receiving sight, but it is also a story about stigma, judgment, fear, and isolation. The unnamed man at the center of this story had been blind since birth. His physical difference had always set him apart from others in his community. His whole life, he had been navigating a society that was set up for sighted people. He had been forced to beg in order to get by. This man already knew what it was to be isolated, and then this whole incident with Jesus happens.

Jesus gives him sight for the first time, but somehow this actually isolates him even more. People had been publicly accusing this man of being sinful because of his blindness, but even after he receives sight, they continue to accuse him of being sinful, because of his association with Jesus. His parents are so afraid of stigma that they won’t stand up for him. His neighbors are so caught up in their own bias that they don’t even recognize him, this person they’ve walked by how many times before. But they’ve only seen him as his blindness; they’ve only seen him as his begging. His community might have the literal, physical ability to see, but they certainly seem to lack the ability to see him as a person. They may have the literal, physical ability to hear, but they lack the ability to really listen to what he tells them. No one seems to hear him when he answers their incessant questions about what has happened to him.

In the end, their fear and judgment get the better of them, and they drive him out of the community. This man was isolated when he was blind. And he’s isolated when he can see.

He’s isolated, but he’s not alone, because Jesus meets him where he is.

While others pontificate about whose sin is responsible for this man’s condition, Jesus outright rejects all this moral condemnation and praises this man’s embodiment of God’s glory, just as he is. While others ignore and reject this man, Jesus reaches out to touch him, to put healing hands on him, even when the Sabbath laws forbid such action. While others distance themselves from this man, Jesus draws close to him. And when Jesus hears that the man has been isolated completely, driven out of the community, he goes out to find him. Everyone else questioned this man’s experience: Why were you blind? Who gave you sight? How did it happen? But Jesus simply asks him: Do you trust me? [The Greek word often translated “to believe” also means “to trust.”]

This man doesn’t have all the answers – actually, he repeatedly admits how much he does not know [see vv 12, 25, and 35.] But what he does know is his own experience. He knows that Jesus has changed him, and he knows that Jesus is trustworthy. When Jesus finds him in isolation, he says simply “Lord, I trust you.”

And that’s no small thing. Consider how significantly his life has been upended since he encountered Jesus.

Imagine what a radical change it would be to suddenly have a new sense that you’d never had before. This man is seeing everything for the very first time. That must have been confusing, overwhelming, and terrifying. The life he knew is gone, and now he is living in a completely different way. This new life will open up possibilities for him, and he seems grateful for his sense of sight. But, still, the loss that this transformation entails for him is unavoidable. He has lost the world he’d lived in since birth. His relationships with his family, his neighbors, his religious community have been damaged, perhaps permanently. And it is clear that declaring his faith in Jesus puts him at odds with both the Jewish officials and the Roman imperial powers.

Stating that he believes in Jesus is an enormous leap of faith. He takes that leap because he has encountered the light of the world – who could not be changed by that?

The pool where Jesus commanded him to wash was called Siloam, which means “sent,” and that is his fate now. He is “sent” into the world as bearer of the same light he has encountered in Christ. He can’t go back to the life he had before; he can only forward into the life God has called him into. Even when the way forward is difficult, grief-filled, or lonely. The God he trusts will go with him every step of the way, and the testimony he bears about how he has been changed will bring glory to God.

Beloved ones, know that this is true for you as well. When you are sent into a world so radically different than the one you have known, know that God goes with you; know that the testimony of your life, just as it is, is a treasure to God. These are times filled with fear, filled with questions, but you don’t have to have answers or explanations. Trust that your experience will be a reminder that Christ will meet you where you are, even in your isolation.

The light of the world shines even in the darkest of times. May it shine within you, around you, and through you.
Amen.

In the Transfiguration encounter, the disciples see Jesus in a new light. They already know Jesus is the Son of God, but on the mountaintop they experience that reality in a way that leaves them spiritually transformed and strengthened for the darkness that lies ahead.

Vicar Bristol Reading
Transfiguration of Our Lord, year A
Texts: 2 Peter 1:16-21; Matthew 17:1-9

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

For the Apollo astronauts on missions to the moon, one of the most transformative experiences was actually looking back at the earth. Seeing their own planet from tens of thousands of miles away was so moving that many of them spoke about it for years after. Eugene Cernan, one of the Apollo 17 crew members, put it this way: “What I was seeing, and even more important what I was feeling at that moment in time, science and technology had no answers for.” He used the words spiritual, dynamic, beautiful, and overwhelming. He wasn’t the only one to describe the experience of seeing earth from space as a mystical one. Apollo 14’s Edgar Mitchell said he had felt an ecstatic sense of oneness and connectedness. He called it an epiphany.[1]

Of course, the astronauts knew, before they ever went to space, what the planet was like. They knew that earth was round, that it was mostly water, that it was covered in a swirling atmosphere. Still, the experience of actually witnessing it was nothing short of a revelation. A radical change in perspective allowed them to see something they already knew in a way that left them transformed. It wasn’t about facts; they already knew the facts. It was about feeling. And they carried that feeling with them, even after they returned to earth’s surface, searching for words to convey what they’d witnessed.

Do you think that’s how Peter, James, and John felt after experiencing the transfiguration of Jesus? They’d seen a sight that was certainly spiritual, dynamic, beautiful, and overwhelming, a sight that was hard to put into words. They’d had an epiphany – literally –the light of divine power shining into the physical world. Matthew tells us that Jesus face and clothes blazed like the sun, the whole mountain was shrouded in a bright cloud, and the voice of God proclaimed: “Jesus is my beloved son. Listen to him.”

Now, the disciples already knew this. They have already seen and heard that Jesus is the Son of God. These are his closest followers, after all. They’ve seen him heal the sick, and still storms, and multiply fish, and walk on water! John the Baptist had certainly mentioned that Jesus was the Son of God.[2] Even exorcised demons admitted that Jesus was the son of God.[3] And Jesus himself had said as much to these same disciples, telling them, “All things have been handed over to be my by father, and no one knows the father except the Son.”[4] In fact, only days before the transfiguration, Jesus had asked Peter directly, “Who do you say that I am?” and Peter had said, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”[5] The disciples already understood that Jesus was the Son of God.

But it is one thing to know a theological truth; it is another thing entirely to have God Almighty declare it to you directly while blinding you with light on the top of a mountain. Jesus is shining like a beacon, and the ghosts of prophets past have shown up to chat with him. The disciples seem relatively okay with all of that; Peter is ready with a religiously appropriate response. But then the voice of God thunders “Listen!” and they are simply overcome. They find that they can’t even stand in the face of this epiphany.

They’re seeing the teacher and friend they know so well in a whole new light. Here, right in front of them, is the incarnate Word, Emmanuel, Son of God, love’s pure light, touching them, lifting them up, and comforting them. “Do not be afraid,” Jesus says. That is the word of God that needs to be listened to: “Do not be afraid.”

The disciples have been brought to their knees by this moment, but they need to get up, get going, get down the mountain, and get back to the work of proclaiming and living the Gospel. And they will need courage and strength to do so. This moment has changed them. We say that it is Jesus who was transfigured, but the disciples also have been transformed. And undoubtedly they will carry this experience with them into everything that is to come.

Jesus tells them not to talk about it for now, but perhaps they would have struggled to find adequate words anyway. How do you describe an epiphany? How do you express something that is beyond language? These disciples have been “eyewitnesses to Christ’s majesty,” as 2 Peter says, and they will hold onto that memory like a lamp shining in the dark.[6]

And it will get dark. They will need this reminder of the light, this reminder to not be afraid.

The transfiguration reaches back to the incarnation, to the light of Christ coming into the world as a tiny baby: Jesus, a human being, fully radiating God’s glory, the finite somehow containing the infinite. But the transfiguration also reaches toward the Passion, toward the cross, when darkness presses in on the light of Christ from all sides, threatening to swallow the light whole.

Jesus has told the disciples that he will face suffering and death, but they have been adamantly resistant. Peter actually confronts Jesus at one point when Jesus says he must be killed.  Peter pulls him aside and says: “God forbid it! This must never happen to you!”[7] But it will happen to him. And, even then, even on the cross, the light of Christ will still be fully radiating God’s glory. The light will not ever be overpowered, even by death.

But that will be hard to see and understand for those living through it, like Peter. The disciples will need the memory of this mountaintop encounter to reorient them in the confusing and grief-filled times to come.

You are about to take that journey to the cross with them. This is the end of the season of Epiphany, and we move now into the season of Lent. And perhaps you, too, will need this light to carry into the dark. The light is a gift that is meant to sustain you when the path is filled with sorrow and pain; to bring you courage when your fear has brought you to your knees; to give you strength when you need get back up and get back to the work of living the Gospel.

Even if you know, theologically, that Jesus is the Son of God, you may still need to come back to this mountaintop so you can feel it. In your heart, in your spirit, in your bones.

You do not have to make sense of every spiritual encounter with the living God. You do not have to come up with a religiously appropriate response. You do not have to find the right words to explain what it means to you. Sometimes it is enough simply to be present to it, to be awed by it, and to treasure God’s word of loving comfort: Don’t be afraid. The light is there even when it’s hard to see, and the darkness will never, ever overcome it.

Amen.

[1] To read more about these astronaut quotes, see Hendrik Hertzberg, “Moon Shots (3 of 3): Lunar Epiphanies,” The New Yorker, August 12, 2008, https://www.newyorker.com/news/hendrik-hertzberg/moon-shots-3-of-3-lunar-epiphanies.
[2] John 1:34
[3] Matthew 8:29
[4] Matthew 11:27
[5] Matthew 16:16
[6] 2 Peter 1:19
[7] Matthew 16:22

When we “come and see” what Jesus is about, we are drawn into the transformative fellowship of being the Body of Christ and we are called to shine the light of God’s reconciling love throughout the earth.

Vicar Bristol Reading
Second Sunday after Epiphany, year A
Texts: Isaiah 49:1-7, 1 Corinthians 1:1-9, John 1:29-42

In the Gospel of John, the first words we hear from Jesus are a question: “What are you looking for?”

Jesus asks this of some curious onlookers who have been following him. They’re disciples of John the Baptist. While John seems completely confident that Jesus is the Messiah, the two disciples aren’t sure yet. That’s why they’re looking. They’re watching Jesus to see what all the fuss is about. John has said that Jesus is Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world, that Jesus can baptize with not just water but with the very spirit of God. Understandably, that’s something that these followers want to see! So, they trail behind Jesus, and they watch. And Jesus turns and confronts them with this question: “What are you looking for?”

It seems a little obvious, doesn’t it? They’re looking for… him. They’re looking for some kind of evidence that he’s the Messiah John claims he is. But the question “what are you looking for” goes beyond sight: it is a question about seeking. It is about what is perceived with the heart, not the eyes. Jesus is asking, “What are you hoping to find? What is your soul longing for?”

The disciples answer Jesus with a question of their own, “Where are you staying?” and he says simply, “Come and see.” Instead of dismissing them or scolding them, Jesus welcomes and invites them. “You’re looking for me? Well, come and see. Come and stay a while.” So they do. The text says the two “remain” with Jesus for a time.

And whatever they saw while they were with him, whatever they heard, whatever they felt… was transformative. When they first met Jesus, the two respectfully called him “Rabbi,” teacher. But after spending time in Jesus’ presence, they call him “Christ,” Messiah. Coming into relationship with the Jesus changes them. Not because they find facts or gather proof, but because they personally experience relationship with the incarnate God.

This moment doesn’t just change them, it convicts and motivates them. They leave from this time with Jesus eager to share what they’ve experienced and invite others to do the same: “We’ve found the Messiah – come and see!” They tell friends, they tell family: “Come and see for yourself. Come and experience personal connection with this savior.” So the relationship that is at the heart of this story isn’t only about the relationship between these two potential disciples and Jesus;  it’s also about relationship within community.

These two people are only here getting to know Jesus in the first place because they trusted their leader, John the Baptist. John had a relationship with them, and his testimony convinced them to come and see Jesus for themselves. And then their testimony convinces others. Like a ripple effect, the circle grows wider and wider.

This has always been an important part of the church’s story: sharing how your relationship with Christ has changed you welcomes others into relationship with Christ themselves. And staying in that relationship with one other continues to change you, and draw you even closer to God.

This is why Paul talks about the community of Christ followers as a body, interdependent and interconnected, a body that lives and breathes and moves as a collection of all its parts. God has called you into fellowship, Paul writes to the Corinthians. In other words, God has called you into relationship.

But God’s vision isn’t just for a community of people that are alike, like a sort of club. The circles of those ripples grow and grow. The welcome of God isn’t just about one group of people in one place. Paul writes that there are saints in every place who call on the name of Christ, and they all belong to the same God, like siblings in the same family. In every place”! Just think about that for a moment: The body of Christ is as wide as the whole world! That’s the kind of fellowship you’re called into as a follower of Christ.

If the two disciples in the Gospel story had been listening to John the Baptist, they might have had a glimpse that this is what they were getting themselves into. John said, “This is the lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.” The world. Not the sin of one person, not the sin of one nation, but the sin of the whole world. This Messiah who has come to dwell among us is serious about reconciling all of creation to God.

Anyone who wants to come and see what Jesus is about is going to be called into that same work of expansive reconciliation. Those who would be servants of God are called to be a light to the nations, as Isaiah says, in order that God’s saving love might shine to the very ends of the earth. This doesn’t mean being a coercive or oppressive presence in the world. Scripture says this light is given to the world by God. It is meant to be a gift, not a harm.

Those who would be servants of God are called into fellowship, into intentional community amidst diversity. That means doing the hard work of staying in relationship, which requires practicing forgiveness and reconciliation. It means healing and serving; it means breaking down barriers and building up community.

When you come into relationship with Christ, you can’t stay the same; you can’t only live for yourself, because you’re transformed, and you become part of the body. Other parts of the body depend on you, and you depend on them. Things will get difficult and there will be conflict, but you are also given this promise: God doesn’t leave you alone in this task.

Listen to what Paul says happens to those who come into the body: “In every way you have been enriched in Christ. You are not lacking in any spiritual gift.” Let these words be a reminder that you have been equipped and strengthened to be the community of Christ, to grow in fellowship. You have been equipped and strengthened to be a beacon of God’s love in the world. You have everything you need because God has given it to you, so you can be a gift to others.

And God knows something about being in relationship because God is relationship. God is Trinity, three-in-one.

If we take the incarnation seriously, then we know that this Gospel story about Jesus’ invitation to “come and see” shows us something of the face of God. It shows us a God who asks and welcomes questions, a God who celebrates the curious and the seeking, a God who draws all of creation into intimate relationship, a God whose forgiveness knows no boundaries.

But this story also shows us the power of God’s mysterious Spirit. It’s the Spirit’s presence that has John even recognize Jesus as the Messiah to begin with: “I saw the Spirit descending from heaven,” John declares, “and it remained on him.” But Jesus doesn’t keep the life force of Spirit to himself: he gives it away. He baptizes others with its power, and he teachers over and over that God’s Spirit will never leave his followers, even when the physical person of Jesus is no longer with them. The Spirit will live in Christ followers forever: advocating, empowering, comforting, teaching, transforming.

That Spirit is, right now, living in you, as it is in all those diverse members of the beloved Body of Christ, throughout the world, in every place. That Spirit is, right now, equipping and strengthening you to live out God’s mission of radical love and reconciliation. Can you see it in one another? It is like a light in the darkness. Go out and shine that divine light to the ends of the earth.

Amen.

Matthew’s account of Jesus’ birth is a complicated human story that is still tragically relevant in our context. The incarnated God is, and always has been, deeply present in the broken places of our world, and God grieves with us every instance of violence and suffering.

Vicar Bristol Reading
First Sunday of Christmas, Year A
Text: Matthew 2:13-23

Matthew’s Gospel is missing all the familiar, sentimental elements of the Christmas story. In Matthew’s narrative about Jesus’ birth, there are no cattle lowing at the manger-side, no surprised shepherds cuddling their sheep, no glorious angels singing alleluia.

Instead there’s a family of scared refugees and a man driven mad by power.

That man was Herod, a Roman-appointed ruler of Judea, the region where Jesus was born. Herod feared the loss of his authority so much that he was willing to do anything in order to eliminate potential rivals. He’d been told there was a new “king,” born in Bethlehem. But, deceived by the visiting magi, he was unable to clearly identify the newborn Messiah, so Herod ordered the execution of all male babies in Bethlehem who were near Jesus’ age. This may have meant the death of some twenty children, an unnecessary and horrifying tragedy.

The holy family, Joseph, Mary, and Jesus, were warned by God of this coming violence, and fled in the night. They ended up in Egypt, of all places, the land where their ancestors had once been enslaved. And they lived there for a few years, until Herod’s death allowed them to return to their homeland. Even then, it wasn’t safe for them to go back to Judea, so they settled in Galilee, a few days’ travel north.

This is the Christmas story in Matthew: a tyrannical ruler, a traumatized community, and a displaced family. Like so many stories in the Bible, it’s a sad and scary story, and it’s a really human story.

From the perspective of the people experiencing all this, it must have been hard to see the bigger picture, to understand how all of their lives were intertwined, to understand why this was the way God’s salvation came into the world.

Mary and Joseph were just starting figure out how to be a family together, when they were called to follow God’s lead into the unknown. Their fates were caught up with the decisions of the Magi, those foreign strangers who decided to defy Herod, at great risk to themselves, in order to protect the holy family. Jesus did survive Herod’s wrath, but many in the Bethlehem community did not. So the fate of those grieving families, too, was caught up in the events of Jesus’ birth.

And the Gospel writer makes it clear that all of these people were part of the longer arc of Israel’s history. In Matthew’s account, we hear echoes of Rachel, the great Matriarch from whom Jesus is descended, and of Pharaoh and Moses. We hear the voices of the Hebrew prophets who longed for the peace and justice a Messiah would bring – a Messiah who has at last been born in Bethlehem.

Matthew evokes these sacred stories, then weaves them together with the narrative of these first century people. The result is a tangle of human stories and relationships.

And at the center of this complicated mess is God, born as a tiny, vulnerable baby, the light in all the darkness. Jesus, God incarnate, is caught up in all this humanness.

From his birth, Jesus’ life is under threat. The Son of Man has no place to lay his head. Jesus’ human existence is marked by suffering, rejection, and violence, start to finish. This is not a savior who shrinks away from the gritty realities of what it means to be human. Christ will embody divine love as a human person. Throughout his ministry Jesus will be a presence of healing, mercy, and compassion among the people he encounters. He will declare that all people, even enemies, are worthy of love.

That commitment to love will eventually get him killed. Although Jesus escapes death as an infant, he accepts death as an adult. He goes to the cross out of love for all creation, and even as he faces death, his words and actions speak forgiveness in response to violence.

God is in the midst of the whole story of human history, not as the cause of suffering but as one who suffers. This means that you don’t have to wonder whether or not the Creator of the universe understands or cares about your suffering because God has suffered – for you and with you. None of the violence in this human story is God’s intention. God’s dream for creation is one of peace; Christ’s kingdom is not of this world.

Perhaps the hardest part about Matthew’s Christmas narrative is how timeless it is. The horrors of this ancient story are painfully familiar to all chapters of history: tyrannical leaders imposing violent rule on poor people, families becoming refugees to protect their children’s future, the senseless death of innocent people. We know these stories in our time, too.

We are closing out a decade during which authoritarian leaders across the world stage enacted oppressive policies,  millions of people became refugees fleeing from violence, and, in our own nation, hundreds of children were shot in their own schools.

Our wailing and lamentation joins that of Rachel, just as the tears of the Bethlehem community did following Herod’s actions. We grieve every instance of suffering, displacement, and violence.

And we know that God grieves them, too. If our hearts break for these things, we can only imagine how much more God’s heart breaks. God doesn’t look away from the cruelties of our world, but comes to be with us in the most broken of places, and to overcome the greatest darkness with the light of love.

When Matthew says that Rachel is weeping for the children she has lost, he is quoting from the book of Jeremiah. And in the book of Jeremiah, Rachel’s cries do not go unanswered: God hears her and God responds with a word of comfort. “There is hope for your future,” says the Lord (Jeremiah 31:17).

There is hope. God’s reminder is that the grief is not the end of the story: there is a future. When the night seems impossibly dark, there is a dawn of tomorrow yet to come. That doesn’t mean there isn’t incredible pain today; it means that, through God, there is hope to hold on to, always. Loss and death are not the end: that truth is part of the incarnation story, too, because resurrection is part of the incarnation story.

The “why” questions of human suffering, loss, and injustice are still with us, as they have been for generations and generations.

All our human stories – past, present, and future – are tangled up with one another, in ways beyond what we can see from our perspective. And as we see in the incarnated Christ, God is not distant from any of it, but deeply present in all of it.

God’s presence is not an answer to all your questions; God’s presence is a constant in the midst of your questioning. In all the complexities and tragedies of the human story, God is there. Matthew’s story begins with Emmanuel, God become human to be with us, and the Gospel ends with these words, spoken by Jesus: “Remember, I am with you always…”

Amen.