Making God Manifest—a meditation on the blind man and the beatitudes

“And His disciples asked Him: Rabbi,

who sinned, this man or his parents, that

he was born blind? Jesus answered:

It was not that this man sinned, or his parents;

but that the works of God might be made

manifest in him.”  --John 9:2-3

When we wonder about suffering, whether in the world art large or at our own particular “ill luck,” or insufficiency, we might want to remember that the suffering isn’t our fault, and it isn’t the fault (or the sin) of our parents.  When some pain or lack in our lives gets too hard to handle, we often seek someone to blame.  We look for some kind of explanation; and it often seems easiest to blame a person—make them the villain of our story.  It feels like a curse has come upon us, and someone has to be at fault; either we have brought this on our self, or someone else is the cause. If we blame bad luck, or fate, or “the world,” then in effect we are actually blaming God (whether we are using a big “G” a little “g”).  But, here in this little story, the Lord seems to be telling us that what feels like a curse (or bad luck) may in fact be a kind of blessing.  Even better, an opportunity for a blessing to be shared: for the “works of God to be made manifest” through us.

In my personal Bible study, I am still reading through the Psalms, and in my work Bible study group we are reading Isaiah, and now for Lent I am rereading a wonderful book by the Orthodox writer Jim Forest, The Ladder of the Beatitudes (Orbis Bks.1999). Which (in turn) sent me in search of John's gospel and this story about a man born blind.   (As the psalmist says: “All doers of evil are scattered…” –and boy am I!)

Anyway, as part of his introduction, Forest devotes a brief chapter to this story from John 9 about a man born blind. And because it seems to have nothing to do with the beatitudes, I almost skipped right over it.  I was too eager to get to the whole "tofu and potatoes" of the poverty and mourning and all that "blessed are" stuff… What does this blind guy have to do with beatitudes, anyway?

Aside:  Let me back up a moment here.  Some people are of the opinion that reading is a linear act… i.e. page 1 is followed by page 2 and then 3 and then 4 and so on until the end is reached (or the book is lost on a bus –whichever comes first).  But I (being a librarian) am a professional and have never felt constrained by things like page numbers and chapter order or plot progression.  To my family’s chagrin and frustration (I fear), I often will begin a book somewhere near the middle and read for several pages (or chapters) before going back and picking up pieces of the earlier action (at random).  It is possible this odd habit of reading a book as if it were a cubist painting is a form of literary dementia, or simply a sign of intellectual instability… Nevertheless, it is true, and I thought I should confess it. 

Back to the story at hand:  Instead of skipping the chapter, for some reason I kept reading; and as I did, I had that wonderful exhilarating sense that something of great import was being said; a truth revealed.  Near the end of his brief chapter, Mr. Forest takes a moment to put himself in the place of the blind man.  He imagines sitting in darkness and hearing people talking; they are asking someone questions (about him!). Whose fault it is that he was born blind (him or his parents)? And with some curiosity, he listens to hear what will be said.  But what he hears catches him off guard. It is someone speaking not about fault or sin or blame, but about making the works of the Lord visible.  Forest imagines the blind man’s confusion; how can his blindness have anything to do with the glory of God?  But then something happens.  The voice comes near and a man puts wet clay on his eyes and tells him to go wash it off.  And when he does, suddenly it is true; the work of God is made manifest in all His glory. 

And that is when I started thinking back to that discussion I was having with my wife the other day. Driving home from work, we were trying to remember all the beatitudes, and wondering what Jesus actually meant by these paradoxical teachings; and how we (personally) might find a blessing in each of them.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, blessed are they who mourn, blessed are the meek, blessed those who hunger and thirst for righteousness… blessed are the persecuted…

And we struggled.  How can one find a blessing in poverty? Where is the blessedness in mourning? How does one find good in being persecuted? To be concrete, how is homelessness a blessing? In the moment, in the experience of it, they all feel like crushing weights, disasters even.  Yet, Jesus tells His apostles that the blindness of this man isn’t a punishment or a disaster, but an opportunity for the work of God to be made known.  Thinking about this, I realize that I too was blind.  I was getting to wrapped up in the darkness of my own anxieties (and habits) to see the truth; I was too busy blindly searching for the “right answer,” to let God’s work be made manifest.  Yet, something stopped my heedless rush, someone slowed me down with a little simple discussion of a seemingly unrelated passage from a different gospel (simple as dirt and spit) and opened my eyes: the beatitudes are not just about us, or about our comfort, they are about making the glory of God manifest to the world. They are about creating opportunities for God’s presence to be revealed.  And where does Jesus promise He will always be: in the hungry, in the naked, in the prisoners (the persecuted)…

Take a moment and read John 9, you can read the whole chapter in less than 5 minutes.  Then open Matthew and read the Beatitudes (5:3-12), and spend a little time praying over it with that blind man in mind. (And maybe pick up a copy of Jim Forest's book.) Anyway, that will be part of my Lenten prayer this year and if I am lucky, I may begin to see my life in a whole new light. 

Anyway, that’s my plan. This Lent, I will be contemplating the beatitudes with the help of Jim Forest.  And my hope is that I can learn something about the blessing of poverty, or mourning, of hunger and thirst, of mercy and peace or… perhaps, I will wait a while to ask for that other one…

Lord,

Let me not be blind to Your presence in all

those who hunger, in all who mourn, in all who

feel persecuted, belittled or forgotten. Open my eyes

to Your glory, Your grace, Your love made manifest

in the needs of others. Stir my heart, that I may greet

all those in need with generosity with love and humility.

Amen

Psalm 22 and the witness of the Cross

“My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?”

–Psalm 22:1

The opening line of Psalm 22 is very familiar to Christians everywhere.  It is a line repeated by Jesus from the cross; one of his seven last words.  For a long time now I have known that it comes from a psalm, and perhaps –if asked—could have even told (guessed) you which one; but I wouldn’t have said that it was the opening line.  I didn’t remember that. And this morning as I read Psalm 22 I was struck by the fact that it is the first words of the psalm. And I was intrigued by that. And I began to prayerfully wonder (which is something a lot like contemplation).

When Jesus said this from the cross was He offering or attempting something more than just a personal cry of agony, or prayer?  I wonder.  Was He speaking the psalm simply as a cry to His Father, or was there more to it? Was it also a cry from all humanity trapped in sin?

“Him who knew no sin He made to be sin on our behalf…” (2 Cor 5:21)

Crying out to the Father from the very heart of sin, He uses the words of a psalm—words any devout Jew might have known, been familiar with, and thus invites His witnesses, His friends, those who remained with Him at the cross: Mary (His mother), John (the apostle), Mary, the wife of Clopas, Mary Magdalene, and Mary, the mother of James and Joses… invites them to join Him in prayer.  Think about it.  When someone begins a familiar prayer (the Lord’s prayer, for instance), think how quickly do your lips begin forming the words, unconsciously you find yourself joining in.  I have witnessed unbelievers who know this prayer begin speaking it without thinking because someone else has started it.  The words just comes out. And suddenly a group of people are praying together because one of them started with those familiar eternal words: Our Father…

And so I began to wonder, to contemplate: Did those who remained with Him, at the foot of the cross, did they continue the prayer of that psalm? As His voice failed, as His breath failed, was there a pause and then –realizing what He had said—gazing into His pain—did they continue it for Him? As a comfort to Him? The only consolation they could offer?  Did they pray the psalm for Him? 

Sometimes it is all we can do.  We can’t fix the problem, can’t ease the pain, all we can do is remain and when those we love can no longer even pray for themselves, we can… we can sit by their side, share their burden, and pray their prayers for them.  You will be surprised at what a blessing that can be.  

Him who knew no sin, became sin for us—and through Him, sin itself cried out to Heaven: My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?  Lent is beginning this week; perhaps over these next 40 days we can make some time (once a day, once a week) to still our hearts and join Him in His prayer for us.

What kind of God is this? Thoughts on Job and "the heart of the tempest"

“So, the Lord said to Satan... Did you pay any attention to my servant Job?”

–Job 1:7-8

“Then from the heart of the tempest, the Lord gave Job His answer.”

--Job 38:1

From the heart of the tempest, the Lord gave Job His answer.  Out of the heart of the tempest comes the Lord’s answer.  This feels key.

There are two aspects of the Book of Job that are particularly troubling to me:

1.      What kind of God would do this or allow this to happen to His beloved servant? To anyone? Is He malevolent, or just an underachiever?

2.      The Lord’s response.  What is the meaning of God’s “answer” to Job? Or, to put it more concisely: what is God’s answer?

Speaking out of the tempest (aka. storm; whirlwind) God makes no defense of His actions (or inaction).  He offers no explanation of what has happened to Job, to his family, his slaves, his livestock; though God allowed all of it  –even instigated it (in some interpretations).  No. Instead of defending or explaining Himself, God shows up in the midst of some great storm wind, and presents Job with a series of unanswerable questions:

Where is the storehouse of snow? The house of light? Darkness? Can you fasten the stars? Untie them? Will rain fall at your command? Lightning come at your call? Will the wild ox be your pet? Behemoth? Leviathan? What about the glorious horse—did you make that? Surely you did!

At times He even takes an ironic tone, taunting and challenging Job to let it all hang out; take your best shot!

“Come on, display your majesty...

let the fury of your anger burst forth...” (40:10-11)

Though, God never explains Himself, somehow these confounding questions seem to satisfy Job.  How?  I’ve been wondering about that.  There are a couple of possible answers that come to mind: first, that Job is so intimidated by God’s awesomeness that he covers his mouth and retreats—basically acknowledging that he can’t compete with God. In other words, on some level he’s been beaten into submission. Or, second, that somehow God’s response actually satisfies Job, answers the essential question he’s been asking for app. 37 chapters: Why? Why would God do this to his faithful servant?

For the longest time I fell somewhere in the middle of all this. I had kind of stumbled around the edges of this beautiful ancient text assuming that on some metaphorical or allegorical or spiritual level what satisfied Job was God’s awesomeness.  That –yes, he was frightened into submission; putting his hand over his mouth as a way of acknowledging the vulnerability of his position: I’m not worthy…  BUT, somehow the inscrutableness of God’s presence not only intimidates Job, but also satisfies him.

Now, however, I find myself stuck on that tempest, caught by the image of God’s answer coming “from the heart of the tempest.”  Is it possible that where God speaks from is part of the answer that satisfies Job? That God’s answer comes “from the heart of the tempest…”   

 

Let me put this into a little context.  Last week my wife was preparing to teach the beatitudes to her classes, and on the way home we were talking in the car, trying to recall all 8 beatitudes and see if we could put in teachable words the blessedness that arises out of each.  Pretty quickly we got hung up on mourning. 

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” –Matthew 5:4

Inspired by Pope Benedict’s Jesus of Nazareth books and The Ladder of the Beatitudes by Jim Forest, I was speculating on how mourning was somehow positively attached to the identity of Christ, to His presence. He mourned (& wept), and therefore to be like Him…  But I couldn’t even convince myself.  I couldn’t make the connection stick in my own head.  That whole night I was troubled by a kind of sour feeling of my own failure; as if I knew something was true but couldn’t prove it and it was eating at me.  I suspected that somehow I was just wrong; my whole idea of Jesus and the beatitudes was wrong.  And there was also that sting of embarrassment. Here I was trying to say something profound and yet… I couldn’t.  Of course, that isn’t news to anyone who reads these posts.  But, the next morning, I opened my Bible and read:

“Then from the heart of the tempest, the Lord gave Job His answer.”

--Job 38:1

And I almost slapped myself. That was what I was trying to say!  It is from the storm, from the heart of the tempest that God speaks to us.  Why is it blessed to mourn?  Because when we are mourning, we are entering into the heart of the tempest.  There –in the midst of life’s storms, in the heart of the tempest—the Lord will speak to us; He gives us His answer.  It comes out of the heart of the tempest.  Which says to me, that God’s long list of awe-inspiring questions and imagery is only part of His answer to Job. God reveals Himself not only through this series of questions, but also through how He shows up.  God reveals Himself through the storm, through the strife, in the heart of the tempest He reveals Himself.  On the road to Calvary, He reveals Himself…

So—of course—Yes! Blessed are they who mourn; of course, they will be comforted –because in their mourning God reveals Himself to them.  It is in the mystery of mourning that God’s mysterious nature may be glimpsed; and our insufficiency made ineluctably clear.   

Which sends me back to my other question: what kind of God would do this to His beloved servant?  I guess the same kind of God who would send His only begotten Son to die for the sins of others.  That cry from the cross: My God, my God, Why hast thou forsaken me? is prefigured in the questioning of Job, the demanding of God to show Himself. 

So, in our suffering, in our mourning, perhaps we are being offered a chance to see Christ, to see God, and to be comforted by knowing we too have a part in His cross.  We share in His grace. We share in His mystical body.  And to know that, is to be blessed.