Do you remember the dress? The one that threatened to destroy friendships? The
simple photograph of a hanging dress became a viral phenomenon in 2015 as people named
what they saw in the picture. Within a week of the photo being posted on Facebook, more than
ten million tweets had been posted with hashtags of “White and Gold” or “Black and Blue.” The
controversy was due to the fact that the photo was washed out. For some, myself included, the
dress was obviously white with gold stripes. For others, it was black with blue stripes. After all
of the arguments, the hashtags, the debates defending what each person saw in the photo, a
catalog photo of the original dress was posted online, showing the dress to be black
and blue. Honestly, I still can’t see black and blue in the photo in question.
The controversy was not just about a dress, but also about how our reality is shaped by
our perception. What we see and how we see it, even though it seems apparent to us, may not
be true. Sometimes, we miss the truth, miss reality, because our vision is distorted or we’re not
looking at the right thing.
Our gospel reading this morning is a miracle story – the sixth of seven signs John points
to to reveal Jesus’ identity – but the point is really not the miracle. The miracle itself
takes up just two of the 41 verses we read. The rest of the story is the argument over whether
the man who could now see is the same man who, previously, could not, and an attempt to
explain the miraculous. First, we have the neighbors who can’t figure out if this was the same
man they had seen begging for all the years before. The controversy in town – much like the
controversy of the dress – was whether the person they saw in front of them was the same or a
different person. Along with this part of the confusion, the neighbors and the Pharisees
couldn’t get past the fact that if this was the same man, he was blind yet seemed to be blind no
longer. They called the man’s parents to identify him because they couldn’t believe that the
blind man had been healed. The parents positively identified him, but they had no explanation for
how he could see, so they turned things back to their son. Throughout this whole ordeal, the man
is nameless – only identified by his blindness. Everyone was so stuck on arguing over who he
was and how he could now see that they missed the power of God in front of them. Even
more, they missed that the man was more than his blindness – that he had a name, that he
had a deeper identity beyond his lack of sight, that he had a story to tell.
If we turn to our Old Testament reading, we see something similar play out. Samuel
went to Bethlehem to find and anoint a new king. He came to Jesse’s house, who, starting with
the oldest, seemingly most capable son, passed his boys, one by one, in front of Samuel. One by one, they were rejected even though they had great stature and seemed fit to be kings.
Finally, Samuel had to ask, “Are all your sons here?” No, they weren’t. David, the afterthought,
was out in the fields with the sheep, doing what he had always done. And his own father could
not see past that to see who he truly was and what he had been called to.
Our reality – what we believe is possible or true – is shaped by our perception. And
sometimes our perception places parameters around what we think is possible. When our
vision of what is possible for and with God is limited or distorted, we find ourselves
experiencing blindness. Not like the man born blind was healed of, but the blindness that
prevented everyone else from seeing and celebrating who he was and what he had experienced
in an encounter with Jesus.
On Ash Wednesday, Candice Baughman preached at St. Luke’s. Candice is formerly
incarcerated at the Washington Correctional Center for Women. She was a prisoner. She is now
a Parish Mobilizer with One Parish One Prisoner, spending her days calling Christians and
congregations into relationship with those on the margins. The vision – or at least the question
– of One Parish One Prisoner is, “What if every person released from prison had a local
community waiting to embrace them?”
That question got me thinking. I don’t know the answer to the question, nor do I know
well what the experience of someone released from prison is. But I can make a guess…and I
suspect you can, too. Questions like, “What did you do to deserve prison?” or “How can I trust
that you won’t commit another crime?” Suspicion at best, and disgust at worst, from those they
encounter. Wearing the label of criminal or felon, despite there being so much more to their
personhood than the mistakes they have made or the wrongs they have committed. Being
known only for their worst moments, and not the beautiful and restored parts of their lives.
So what if every person released from prison had a local community waiting to embrace
them? What if just one prisoner had St. Luke’s waiting to embrace them? What if we, as
individuals and a congregation, committed to a relationship with a person rather than relying on
stereotypical generalizations to characterize them? What if we sought to know, support, and
celebrate someone who has done their time and is ready to start a new chapter of their life? I
imagine the stories of those releasing from prison read much like our gospel this morning, with
the vast majority of people entirely missing the child of God in front of them. But they don’t
have to.
In May, we will be starting the One Parish One Prisoner program here at St. Luke’s.
What that looks like is a team of 7-10 of us who commit to establishing and nurturing a
relationship with a specific person releasing soon from prison. The team commits to writing
regular letters to this person while they are incarcerated, meeting monthly for learning about
the experience of those in prison and the barriers they face upon release, planning for a great
welcome home celebration when our new friend is released from prison, and then being a
community of friendship and support as they navigate life on the outside. It is not a ministry of
charity or helping someone in need, though there will likely be practical ways of support – it is a
ministry of friendship and relationship. It is a ministry of taking our blinders off and seeing a
person for more than their faults. It is seeing someone as a beloved child of God, celebrating
with them the ways they have been and are still being transformed, and grieving with them
when life doesn’t go well. It is committing to life together…and that can sometimes be messy.
It can be messy because our blindness is exposed. We will be challenged in our own
biases; we will be stretched in terms of what it means to love our neighbor as ourselves. As Bill
Thatcher, who will be leading our One Parish One Prisoner Team, has said from his experience
doing community building work in prisons – he doesn’t know if any of the men he worked with
were changed, but he certainly was. This work can also be messy because we never get to
dictate relationship. We might have hopes and aspirations for what this relationship will look
like, but those may not come to be. It might not look like a wholesome Hallmark movie. There
may be challenges and setbacks. But the point of relationship is not to control another – it is to
love them regardless.
I also wonder if the work we are being called into can be messy, not because of anyone
else, but because we can be messy. I wonder if part of our blindness, at times, is not
recognizing, not acknowledging, not being honest about those places in our lives that are in
need of healing and transformation.
This morning, we find ourselves nearly halfway through Lent. We have been in the
metaphorical wilderness for nearly three weeks as we make our way towards Holy Week and
Easter. Some people look forward to this quieter, introspective, more sober time of year. The
celebratory nature of other seasons becomes too much, and this season reminds them they are
not crazy for not having it all together. Others find this season too dark, too serious, too severe,
too judgmental. No matter what we think of Lent, we need seasons like this to ground us back
into the soil of our lives: to call us to take inventory of who we are, whose we are, what we
have done, what we have left undone, and pay attention so that we might experience growth
and transformation.
Among many other things, Lent is about coming to see clearly: to see ourselves, others,
and the world as they truly are. This begins on Ash Wednesday, when we are reminded that we
are dust and to dust we shall return. With the sign of the cross on our forehead and those
words, there is no longer anywhere to hide, no way of making a good impression by pretending
to be something we are not. It is a reminder that collectively and individually, we do not have it
all together. And the invitation to see more clearly continues today as we are invited to
acknowledge our blindness, our inattentiveness to who God has created us to be.
As we journey through Lent, we are invited to take stock of who we are, where we have
gone wrong and lost our way, to be honest with God – and more importantly, ourselves – about
the things in our lives that are holding us back from fully and truly living in relationship with
God and with others. We are invited to step into the light of Christ which both exposes and
transforms.
We are invited to see ourselves as God sees us – imperfect people who are fully and deeply
loved. People for whom Christ died so that we might experience the fullness of who and what
God created us to be. When we can see ourselves in this way, when we can be honest and
vulnerable, transformation happens. And transformation is what our faith is about.
As we prepare for our journey with a prisoner through One Parish One Prisoner, the real
work starts with us. Our ability to be a part of or celebrate another’s transformation depends
on our own. Seeing ourselves clearly – faults and belovedness and all – is the beginning of
seeing others clearly. How transformation happens, when it happens, is not always easy to
explain. Sometimes transformation happens quickly, sometimes slowly. Sometimes there is a
dramatic, instantaneous change like the man who was born blind who all of a sudden could see.
Sometimes the change is hardly perceptible, but looking back, we can see clearly that God did something for us that we could not do for ourselves. Transformation is not as much about the moment of conversion or healing as it is about the difference it makes.
You see, everyone in our gospel reading was so stuck on how the man could see, what Jesus did and how he did it, that they missed what the man kept telling them: “all I know is that I was blind, and now I see.” The man couldn’t explain it, but even if he could, that wasn’t the point. Because transformation is about before and after, then and now, who we were for years and years and who we are today.
When we experience transformation, when we become who we truly are and who God
created us to be, our lives bear, as the letter to the Ephesians puts it, “the fruit of the light” that
is found “in all that is good and right and true.” That is the hope of Lent, the promise of Easter.
When we experience transformation, our lives bear the fruit of a life that has encountered and
has been changed by Christ. So as we continue our journey through Lent; as we make our way
through the darkness of this season, make our way to the darkest of dark in Holy Week; and
ultimately find and experience the unimaginable light of Easter, may we step into that light
transformed – becoming more fully who and what God has created us to be. May our lives bear
the fruit of light in a dark world in need to healing. And may we tell our stories with boldness
and hope: “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that save a wretch like me. I once was lost,
but now I’m found. Was blind, but now I see.”
Leave a Reply