What are we not talking about?

 Sermon for Lent IV, 2023, delivered at St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Louisville, KY

Text from John 9:1-41

 A month ago, my sister caught the COVID-19 virus, and fortunately, had a mild illness. A couple of weeks ago, she texted me to say that she felt fine, but was still testing positive. She asked just how much more protection and precaution she should take, because, as she put it, she was over wearing a mask in the house and sleeping by herself. I was gratified that she was asking me what my thoughts and experience were, but I had to take a moment to consider what I would say, how I would respond. My sister is pretty level-headed and knowledgeable, especially about medical things, having entered into remission for breast cancer in the past year. I was grateful because after 13 years in biomedical research, including three years working with viruses at U of L’s biocontainment lab, I could share a different perspective on the virus, the pandemic, and how we can protect ourselves from it. But, I still had to stop and think, because discussing COVID is like walking into a minefield, and you know that it will blow up in your face at some point.

And yes, I’m going to talk about COVID this morning. Not about it or how we’ve dealt with it, but about how we are not talking about it anymore. Jesus has something to say about that and more in the Gospel reading we just heard.

Jesus heals a blind man, and the Pharisees learn about it right away. They interrogate the formerly blind man but can’t accept his answers or the truth behind them. They call his parents to testify, but get no satisfaction from their answers either, and so they call the man back to interrogate him some more. They can’t wrap their heads around Jesus performing a miraculous sign that goes against every custom and observation of the laws that they followed to the letter. The problem seemed to be that they were no longer in control of who was saved and who was not, or who was a sinner and who was acceptable. Jesus had broken their hold on the official religious story and showed another reality that lifted the condemned, sinful blind man up and into a state of salvation and grace. This was beyond acceptable to the Pharisees, so they got angry, stomped their feet, and made all sorts of talk about how terrible this all was. Their expectations of how God and the world worked was turned upside down, and their prejudice was exposed.

As I thought about my response to my sister, I recalled from experience that no matter what I said, someone would take exception to it that would show that they were right, and I was wrong. The virus has had the same effect on us that the blind man had on the Pharisees, exposing things that they, and we, didn’t want to see or admit had always been there. We lost control of our lives, and then we lost control of the story of who was safe and who wasn’t, who was following rules and who wasn’t. It exposed large holes in our healthcare system and how certain people were excluded from receiving care that others took for granted. We’ve stopped talking about how we reacted to the pandemic without resolving much of anything. The anger over overreaching authority, personal freedom, protecting the vulnerable, and stopping the disease is still there, and it surfaces when we are confronted by some other infectious disease. We don’t want to talk about it anymore, and this is what made me pause in my response to my sister, even as she wanted to know what I thought.

I was faced with how to form an answer that recognized all of the emotions and reactions to something that threatened our way of life, and the reality that the virus maimed and killed. There was something about the relationship between Jesus and the blind man that stood out for me. Jesus’ response to him was not countering the Pharisees’ questions and insinuations with his own perspective. But he instead appealed to the blind man’s faith, that faith in Jesus that he was discovering in himself. I realized that my sister was expressing faith in me to tell her an objective truth, not my perspective pretending to be the truth, and not my counter arguments to everyone I disagreed with. Instead, I listened to her and took her concerns seriously and honored her experience, and responded to her faith as Jesus responded to the blind man. This conversation that Jesus had with the blind man was one that I longed for with others who were fighting hard to protect how they thought the world should work. In that fight, there has been a claim of clarity that has led to blindness to what is really happening.

My experience of being asked about COVID protections and why I was hesitant to answer is similar to our experience of talking about race relations and racism in America. Like with COVID, we are not talking much about it, either. On the first Wednesday evening stone soup dinner, we watched a documentary that raised in me the same indignation, anger, and self-righteousness that the Pharisees felt at Jesus’ actions. I felt like I had lost control of the story that I learned in school, and I am not sure who to trust to tell me the truth. I am not the only White person to feel this way and to be afraid of the future. We are so consumed by that fear and anger that we can’t acknowledge reality and accept the visible evidence, whether it is about when wearing a mask is appropriate, or that there is systemic racial injustice in this city. I find that I am blind to the truth like the Pharisees are because I assume that I know and understand what is happening to minorities.

I know where I need to go with my thoughts and feelings about racism here and in America because I know that I have reaffirmed my vow to respect the dignity of every human being, and to seek out justice. I don’t know how I will get there, but I do know that I am not a Pharisee. I have been blind, from being raised to accept the way things have been, instead of what God, through Jesus, is calling me, is calling us to. If I could, I would have given up my privilege from being a member of the White race for Lent, but it’s hard to give up something that is all around you, like air. And like air, you don’t notice it until it moves. We have to have these tough, uncomfortable conversations about race and equity, and if we have them the way Jesus embraced the blind man, we can move forward. Jesus’ call to humility and to love our neighbors as ourselves is our starting point toward racial equity and the reason why we need to talk about it without blame, condescension, or guilt. We have to honor the experiences of the Black, Hispanic, Asian, and other minority groups as they have experienced systemic racism. It is a new aspect and expression of love for us, the same love that Jesus showed the blind man. Let’s find a way together to extend that love to all of God’s children, Black, Brown, and every color in between. We are not Pharisees. We know how to love.