Monday, March 28, 2011

Whose fault is it?


The following meditation is written by Anna Carter Florence.


Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?
Why does it always come back to this question?—"Whose fault is it?"

You’re doing dishes in the kitchen when a baseball flies through the window with a crash. Picking your way through the broken glass, you peer through the hole in the window and see two boys, frozen in horror. One holds a baseball bat; the other wears a glove. They are both speechless for exactly five seconds, and then each begins to shout, pointing at the other:
"I told you not to hit it toward the house!"
"What?! You’re the one who made me stand in this spot!"
"But I didn’t hit the ball, stupid!"
"You pitched it! And it was your idea to play in the first place!"
As their voices rise in decibels and the shouting match turns ugly, you realize they are waiting for you to decide: Whose fault is it, that the baseball went through the window?

The couple sits down in the doctor’s office, waiting for her report. They have been trying for two years to get pregnant, with no success; now, they want to know why. Last week they came in for the battery of tests that will begin to give them some answers, but as the doctor sees the tension in their faces, how they are unable to look at one another or hold hands, she knows how the couple is framing their questions:
Is she the one—is it her inability to conceive?
Is he the one—is his sperm count too low?
Is it her organs that are malfunctioning?
Is it his stress that is interfering?
The doctor opens the folder in front of her and takes a deep breath. The question hangs heavy in the air: Whose fault is it, that we cannot have a baby?

It’s your twenty-fifth high school reunion, and you can’t wait to catch up with your old friends. It’s been years since you were all together. Everyone is there—everyone except Joe and Beth. "Aren’t they coming?" you ask, and your friends shake their heads, sadly. "I guess you haven’t heard," says one; "Joe and Beth are getting a divorce." You sit in stunned silence. "No!" you say, numbly; "not Joe and Beth!"
Was it an affair?
Was it a midlife crisis?
Did he hit her?
Did she drink?
"What happened?" you whisper, not even sure you want to know the truth. And there is that question again: Whose fault is it, that this marriage didn’t last?

Maybe it’s human instinct, to find fault. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism, to keep the great void at bay. If we know whose fault it is, at least we have a way to understand what has happened. At least we have a way to explain our part in it. Even better, we may find a way to excuse our part in it—which is to say, to put the responsibility squarely on another’s shoulders. If our only job is to find out whose fault it is, we can be assured of some retributive satisfaction: someone will pay for what goes wrong.
Do you see this, where you are? When the basement floods, when the church budget comes up short, when the sermon falls flat, why are we so quick to ask, "How could this have happened?" And when we determine whose fault it was, why does the fault-finding so quickly turn to blame?

I’m not sure the disciples are looking to lay blame in this scene, by the way. They aren’t out for blood and retribution; they’re just curious. They really want to know: Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind? It’s a fair question for disciples to ask of their teacher, given the theological equations of the day (blindness = sickness = sin = human fault). It’s a fair question for Jesus’ disciples to ask, given the fact that Jesus keeps turning the theological tables. I think the disciples really are open to the possibility that there might be a new and different answer, here. They really want Jesus to teach them. So who sinned, Jesus?—this man, or his parents, that he was born blind?
Jesus’ answer stumps everyone, and it stumps me. No one sinned. He was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.

No blame. No fault. Just an opportunity for God to be seen and known.
I’m going to skip the predestination question, here; it’s a fair one, but unanswerable, in my view, since this story then continues with a miraculous healing, and none of us are really in a position to step into Jesus’ shoes, in that department. What amazes me is how Jesus changes the subject. Who sinned, this man or his parents? No one sinned. No one is the cause of this. No one is the subject, here—except God, and what God might do in this situation.
For me, this changes everything. Whose fault is it, that the baseball went through the window? No one’s fault. No one is the subject, here—except God, and what God might do in this situation. So look around, boys. What do you think God is doing, here? How can we help?Whose fault is it, that this couple cannot conceive a child? No one’s fault. No one is the subject, here—except God, and what God might do now. So look around. What do you think God is doing, here? How can we be a part of it? Whose fault is it, that this marriage ended? No one’s fault. No one is the subject here—except God, and what God might do here. So look around. What do you think God is doing, here? How can we enter in?
It’s a good instinct, changing the subject.

Let God be God.
Let we who are blind be healed.

Anna Carter Florence

Thursday, March 3, 2011

Reflection on Lent





The following is a reflection on Lent by The Rev. Barbara Brown Taylor. This reflection challenges each of us to ask the question: "Who am I in the story of Jesus' passion?"


Jesus was not brought down by atheism and anarchy. He was brought down by law and order allied with religion, which is always a deadly mix. Beware those who claim to know the mind of God and are prepared to use force, if necessary, to make others conform. Beware those who cannot tell God’s will from their own. Temple police are always a bad sign. When chaplains start wearing guns and hanging out at the sheriff’s office, watch out. Someone is about to have no king but Caesar.

This is a story that can happen anywhere at anytime, and we are as likely to be the perpetrators as the victims. I doubt that many of us will end up playing Annas, Caiaphas or Pilate, however. They may have been the ones who gave Jesus the death sentence, but a large part of him had already died before they ever got to him--the part Judas killed off, then Peter, then all those who fled. Those are the roles with our names on them--not the enemies but the friends.

Whenever someone famous gets in trouble, that is one of the first things the press focuses on. What do his friends do? Do they support him or do they tell reporters that, unfortunately, they had seen trouble coming for some time? One of the worst things a friend can say is what Peter said. We weren’t friends, exactly. Acquaintances might be a better word. Actually, we just worked together. For the same company, I mean. Not together, just near each other. My desk was near his. I really don’t know him at all.

No one knows what Judas said. In John’s Gospel he does not say a word, but where he stands says it all. After he has led some 200 Roman soldiers and the temple police to the secret garden where Jesus is praying, Judas stands with the militia. Even when Jesus comes forward to identify himself, Judas does not budge. He is on the side with the weapons and the handcuffs, and he intends to stay there.

Or maybe it was not his own safety that motivated him. Maybe he just fell out of love with Jesus. That happens sometimes. One day you think someone is wonderful and the next day he says or does something that makes you think twice. He reminds you of the difference between the two of you and you start hating him for that--for the difference--enough to begin thinking of some way to hurt him back.

I remember being at a retreat once where the leader asked us to think of someone who represented Christ in our lives. When it came tie to share our answers, one woman stood up and said, “I had to think hard about that one. I kept thinking, Who is it that told me the truth about myself so clearly that I wanted to kill him for it?” According to John, Jesus died because he told the truth to everyone he met. He was the truth, a perfect mirror in which people saw themselves in God’s own light.

What happened then goes on happening now. In the presence of his integrity, our own pretense is exposed. In the presence of his constancy, our cowardice is brought to light.

Barbara Brown Taylor, “Truth to Tell,” from “The Perfect Mirror,” copyright 1998 Christian Century Foundation., 89-92.