Now, like the Wednesday night crowd you, too, might be
wondering how I would even know about the great Dusty Springfield—with her big
blonde beehive hair, thick mascara, and soulful voice. Well, for starters, it’s
because when I was about 14 my new and (as it happens) my still favorite band was
the English electronic synth dance duo—the Pet Shop Boys. And in 1987, just as
I discovered them, they released a duet with Dusty titled “What have I done to
deserve this?,” which ended up being her biggest ever hit, and introduced her
to a whole new generation of fans, just like me. But, as much as that was my official, conscious introduction, as I think on it, it’s
probably also the case that I like her because my father, a child of the 60s,
absolutely loved that era’s music, especially of the “British Invasion.”
And Dusty, well, she was the undisputed female Red Coat
General of the British Invasion, reaching these shores even before the Beatles
and breaking new ground with her “blue-eyed soul” Motown sound, with hits like
“I only want to be with you,” “Wishin’ and Hopin’,” “Just don’t know what to do
with myself,” and later “the Look of Love” and “Son of a Preacher Man.” On car
trips or just hanging around the house, that’s what I heard, along with the
likes of the Beatles, Gerry and the Pacemakers, and for a little American
flavor, Peter, Paul, and Mary.
My dad literally spent hours and hours on Saturday
afternoons sitting on the living floor, with his meticulously cared
for 1960s records piled up all around him (I was never allowed to touch them),
putting together the perfect 8-track mixed tape for long driving trips through
Canada and the Black Hills, for work (he was a courier, so he spent
considerable time in the car), or just for Saturdays at home. You may know that
he died when I was 15, and he was just 38, so his beloved ‘60s music is one of
the ways that I have of holding on to him, feeling that’s he present still.
Though, I have to admit that my favorite song, perhaps of all time, is still,
and maybe forever will be, the more contemporary Dusty, with the Pet Shop Boys,
singing in very techno fashion: “What have, what have I, what have I
done to deserve this?”
As it happens, “What have I done to deserve this?” is a
question that people ask all the time. What have I done to deserve being sick?
What have I done to deserve being fired from my job? What have I done to
deserve having my spouse or partner leave me, or worse, die unexpectedly? No
doubt the family members of those lost in the missing Malaysian airplane, those
affected by Washington mudslide, survivors of the firefighters in Boston or the
Marathon Bombing, of 9/11, Pearl Harbor, or even Nagasaki and Hiroshima, could
all ask the very same question: what have I done to deserve this? I suppose
it’s a question that my mom, my brothers, and I all could have (and might have)
asked when my father died unexpectedly 26 years ago, too. It’s even one that my
dad himself might have asked, since from the time he was in his late 20s he
struggled with the effects of muscular dystrophy, having to wear leg braces and
often struggling to walk, which is probably what led to him falling in an
accident, breaking his knee, and dying after surgery.
Unfortunately, though, who ever we are, and whatever our
personal afflictions or struggles, whatever our grief or loss, the “what have I
done to deserve this?” question often ends up going unanswered, because,
really, most times, there simply is no good or satisfactory answer. Things just
happen. Painful things. Undeserved things. Things that make no reasonable or
rational sense.
But, because we human beings don’t really like unanswered
questions, we make up explanations. For example, whatever bad thing might have
happened—whether on a small personal scale or in bigger more universal ways—it is all part of God’s mysterious plan. For centuries people have thought that way, for
millennia really, probably going back to the very origins of humanity. If
there’s something we don’t understand or can’t make sense of, well, then, we
can blame it on God. Or if not exactly blaming it on God, then blaming it on
ourselves (or on other people’s selves), followed by what we deem to be God’s
appropriate judgment. That’s the whole point of the biblical Book of Job, after all--why do bad things happen? It is God's fault? Our fault?
And sometimes that can be comforting, in a way. Having the
faith that God is always in charge and that whatever happens, seemingly good or
bad, it is by God’s design. But at other times, that can seem really, even
outrageously offensive, too. Did God have a hand in causing 9/11 or the
Holocaust, or less globally, taking my dad from me, or your loved ones from
you? I don't know for certain, but I just don’t think God does that. I don’t think that God wants us to go
through grief or pain or loss, all to fulfill a great master plan. I suppose it’s
possible. But it’s not really how the God I believe in operates.
But what God does do, I think, is help us endure these
sufferings. God stands with us and dries our eyes. God helps us to see that
there is a new day on the horizon, holding out the promise of new
opportunities, new hope, and new life. God helps us to know that as we suffer
and endure trials, losses and hardships, we are never alone. Because God, and
the Great Cloud of Witnesses —the Mystical Body of Christ, the blessed company
of all faithful people, as we pray in the Rite I post-communion prayer—are always
there with us, alongside us, and even within us, propping us up, prodding us
along, and giving us eyes, opened eyes, to see the world and our lives in it in
ever new ways.
That, at least in part, is what I think our gospel passage
this morning is all about. Here we find a man who is blind from birth, who has
never seen anything, at least physically. But through Jesus’ presence and
intervention he finds himself healed. He is given new sight. And more
importantly, he is given new understanding—of himself, of his faith, and of the
power of God. (You’ll notice in the passage that he goes
from saying Jesus is a man, to saying he’s a prophet, to finally saying that
he’s the Son of Man, the Messiah).
If you remember, one of the questions that people around him
had been asking, probably since the time he was born, was what had he done to
deserve this, this blindness? Or, if it’s not his fault, what had his parents
done? Because no one would be born blind otherwise. It must be a symptom of some
other greater, deeper, more profound, inner evil. In fact, the blind man probably
believed this himself—that his condition was a direct consequence of his own inner
sinful nature.
But then, along comes Jesus. And he tells the blind man, his
own disciples, those crabby, wet blanket Pharisees, and us 2000 years later,
that this just is not so. By giving the blind man sight, by opening his eyes,
Jesus testifies that his blindness is not some kind of punishment from God, but is instead a condition that we all share, in various ways, by virtue of being
alive. We are all limited in some way or another—for some it is sight, for
others hearing, for still others it’s not so much physical, but feeling alone
or discouraged, unsatisfied or unfulfilled. None of this is God’s punishment
for anything that we, or certainly our parents have done. Nor is it even
necessarily punishment for what Adam and Eve did in the Garden of Eden at the
beginning of time.
Instead, it is simply a manifestation of being human, of
being limited, fragile, mortal. But Jesus tells us, in fact, he shows us, that
through him, by being united to him, we can transcend these limitations and
truly see, truly hear, and truly be filled. Whatever our griefs, whatever our
losses, whatever our crucifixions and Good Fridays, we will always find Easter
and we will always be led to resurrection. Which is, of course, the whole point
of our Christian faith. We haven’t done anything to deserve it, this resurrection, to answer the question of my
favorite song. But it’s what we get. Just because. Christ shines upon us light
to see and know that even in our grief, even in our loss, and even in our
limitations, we are never alone, we are never truly blind, and, most importantly, we are never
really dead.
As it happens, that was exactly my experience, so many years
ago, when my dad died. Not at first, of course. At first it was horrible. But
over time I came to believe that God had not abandoned me or my
family, but was walking alongside us and strengthening us, propping us up and
giving us hope. Through that experience, our faith—or at least mine—grew deeper
and stronger and more real. Not because it gave me any answers as to why. But
because, through that grief, I experienced the promise of resurrection and new
life in a profoundly real way. It wasn’t any longer just something I was taught
to believe in at Sunday School or confirmation class. Rather, it became
something that touched me at the heart of who I am. In fact, I’d even say
that’s why I am here as a priest among you today. My feeling of being loved,
being cared for, and being filled with Christ’s light at that painful
time—through friends, through our church community, and through prayer—through
Mystical Body of Christ, the blessed company of all faithful people—was so
powerful, so encompassing, so motivating, that I felt called to share it with
others, even if all too often dimly and imperfectly.
That’s how God works—God takes people, people like his Son
Jesus, people like Jesus’ disciples, people like us, even people like the wet
blanket Pharisees, and he uses them. God uses us all, in our various gifts and
in our various limitations, to make the world brighter, fuller, and more alive.
So that others, too, can see. And then, so that they can believe.
To God be the glory: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
Amen.
© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell, Ph.D.
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