Learning to See
I want to tell you this morning the story of a man called Michael May.
At the age of three, Michael suffered a terrible injury. He found a container of chemical fuel in his family garage and it exploded in his face. The burns destroyed his left eye and they damaged the surface of his right, leaving it sensitive only to light and dark. In an act of childish curiosity, Michael lost his sight; and no matter how hard doctors tried they couldn’t restore it.
For four decades Michael had to live without his vision. He had to learn to negotiate his way through life by using his other senses. But then he was offered a rare opportunity. He was invited to undergo experimental surgery; and this involved doctors transplanting a ring of donated stem cells to his eye, and then replacing his cornea with one from a dead body.
Thankfully, for Michael’s sake, the operation was a success. As Michael describes, when the bandage was removed there was ‘a whoosh of light’, and then he could see. He could see doctors in white coats; he could see medical instruments in the room; and he could see his wife standing beside him. He had regained his sight and he could see the world. But, as the specialists were soon to learn, he could not yet interpret what he was seeing.
To put it another way, Michael’s visual world was like an abstract painting. He could recognise simple shapes; but he had great difficulty in identifying faces and facial expressions. Even when those familiar to him came near, he had to use his other senses to determine who they were.
I tell you remarkable story not simply because it speaks of the miracles of modern technology, but also because it speaks of the joy and the difficulty of learning to see again. Having gained his sight, Michael tells of his dismay at seeing for the first time homeless people lying on the sidewalk; and the feeling of wonder as he watched dust floating in the air. And it’s because of this paradoxical experience of sight restored, Michael’s journey, discovering his world anew, is comparable I believe to the journey we’re on; the journey we call the Christian life and the journey we travel during Advent.
Two thousand years ago a remarkable event took place. The Christmas story reminds us how, in a stable fit only for animals, a child was born; a child who was to challenge his world and transform the course of human history.
During Advent we look back to that decisive moment. We remember the humble birth of the Christ child, and how he was greeted with elation and hope. We recall how as an adult, this same child lived and taught a message of love, puzzling his opponents and inspiring those who followed. And, in this season of Advent, we look forward to the day when God will bring to completion what was begun all those years ago.
As we heard from Isaiah, so with him we continue to long for the day when the eyes of the blind are opened and the ears of the deaf unstopped, and when creation is transformed, like a desert bursting into flower.
Rowan Williams, the Archbishop of Canterbury, has described the church ‘as the community of those who love and long for Christ.’ In other words, he invites us to see ourselves as those who’ve been touched by an encounter with Christ; to see ourselves as those who’ve experienced a ‘whoosh of light’ which penetrates the darkness of our lives and our world, and which offers us a fresh perspective, enabling us to see what was previously not visible.
But I think the problem is, like Michael May, we don’t always understand or even like what we see. The bandages are off, our sight restored, yet we continue to misinterpret the world around us. There’s still a lot to be learnt, and, I have to confess, sometimes I wonder if it would be easier to be blind.
Certainly, in Michael’s case this was true. Before his operation he was a downhill ski racer. He’d learned to ski by listening to verbal cues from a sighted guide and to the sound of the skis as they scratched the surface of the snow. But after the surgery, his sight now restored, his cues changed and he found himself falling all over the place. There was too much information for him to take in, and for a while he preferred to keep his eyes closed.
In a similar way, as Christians, each of us is learning to navigate our way in the world with a new set of cues. No longer can we rely on our old ways of functioning for guidance. Instead we’re learning to see with the eyes of God; and this requires a willingness to be shaped by the gospel message of love.
One person who had to learn to see in this new way was John the Baptist. We met him last week beside the river Jordan. He was the wild man, who dressed in camel’s hair, ate desert locusts, and preached a fiery message. ‘Repent, for the kingdom of God has come near’ he told the people. And when Jesus came near, he knew himself in the presence of someone special.
But that was last week; a lot has happened since then. Eight chapters have passed in Matthew’s gospel and John is now in a very different predicament. He’s in prison; and in the darkness of his cell, he’s having second thoughts about Jesus. You can almost sense him doubting the face he saw down at the river. So he sends his disciples to Jesus, with a question: ‘are you the one?’
I think part of John’s problem was his expectations. John expected the Messiah to come with an axe and a shovel in his hands. But Jesus carried neither. Instead, in the intervening chapters, he’s taught the crowds a new ethic for living, he’s cured the sick and the lame, he’s calmed a storm, and he’s called forth the twelve disciples and then sent them out again. It’s a far cry from the ruthless reaper of the Baptizer’s imagination. And because of this, Jesus says to John’s disciples: ‘Go and tell him what you hear and see. Tell him about the change and the transformation in people’s lives.’
At this time of year, as we draw closer to Christmas, I suggest Jesus’ words to John echo in our ears. The message from today’s reading challenges us to perceive the coming of Christ with eyes still learning to see.
We believe Christ has come; and in a baby’s birth two thousand years ago, we declare the reign of God has begun. We believe Christ will come again; and in this hope we continue to look for his presence among us. We see it in the small acts of kindness people do for one another; we see it in the faces of the poor and the downtrodden; we see it where people work for justice and strive for peace; and we see it in ourselves, as the light of Christ’s love penetrates our hearts, bringing into being a world filled with colour.
As C.S. Lewis has said: ‘I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else.’
A sermon preached in St Alban’s Anglican Church, Eastbourne, on Sunday 16th December by the Reverend Damon Plimmer.
(Isaiah 35:1-10; James 5:7-10; Matthew 11:2-11)
