June 17, 2012 | 8:00 a.m.

Should All Christians Wear Glasses?

Matt Helms
Pastoral Resident, Fourth Presbyterian Church

Psalm 20
Mark 4:26–32
1 Samuel 16:1–13

Theological reflection is reflecting on the painful and joyful realities of every day with the mind of Jesus. . . . This is a hard discipline because the loud, boisterous noises of the world make us deaf to the soft, gentle, and loving voice of God.

Henri Nouwen
In the Name of Jesus

Many, many years ago, there was a monastery that had been renowned for the spiritual wisdom to be found there. It was the type of place that you’ve always imagined a monastery to be. Situated high on a hill in the quiet of the countryside, this small and humble building was nothing more than a speck outlined by the blue skies around it. Despite its humble appearance, though, the monastery had grown into a global destination. Travelers would come from miles away to sit with the monks, to pray, and to listen. After spending time with these monks, those who came to visit would go forth like a ripple from a stone dropping into water: the spiritual wisdom and understanding shared in that small space would resonate far further than those in that small monastery ever imagined that it could.

However, as time passed on, there began to be fewer and fewer travelers to this monastery. Everyone had theories as to why this was: changing cultural attitudes, a lack of time for spiritual things, a general indifference. As the steady stream of travelers began to slow to a trickle, the serene environment of the monastery began to grow nasty. The monks began to point fingers at one another for why there were so few visitors. Brother Lawrence had many fingers pointed at him, for his buzz-saw snoring may have been giving the guests restless nights. Brother John’s prayers had not been particularly inspiring for the last month. Brother Henry’s cooking was too bland: the same potato-and-carrot soup every night was beginning to grow wearisome. The monks continued to point fingers at each other as time went by, each believing that if only the others would follow their own ideas, they could return to their former glory.

Meanwhile, the stream of visitors slowed down to the pace of molasses—until one week they did not get any visitors at all.

One day, after their morning prayers, the monks received a letter from the archbishop: he had heard about how few visitors the monastery was receiving and wanted to come and see firsthand what was going on. The monks were distraught and began blaming each other even more. “See what you’ve done. This will ruin us!” they shouted at one another. But as preparations to receive him fell into place, each monk became secretly pleased that the archbishop would see what was going on and could set the other monks straight.

When the archbishop arrived a few weeks later, the monks began on their best behavior. They were courteous and made sure he was comfortable. It all seemed to be going smoothly on that first day, but alas, this peace could not last. The next morning, after a bland meal and an even blander prayer, one of the monks cried out to the archbishop, “Do you see why we are struggling? Please train my brothers so that we might return to our former glory.” The rest of the room erupted, each monk making excuses and distributing blame on the others. The archbishop calmly looked around the room and observed the anger and frustration on each face. He waited a few minutes, and then he stood up without a word and left the monks, returning back to his parish.

After this, the monks were resigned to the downfall of their beloved monastery. Faces were glum, the vibrancy completely gone. When the monks got another letter from the archbishop after their morning prayers, they expected the worst. But upon opening it, they read with astonishment, “Thank you, brothers, for your hospitality. I had heard tales that your monastery had grown sour and uninviting. Imagine my surprise to discover that in your very walls, one of you was the risen Christ, quietly returned to earth but hidden from plain sight.” The monks were stunned: one of them was the risen Christ? How could that be?

That night, no wanted to wake Brother Lawrence up to stop the snoring; after all, what if Brother Lawrence was Christ? During prayers, they each listened carefully to the dull prayers of Brother John, for what if Brother John was Christ? Rather than grumbling over their potato-and-carrot soup, the monks thanked Brother Henry for his work, because there was a chance that Brother Henry was Christ. Everyone seemed the same as they were before, but the monks knew that God often hid behind disguises; oftentimes it was the person whom you least expected who would end up being Christ among you.

Months passed, and before anyone had even noticed, there was a change in the atmosphere of the monastery. There was a spirit of generosity and gratitude, a spirit of holiness and love that permeated the halls. The few visitors who came were impressed by that spirit and they shared it; slowly but surely the travelers returned. By the end of the year, the monastery’s reputation had been restored, and once again people came from miles away to sit, to pray, and to listen.

It’s a funny thing how a simple change in perspective can transform the world around us. This story, adapted from a parable by the great Christian writer Anthony De Mello, reminds us of what it means to see the world through Christ’s eyes. It’s a different type of vision. It demands that we look beyond the surface, beyond people’s snoring, cooking, or demeanor, and look instead at people as children of God or, even more radically, as the living Christ. This is not vision that comes naturally to us, because we are sensory people: we take what we can see, what we can hear, what we can smell, taste, and touch, and we make judgments based on that information. To view people as children of God or the living Christ will require a different framing on what we experience every day—a pair of theological lenses with Christian frames perhaps. How do we find those glasses? And perhaps more importantly, once we’ve found them, how do we make sure that we don’t take them off? After all, shouldn’t all Christians be wearing glasses?

Our passages this morning from 1 Samuel and Mark help teach what it means to see the world through glasses with a theological lens. This account of David’s anointing by Samuel is understandably famous. Its message is so crystal clear and true that it jumps out from the text. Samuel goes looking for the heir apparent to the disgraced King Saul at Jesse’s farm and understandably starts with the eldest son. Israel, like most ancient cultures, highly valued lineage and birth order. The eldest son, Eliab, passes Samuel’s eye test. He certainly looks like a leader, very tall and good looking. Heck, even the name Eliab grades out well: in Hebrew, Eliab means “God is my father.” “Surely the Lord’s anointed is now before me,” Samuel says to himself. But the Lord won’t have any of it: “Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, for the Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.” It is very well said—so well said, in fact, that one commentator I read said that the message was so clear that he had nothing substantive to add to it. I have never in my life read a commentator without a little extra something to say on a passage, so that is remarkable on its own. But this call for new vision is what is truly remarkable, and it is a call that extends to all of us: not to look on outward appearances, but instead to look on the heart. It is a call to reform our vision, to don our theological glasses with their Christian frames and see the world differently.

This same invitation occurs throughout the New Testament in Jesus’ telling of parables. Jesus’ parables are rich in meaning, but this meaning is almost always one that requires us to change our perspective. Think of the parable of the good Samaritan or the laborers in the vineyard or the prodigal son. Our passage from Mark today asks of us the same kind of change in perspective: Jesus is reframing the people’s understanding of what the kingdom of heaven is to look like by comparing this kingdom to seeds and the mystery of growth. How fascinating that both passages seem to suggest that the kingdom is initially hidden to the naked eye—seeds are scattered and their growth occurs without the planter understanding; the mustard seed, almost invisible to the eye, grows to be the largest of all shrubs. If we return to the eye test of Samuel, we would be unimpressed with these seeds and could easily dismiss them as insignificant. But if we try to see from the perspective of the God who looks at the heart, we begin to understand that Jesus is saying that the kingdom stands hidden in plain view. All you need is the right pair of eyes, or the right pair of glasses, in order to see it.

One of my favorite religious authors, Henri Nouwen, writes in his book In the Name of Jesus that Christians “need to learn to be theologians, persons who know the heart of God and are trained—through prayer, study, and careful analysis—to manifest God’s saving work in the midst of the many seemingly random events of their time. This is a hard discipline,” he says, “because God’s presence is often a hidden presence; a presence that needs to be discovered. The loud, boisterous noises of the world make us deaf to the soft, gentle, and loving voice of God.”

There are many loud, boisterous noises in our world, filling our lives in the same way that we fill our schedules and calendars, gradually squeezing out the moments we have to reflect, reframe, and reimagine who we are called to be as Christians. In a loud, boisterous world, our relationships with our neighbors become defined by what those neighbors are doing or thinking rather than being defined by who they are. The monks in the monastery had fallen into this trap: their brothers were no longer children of God to them but instead were defined by their actions, failings, and shortcomings. It took a reenvisioning, looking through the lens of the risen Christ, for them to recreate the kingdom of heaven in their small monastery.

In the Gospel of Matthew, shortly before his arrest, Jesus gathered with his disciples and said, “‘Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me.’ The righteous will answer, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you something to eat, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? When was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you?’ And I will answer them, ‘Just as you did it to the least of these who are members of my family, so you did it to me.’” To be a Christian is to live with changed vision.

Many years ago, there was a successful businesswoman who decided that she wanted to be baptized in a river. It was more unique and authentic, she thought. When she asked her pastor about this, the pastor agreed but suggested several other people that he could think of who would be interested in doing this along with her. “Fine, fine,” she said, not particularly concerned with whoever else was invited—not concerned, that is, until the group was fully assembled at the edge of the river. It was a bizarre crowd: an older man in tattered clothing who didn’t appear to have shaved in months, a sullen teenager dressed all in black, a young woman who for all intents and purposes looked like a prostitute. The businesswoman was upset that she had made such a big deal out of this. She had bought a new dress for the baptism, but the rest of them did not appear to be taking the baptism seriously at all. When the group waded out waist high into the cold morning water, the businesswoman, in between the chattering of her teeth, quietly cursed the pastor for assembling such a motley crew for this special moment. Her bitterness lasted through the pastor’s words, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit”—right up until her face went under the surface of the water. The splash of the water was a shock, the cold sending chills down her spine and clearing her mind of anything but a desire to get back to the surface. But as she was pulled upwards, she found herself emerging to the sound of an unfamiliar voice: “These are my children, the beloved ones, with whom I am well pleased.” Confused, the businesswoman tried to clear her eyes of the water that had been pouring down her face and opened them to a bizarre sight. She was surrounded by people who resembled those she had entered with but looked quite different: an older man who had lost his wife and drank away his sorrow and his livelihood, a teenager who felt alienated and scared, and a young woman who had never been told by anyone that they loved her. And it was there, standing in those baptismal waters, that the woman realized that she could never see the world in the same way again. Amen.