Rev. Dr. Joel D. Biermann
Isaiah 42:14-21
March 26, 2017Glendale Lutheran Church
Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island has some rather seedy and sinister characters in it. And why not, it’s a story about pirates, after all…no, it is the story about pirates. I don’t remember any more exactly which cinematic version I first saw; but, since Disney’s TV show, “The Wonderful World of Color,” was a standard part of my family’s Sunday evening routine and a memorable component of my formation, it was probably Walt Disney’s version. What an impression that movie made. Living in the constraints of the mundane and tame world of the safe and wholesome American Midwest, it fired my imagination: a treasure map, square-rigged ships, cutthroat pirates, mutiny, and chests filled with gold. But, the part that stole the show, the thing that stayed with me long after the movie was over, was a secondary character: Blind Pew. He was terrifying. Yes, John Silver was bad and could be menacing, but he was also complex and a thoroughly sympathetic character. Not Pew. He was thoroughly creepy. He comes tap-tap-tapping, out of the dark and fog and then specter-like suddenly appears and does his dark deed, burying the black spot in the palm of poor Billy Bones.
Pew is absolutely dark and disturbing. In his evil, his physical blindness becomes the outward manifestation of his own internal darkness. His heart is black—as black as the black spot that spelled the doom of Billy Bones. The darkness and blindness issue from the wretched old pirate and seem to infuse and debase everything around him. Some critics have admired Stevenson’s genius in making his most fearsome character a blind man. Maybe it was genius, I just know that it scared the heck out of me: Pew with his black spot—yikes. The only consolation was that Old Pew failed to make a clean escape; had he done so, it would have left open the possibility of a nighttime visit to a parsonage on the landlocked plains of Nebraska. At least, such a visit would have been a live possibility in my young mind—was that a cane that just tapped on the front porch? Mercifully, though, Pew was trampled by the horses of the revenue men coming to the aid of Jim Hawkins. He got his just desserts.
Pew’s physical blindness was unusual; it did not evoke sympathy or sorrow but fear. And so it is with the blind servant described by Isaiah, so it is with the people of Israel. These people, this chosen nation, this servant of Yahweh, is also blind and this blindness, tragic as it is, does not elicit sympathy or even pity. No, this blindness of God’s people Israel fosters disgust and contempt. The problem, of course, was that Israel’s blindness was not congenital; nor was it the sad consequence of some accident or devastating disease. The blindness of Israel was not imposed on them by a malignant outside force. No, this blindness was willfully, intentionally self-chosen. That’s why it is contemptible. God had done everything for his people. He had graced his servant Israel with every advantage and every blessing. He had rescued them from slavery, given them a wonderful land, and routinely intervened for them when hostile nations threatened; he had supplied them with all that they needed. He had been unrelenting in protecting and providing and even prospering them. His work on behalf of his people, specifically evident in the law that defined them and bound them to him, had been great and glorious. And Israel looked at all these gifts and refused to see. They refused to see all that God had done. They refused to see all that God had given. They would not see. They did not want to see. They were blind by choice—and selectively. There were some things that they did see quite clearly…other things that were more interesting to them than God’s things. They could see their own plans and their own comfort; they could see their own dreams and aspirations; and, sadly and shamefully, they could even see, the idols of their neighbors. But when it came to God and his glory and his law, they were blind—as blind…and as despicable…as old Pew.
God presents all his grace and all his gifts and all his glory—all that he wills to give to his people, and their response is that of the petulant child who turns away from his parent, squeezes his eyes shut, claps his hands over his ears, and starts humming loudly. How often do you assume much the same posture? God wants you to see the wonder and beauty of this fresh day that he has given to you, but you won’t look at his gift, you can only see the demands and deficiencies of the day: you have too much to do, or not enough to do; the day becomes a burden. God provides you with food and shelter, but you are so accustomed to the gifts, you don’t even see them anymore. God graces you with a spouse with whom to share life’s joys and sorrows, and what fills your eyes are the shortcomings and quirks that seem to multiply with the passage of time. God blesses you with the opportunity and liberty of singleness and you can’t see past the empty space you wish was filled. God gives the direction and significance of a vocation to be done, and you see only the liabilities and trivialities or your own inadequacies and fears. God gives you meaningful and purposeful work to do, but you see only the difficulty of the task, and the insufficiency of the compensation you receive. God gives his plan for a life of purpose and meaning and you turn away and look for something more immediately satisfying. God gives the certainty of sacraments and you look for something with a bit more flash and feeling attached. God gives his church to form and feed and comfort; and you see only things to despise and reject: people too far right, others too far left, people with too little commitment, people with too much zeal, worship that isn’t exciting enough, teachings that demand too much. Gift upon gift and grace upon grace come from the hand of your God, but your hands are over your ears, and your eyes are pinched tight and you are loudly humming your own chosen anthem of independence. You won’t see what God gives. You won’t see what God wants you to see. You choose blindness.
So, God acts again. He has to act. He can’t help himself. His love has no other outcome. Like a woman at the point of giving birth, there is no holding back. There is no way to stop the unfolding of the plan. For the sake of his blind people, for the sake of you, his willfully blind servant, God acts. He sends another servant. He sends the servant. Not petulant or stubbornly rebellious, this servant is the obedient son. This servant does not miss what the Lord would have him see. He does not fail to hear what he is to hear. He does not refuse to act when he is to act. At last, Yahweh has his servant who is all that Israel, and you and me, are not; at last, a servant who is not blind. But no…wait…that’s not right. Look and see and marvel—this servant, this new obedient and faithful servant is blind. He refuses to see what we all see. He won’t see the path of indulgence, or self-promotion. He won’t see the opportunities for self-pity and complaint or for personal glory and acclaim. He is willfully, deliberately blind—not for the sake of himself, but for the sake of love. He won’t see what even Peter could see—that the cross is to be shunned and avoided. Peter tried to dissuade God’s servant from the way of the cross. Peter forbade this faithful servant to follow the path to crucifixion. But God’s servant refused to heed the disciple’s words. He refused to see what Peter could see. He would not see the horror and pain of the cross that Peter saw so clearly. Blind, he embraces the cross. He is blind to the wood, blind to the nails, blind to the shame, insensitive to the suffering, and deaf to the taunts. He is the blind servant of Yahweh. This blind servant comes and faithfully does the deed he was sent to accomplish. But, this blind man shrouded in darkness does not deliver the black spot; no, he endures it. He takes the judgment. Into his palm is driven the nail of condemnation. The sentence of death crashes down on him. And he dies—crushed, run over, trampled, by the law. The blind man is dead. The servant has done God’s bidding.
Isaiah tells us that the Lord was pleased for his righteousness’ sake to magnify his law and to make it glorious. Indeed, at the cross the law was magnified. But, if it pleased the Lord for his righteousness’ sake to make his law great and glorious, it pleased him even more for our righteousness’ sake to make his gospel weak and humble and plain. So that we might become righteous, the servant God sent became powerless, and helpless, and blind. And yet, in the wonder of God’s unfolding plan, another marvel takes place. The blind, trampled servant, is raised up, alive again, glorified again. The gospel work of the faithful servant is not impotent, but omnipotent. It is not shame, but infinite honor. Being run down by the law is not the end. It is the beginning. This servant of the Lord is now the resurrected, all-seeing and all-glorious servant and Lord. And he is unstoppable in his purpose, and his purpose is, as it always is, his people. So then, he comes now to his people, to those willfully, foolishly, sinfully, blind servants of his—he will not be deterred—he comes, now, even to you. He finds you in your dark world, in your deliberate state of self-imposed oblivion, and he stills your rebellious anthem of independence, and he, ever so gently, pulls your hands from your ears…and, more gently still, he pushes open your creased eyelids to look at what is before you. And now, at last, you see. You see Jesus. Amen.