Like blind men in a cold room.

"Truly, truly, I say unto you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit."

The greatest sin in human history has brought about the greatest Grace. Christ was witnessed against by liars, condemned by the proud to die a slow and agonizing death, killed by the very people who, at one time, had followed him, and finally was innocent. Yet, took upon himself all the wrath and justice of God, so that the sins of all may be atoned.

The fall of all of mankind in one ultimate unjust action proved to be their very salvation. Because of the presence of Sin, by necessity, Grace comes out of a falling away. To come by any other way is to deny the state of Sin, and to deny the state of Sin is to deny the necessity of Grace, and by denying the necessity of Grace, we cannot make the transition from a state of Sin to a state of Grace. It is a truly worthless effort.

Then, in almost every case, where we see God at work we will find Sin abounding. We feel the brokeness of the world at every moment. We are intimately familiar with the way it feels. Interestingly, the necessity of this particular world is still a thing totally alien to us. We do not know why the seed must die, and we can rarely see the fruit that it produces. Not necessarily because it is so miniscule, but because we cannot understand the necessity of the method. It, in fact, remains a great mystery even in higher theology. The theologian says that the necessity of the world is to glorify God, and yet to all but the most zealous --a property of a man which may turn out to be a diversion from the truth--, this is somehow unsatisfying. It somehow seems to be a cop out, and when looked at closely --like so many ways of explaining what perhaps cannot really be explained-- it seems far too simple to convey the truth of the matter.

Human beings are characterized by an almost insatiable hunger for something we can't quite seem to place our collective grasp upon. The preacher of Ecclesiastes finds the world to be full of satisfaction which is like the breath of the wind. It passes, and it is gone. "All the toil of man is for his mouth, yet his appetite is not satisfied." Then, the charge can be seen: to have an appetite which can be satisfied. But to what do we turn? Wisdom, wine, and a wife. These can all be sought and enjoyed. They can even make the heart merry. But, if these things are also fleeting, how can we love them? When we seek these things with passion, with zeal, what are we really seeking? It rarely seems that our passion is directed towards what is impermanent or ultimately unsatisfying, but something intrasient, something altogether satiating. When the hunger only increases, we remain merely puzzled. Continuing in this manner, it seems possible to consume everything. Certainly, Solomon claims to have done just this.

So, is the solution to cease to have passion for things? If we cannot love things as they are, but only as they are not, then our passion can only destroy us. We may justly charge the church with castrating the passions of her constituents at every possible turn, under the pretense of protecting them from themselves. That is, from their sin. Were the barbarian tribes of Europe made better, more excellent, by their forced indoctrination? They were once 'free' men --conquerors-- unrivaled in courage. They had no fear, and then they were filled by the priests with every manner of fear, so that their spirits were broken. They became like blind men in a room with a single poison needle: they dared not grasp to find their way. They became, in some sense, hollow shells of their former glory. Often, the church's solution to sin is to cut off that which inflames the passions, and yet, in so doing, men are left on a clear road to ennui. The fire of humanity is quenched. But what are we to do? Continue to sin that we may remain passionate? And thus lies the problem. Without passion, what good are we as christians?

Interpretted in this light, the charge to "tear out our right eye" takes on a defeated tone. If we cannot see, then look away.

Here, the morality of self-denial becomes a shame to the person who, by necessity, must deny himself. The greater the need, the greater his shame. Self-denial is the last possible reason for self-righteousness, and those who by necessity withdraw from this world should have the greatest shame, the greatest despair, should feel the farthest from their God. They are the least able to see. They are blind, because, in an effort to be righteous, they have torn out all of their eyes. Together, they have become vessels useless to God in this world. For them, Grace cannot even exist, because they have removed the possibility of seeing it.

What use then, is preaching? I can say to a blind man, "Look, here is a beautiful painting, or look, here is an ugly painting", no matter how much detail I present in describing the paintings, in the end, a blind man is still blind. He cannot see either the beautiful or the grotesque. In the same way, the preacher declares the ways of the world, and describes the unreality of perceived reality. But we are still blind, and his effort does not hasten the coming of righteousness. His four points for today's sermon fall on deaf ears. We do not correct our sin in this manner. It is wholly inadequate.

This seems to point at an alternative definition of Sin, independent of the actions of man, which seems to identify the qualities of "original sin" in man. Sin is not an object, or an action (as in the violation of the law). Man's sin is simply that he is blind. Either of himself, by willfully wearing wool over his eyes, or as a result of the character of mankind after the fall, something inate, something born in him. Now, we have defined Sin in such a way as to avoid the problems inherent in other realizations. In some cases, there exists a heirarchy of holiness, wherein the actions of a man can bring him closer to God. Here, his actions are merely an effort to protect himself from his blindness. He is still blind. In these other cases, it remains unclear how we can all be equal under the criteria of sinfulness, yet here it is clear. We are all blind.

But then, what are we to do? We seem to have only two options. Pursue the unreality passionately, knowing full well the consequences, or cower in fear, and live as disabled human beings.

As to the first, what we love is always dimmed by the veil through which we view it. We cannot pull it back ourselves, because this would constitute self-salvation, under our definition of Sin. But, need we fear what lies beyond? Will the truth destroy us because of our attachment to the lie? Probably. Then, it would take a truly courageous being to not fear the moment when we see the thing as it truly is. When the edifice is annihilated, and we find ourselves painfully exposed to the truth, do we embrace this path? Perhaps not.

As to the latter of the two approaches, I think enough has been said.

However, in our blindness, we should have some hope. The historical church has often, in an attempt to 'cure' the problem of humanity's blindness, advocated the casting off of the world. Hence, the monk -- under our treatment, the most despairing of all beings. He denies all worldly good, in an effort to seek after something intransient, but the underlying assumption that there are no things truly worth loving in this world must be a lie. Consider the Christ, a man without sin. If he was truly without Sin, then it must be the case that he saw the world as it truly is; that he saw beyond the veil to the true nature of things. Yet, far short of falling into complete despair, he experienced joy abounding also. There must be something truly beautiful and worth loving here, if Christ would die to preserve it.

I am no expert in poetry, but among the poets I have read, Ron Padgett has managed to capture some aspect of Christ's vision of the world in a small poem call "Fixation". Padgett has a knack for pulling the fuzzy, out of focus, background of an image or situation into prominence. Though, admittedly, he is probably not canonical. Anyway:

It's not that hard to climb up

on a cross and have nails driven

into your hands and feet.

Of course it would hurt, but

if your mind were strong enough

you wouldn't notice. You

would notice how much farther

you can see up here, how

there's even a breeze

that cools your leaking blood.

The hills with olive groves fold in

to other hills with roads and huts,

flocks of sheep on a distant rise.

Here, in the midst of agony, Padgett's image of Christ shows him looking out over creation, and finding it to be beautiful. Worth saving.

Even the preacher of Ecclesiastes, who claims to have tested all the pleasures of the world, and found them all tepid, advocates that there is some joy in the world, but not without a warning.

As you do not know the way the spirit comes to the bones in the womb of a woman with child, so you do not know the work of God who makes everything.

In the morning sow your seed, and at evening withhold not your hand, for you do not know which will prosper, this or that, or whether both alike will be good.

Light is sweet, and it is pleasant for the eyes to see the sun.

So if a person lives many years, let him rejoice in them all; but let him remember that the days of darkness will be many. All that comes is vanity.

Rejoice, O young man, in your youth, and let your heart cheer you in the days of your youth. Walk in the ways of your heart and the sight of your eyes. But know that for all these things God will bring you into judgment.

Remove vexation from your heart, and put away pain from your body, for youth and the dawn of life are vanity.

The charge here is to enjoy beautiful things, remembering that they are vanity, like the breath of the wind. They will pass away. The path seems to be to see things as they are, and enjoy them.

Perhaps then, we should make an addendum to our list of ways which we can combat our blindness. Perhaps it is not a dichotomy between Sin and spiritual disability. Perhaps there is a third option: receive Grace. Paul Simon has a wonderful song about this. Each verse is a different story. The world says to the boy, later to the man: We have what you want. What you seek, we can give you. That for which you thirst, only we can provide. However, each story is tied together with the chorus:

Oh, my mama loves, she loves me

She get down on her knees and hug me

Like she loves me like a rock

She rocks me like the rock of ages

And loves me.

Through love, the man is able to see the temptations of the world with clarity. Tempting yes, but the true grace? The true water for which he thirsts? They are not, and he knows this all because he has seen what true Grace looks like.

Unfortunately, even after having said all that has been said, after having learned of the character of ourselves and our Sin, we are not cured of our blindness. But, let us remember that the seed falls and dies, and it bears much fruit. That is, let us remember that where Grace abounds, Sin will also be present. Thus, we can see that the necessity of abounding Sin in the process of Grace is that Sin may be shown to be Sin, that our eyes may be opened, that, together, our sight may be restored.