And then there is Robert Burns and his famous lines, here translated out of the original broad Scots and into something these English vocal chords can better cope with:
Would it, as Burns ruminates, from many a blunder free us, if we had this very smallest of gifts, to see ourselves as others see us? Would it change our behaviour: change what we say and do, if we could see ourselves as others see us?
There was a photograph in the newspaper last week, taken late one weekend night in Guildford, but it could have been any town centre in Britain. Three young girls, dressed to the nines (well, not that dressed, actually), teetering about on stiletto heels, bottles in hand, obviously exceedingly drunk. If they could see themselves as others see them would it make them stop and think?
If we could hear ourselves as others hear us, would we say the things we say to one another? Would we come out with the cutting remark, the snide put-down, the downright rudeness? Perhaps it would be a salutary experience, to see and hear ourselves as other see and hear us.
So much for others; what about God? What if we could see ourselves as God sees us, hear ourselves as God hears us? Think of the Collect for Purity from the Eucharistic Liturgy:
Do we conduct ourselves as if we believe that prayer to be true? Do we conduct ourselves as if God can see us, as if God can see not just what we do, but also what we think?
And we could turn all this around. How do we see others? Do we come to conclusions simply by the way someone looks: by the clothes, the hair style, the colour of their skin? Or by height?
Height: that's what the people of Israel went for when they chose Saul to be their king. Saul was tall and kings need to be tall and so Saul got the vote. Oh yes, and he could knock people about in battle. Perfect; anoint him without delay. And so they did; and in so doing they did not from many a blunder free themselves.
But then, if you choose your king according to human values, you must expect trouble. And trouble was the harvest that the people of Israel reaped. This is where the first reading today began, with God telling Samuel to anoint another king, this time a king chosen according to the values of God not the values of humankind.
Who, in their right mind, would wish to be a prophet? Who would wish to be Samuel, especially if Saul got to hear what he was up to. However, Samuel, to his everlasting credit, does as he is bidden by God. He sets out to anoint a new king, not knowing exactly who the king is to be, but trusting in God to guide him.
Samuel almost gets in wrong. Eliab seems to have looked the part; presumably, Eliab had the kingly looks, the kingly height; presumably Eliab conformed to human conceptions of kingliness. At this point in the story, God speaks to Samuel, imparting a lesson of great wisdom: The Lord said to Samuel, "...the Lord sees not as man sees; man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart."
Samuel listens to God and bides his time as the sons of Jesse are paraded before him, one by one. He bides his time until the youngest appears, until God makes the choice. Then, and only then, does Samuel anoint the shepherd boy named David to be the king, the leader of God's people.
David was the business. There was never another king like David. Some were good; Solomon, for example, was quite something; many of them were dreadful. And for one simple reason: although it had been shown to them how to do it, they didn't learn the lesson. David was chosen by the standards and values of God, as seen through God's eyes. His successors were not: they were chosen through human eyes. Back they went to looking for kings through human eyes, looking first for height, and so on.
Sometimes, we can't see for looking; sometimes, we're blind to what's in front of us; sometimes, we're just blind. By and large, we haven't learned the lesson God gave to Samuel. We judge by externals; we judge the book by its cover. It's not only tall battle-wagers who are created by God: we all are; we're all created in God's image. Somehow, that's a truth we find difficult to grasp. It's also a truth we find it almost impossible to admit to ourselves. George Orwell puts it, memorably, in the slogan from Animal Farm: 'All animals are equal; but some are more equal than others.' It's a kind of blindness.
Today's gospel reading is about blindness, but not just the physical blindness of the miracle at the reading's heart. There was a blind man, blind from birth. What did the disciples see? Not the man, not his blindness; all they saw was a question that needed to be thrashed out: 'Who's fault is it? Who's to blame for the blindness? Him or his parents?'
Jesus saw the man, saw the blindness, and performed a miracle of healing; he gave the man his sight. What did the Pharisees see? Not the man, not the sight that has been given to him; all they saw was a question that needed to be thrashed out: 'Who did this? How could he have done this? How did he do this this?' They weren't pleased that the man born blind had been given the gift of sight. All because they couldn't see.
The disciples missed the point; the Pharisees missed the point. They were all stumbling around, blinded to the truth, blinded to the point. The man who was blind from birth got the point: he was blind, and then he was not, all because Jesus healed him.
How stupid the Pharisees are; how unlike us! Heavens above, imagine us missing the point like that! They couldn't see themselves as God saw them. But, it's too obvious for words; it's as plain as day; as plain as a pikestaff or the nose on your face. Heavens above!
But hold on a moment. If I say that about the Pharisees, am I not conforming to type - in this case, to their type? Am I not simply doing what they did? Judging the Pharisees opens me up to missing the point in just the same way. There are many kinds of blindness.
This gospel reading is a sobering one, but a useful one, too, especially for this holy season of Lent. If nothing else, Lent is about trying to change, trying to turn a little more towards God. Part of the way we do this - try to do this - is by some honest self-examination.
Not self-indulgent navel-gazing, but rather as cool, as detached a look at ourselves as we can manage. One way is to stop and prayerfully consider to what we might be blind. For a start, what in me might others see, might God see, but I cannot see?
And beyond me, what can I not see in those around me. To what needs of my neighbour am I blind? Is there a friend or a member of my family who needs something that I can give? Are there people in this town, never mind the wider world, to whose needs I am blind?
And what about my relationship with God? How blind am I when it comes to God and the things of God? Can I see that I need to pray, that I need to 'read, mark, learn and inwardly digest' the words and lessons of Holy Scripture? I mention this last, but really it comes first and above all.
Jesus tells us, in the words from the Hebrew scriptures, the scriptures of his upbringing, the scriptures of God's chosen people: first, love God; then your neighbour, as yourself. These are the two great commandments. Turn to God, prefer nothing to Christ, as St Benedict says, and then we stand a chance, a very real chance, of losing our many blindnesses. Then we stand a very real chance of seeing our neighbour, not as human beings see, but as God sees. And of seeing ourselves in the same way.
To be sure, we are all blind; but equally sure, the one who healed the man born blind is waiting to heal us. All we have to do is turn towards him.
Sermon by: Jonathan Mason