1 Samuel 16:1-13 (New Revised Standard Version, Updated Edition)

John 9:1-7, 13-17, 24-25, 34-38 (Common English Bible)

Have you ever had a moment when you said exactly what you wanted to say at exactly the right time?

If you’re anything like me, that’s pretty rare.

But every once in a long while, I’ll say what I mean to say without any forethought.

My favorite moment like this happened in my senior year of college.

For my English major, I had to take a senior seminar where class could be missed only for emergencies.

At college, I volunteered in the theatre department, running sound. We were doing Peter Pan, which included daytime matinees. We were allowed to miss classes for them, but one fell during my senior seminar.

I had trained a very capable sound assistant, so I asked him to run that performance. I helped him set everything up, and then I went to class.

The production director was also a professor, so he knew we couldn’t miss senior seminars. But he was very intimidating and demanding. Some students were already struggling academically as they tried to meet his extracurricular demands.

After class, I returned to the theatre to check in. As I walked toward the sound booth, the director stopped me and asked about a sound cue that hadn’t been loud enough.

I told him my assistant had run the show because the matinee conflicted with my senior seminar.

He yelled, “What? You weren’t here for the show? WELL, where are your priorities?!”

And without missing a beat, I looked him directly in the eye and said: “Right where they should be.”

And then I turned and walked away toward the sound booth without waiting for him to respond.

The surprising thing is that this didn’t feel brave, and I wasn’t upset at all. I was completely calm because I knew what mattered most, so it was effortless to stand up for it.

Other students were nearby to witness this, but I wasn’t thinking about them at all. I wasn’t trying to inspire anybody. But afterward, word spread and something changed.

I got quiet high-fives. Other students started standing up to him, saying no. And what I learned is that sometimes when we stand up for what we believe in, it helps others do the same.

Related to this, I’ve been noticing recently in my own life the difference between fighting against something and standing for something.

When I’m pushing against something — reacting, railing against, caught up in outrage — it quickly depletes me. I feel off balance, powerless, like I’m flailing against something too big and too heavy to move.

I feel most connected to and most energized by what I care about through what I protect, tend to, and embrace right in front of me. When I’m clear about what I’m for, I’m not trying to figure out who’s right or wrong or what I should do — I simply act in ways that support what I value.

And when I do that, I feel grounded, like a deeply rooted tree that cannot be moved. Clear. Strong. Unshakeable. Empowered, because I remember that no one can take away how I respond or who I choose to be.

We live in a time when there’s enormous pressure to respond publicly to what’s wrong in the world, as if our compassion has to be proven, and if we don’t react, it must mean we don’t care.

Maybe you’ve felt that tension too.

It’s like we’re being graded on our compassion by others, instead of living it quietly and consistently from the inside.

Responding with what I’m called to do rather than what I think I should do feels peaceful to me, even when the situation itself feels challenging.

I see that reflected in today’s Gospel reading, about a man born blind.

Everyone around him wants explanations. The disciples ask, “Rabbi, who sinned so that he was born blind, this man or his parents?”

The disciples are looking for a guilty party, trying to explain the man’s condition by deciding whose fault it must be.

But Jesus answers in a completely different way. He says: “Neither he nor his parents. This happened so that God’s mighty works might be displayed in him.”

And as the story unfolds, everyone keeps pressing the man for explanations. But the man refuses to be pulled into the finger-pointing and judgment. He simply says: “Here’s what I do know: I was blind and now I see.” 

He isn’t putting on a display of faith or trying to persuade anyone. He just speaks honestly about what has happened to him.

I believe the point here is that sometimes, it is through our life experience—whether we judge our circumstances to be good or bad—that what we care about becomes crystal clear.

We live through something and realize, sometimes unexpectedly, hey, this matters to me… this is who I am… this is something I can’t pretend not to know anymore.

There’s a film called Hotel Rwanda, based on a true story from 1994 during the genocide in Rwanda, when nearly a million people were murdered in about one hundred days.

Paul Rusesabagina was a hotel manager, an ordinary man suddenly responsible for protecting more than a thousand frightened people seeking refuge.

He couldn’t stop the genocide unfolding around him. But Paul stood up for the people he was protecting.

One of these moments was when soldiers arrived demanding a guest list, a list that could reveal the identities of the people hiding inside the hotel and place them in grave danger.

Paul understood exactly what they were asking for. He knew what could happen next.

And instead of arguing or resisting them outright, he calmly handed them an old guest list, one that protected the people entrusted to his care.

In that moment, he simply chose how he would respond, guided by what he knew was right, protecting the lives of the people he could.

I recently learned that the word protest didn’t originally mean what it has come to mean today.

Today, we hear that word and imagine opposing something: pushing back, arguing, or fighting against it.

But originally, to protest meant “to testify on behalf of”, to bear witness to something we have seen and cannot un-see.

The blind man does this.

Paul does this.

And I suspect many of us have experienced moments like that, too.

Bearing witness means seeing clearly, facing reality head-on, and letting what we have seen shape how we live. It can be simple, like telling the truth about what we’ve experienced or choosing kindness instead of looking away.

So, I would like to invite you to consider: What is something you’ve seen that you can’t un-see? What’s something you stand for?

Think about the Samaritan in Luke chapter 10, verses 25-37, who came across a man who had been robbed, beaten, and left for dead on the side of the road, a man several others had seen and chosen to ignore.

The Samaritan bore witness. He saw the situation clearly and did what he was called to do. He tended the injured man’s wounds, carried the man to safety, and provided for his continued care by an innkeeper.

From the Samaritan’s example, maybe a good way to live true to our values is to care for those who have been hurt rather than fight against what caused the damage.

The lesson I take most to heart from these stories is to recognize that we don’t get to decide what everyone else’s role should be.

I’m reminded of a funny bumper sticker I once saw that was a clever twist on the old saying “God Is My Copilot.” The revision was, “If God is your copilot, switch seats.”

It’s a lighthearted reminder to me that I’m not in the pilot’s seat; God is. That means my job is not to supervise or judge anyone else’s actions. My job is to discern what’s mine to do and let go and trust that God is guiding others in what is theirs.

And when I do catch myself judging someone else’s behavior, which happens a lot more than I’d care to admit, one question can shut that down fast: “In what ways might I be doing something similar in my own life?”

For example, if I’m annoyed with someone in the grocery store blocking the entire aisle with their cart, seemingly oblivious to everyone around them, that’s a moment when I can ask myself where in my own life I might be forgetting to be mindful of others.

Instead of fighting against that person in my mind, I’m reminded to stand for the kind of person I want to be. Asking the question brings my attention back to what is mine to do. 

Speaking of judging others, in today’s Old Testament reading, when Samuel goes to anoint a king, he assumes the chosen leader will look obvious.

He looks first at the strongest, oldest, most impressive sons, the ones who look like leaders.

But God stops him and says, “The Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.”

And the one God has chosen isn’t even in the room.

David is out tending sheep, simply living faithfully in the ordinary work entrusted to him.

And that’s where God finds him.

That story is revealing to me because it reminds me that God isn’t looking for performance. God is looking for my heart to be shaped by what I love and value, and for me to act according to that, even when no one else notices.

In the world today, it’s exhausting to try to respond to everything. It’s easy to believe that being a good person means carrying more and more.

But I’ve noticed something. When I’m clear on what’s most important to me, what specifically I am called to do, something unexpected happens. I stop trying to hold everything together.

And into that realization Isaiah speaks, in chapter 30, verse 15: “In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.”

Rest is not apathy.

Taking a break doesn’t mean we don’t care.

God doesn’t ask us or expect us to carry everything, only what is ours to carry.

When we’re grounded, it becomes easier to distinguish between what is ours to carry and what isn’t. It’s a little like that deeply rooted tree I mentioned earlier: when the roots are strong, the tree may sway in the wind, but it doesn’t lose its footing.

And in much the same way, when we know what belongs to us and what doesn’t, something inside us finally gets to rest.

I invite you to ask yourself, what in your life have you been carrying or feeling responsible for that’s not yours to do?

Most of the time, living in faith shows up in small choices that may go completely unnoticed.

Earlier, Becky and I sang about being called to act with justice, to love tenderly, to serve one another, and to walk humbly with God. Those words from Micah are very familiar to us at Salem Presbyterian because they’re in our mission statement.

Acting with justice might be treating someone who thinks differently than we do with dignity when it would be easier to dismiss or dehumanize them.

And walking humbly with God may look like trusting that small acts of kindness and honesty matter, even when we don’t see their impact.

In retrospect, I’ve noticed that the moments that shaped me most—and shaped others—have often been the ones when we’re just responding, quietly and honestly, as life unfolds, from what we know matters most.

That day in the theatre, I didn’t plan what I said. The words just came out:

My priorities were “Right where they should be.”

Maybe moments like that happen when we stop trying to do or be perfect, and just trust what we know matters most and act from there.

The man born blind knew.

The Samaritan knew.

Paul knew.

Not how to fix everything.

Just who they would be in the moment in front of them.

Maybe faith looks less like having everything figured out, and more like being honest about what we know and caring well for the person right in front of us.

Maybe we can rest in the knowledge that when we live out our values, we are already doing what’s ours to do.

And in doing so, we begin to see that our priorities already are right where they should be.

And if that’s true, maybe we can allow that to be enough. Enough for this moment. Enough for today.

And trust that God will take care of the rest.

Amen.