Sermon

Bartimaeus the Teacher

by The Rev. Canon Susan Sommer

I saw Jericho for the first time in the noonday light of January. We were on our way to Jerusalem, taking the traditional pilgrim's path from Galilee, only by motor coach rather than on foot. What I remember most about Jericho was how shabby it was. And yet despite the diesel fumes and the Israeli checkpoints and the 17-year-old soldiers in their fatigues with their guns slung over their shoulders, and all the other trappings of contemporary life in Israel, I nonetheless found myself imagining blind Bartimaeus sitting by the side of the road.

We don't know much about Bartimaeus. He was a beggar because that was pretty much all that blind people could do then. Blindness also carried a sense of ambivalence. On one hand, to give alms to the blind -- especially if you were on your way to Jerusalem to offer a sacrifice in the temple -- was a mitzvah, a blessing.  There are numerous springs in Jericho, which made it a natural place for pilgrims to stop before they made their final ascent through the barren Judean hills to Jerusalem. If you had to be a beggar, there are worse places to be than Jericho. Bartimaeus did well to sit by the side of the road there. But on the other hand, blindness was also seen as divine punishment, either for one's own sins or the sins of one's family. Blind people weren't as loathed as lepers, but they were still clearly on the margins of society. Pilgrims were apt to give alms to blind beggars not because they felt particular kinship with the person, but because they believed that an act of kindness would favorably dispose God toward them.

Jesus stopped at Jericho on his way to Jerusalem. He has revealed three times now to his disciples why they are on their way to Jerusalem. And in between each prediction of his coming passion and death, is a response of metaphorical blindness. First, Peter tries to talk Jesus out of it. Then we get the rich man who comes to Jesus asking for a formula for salvation -- we heard about him two weeks ago. Then we get two of Jesus's closest friends, James and John, who ask Jesus for a the places of honor at the heavenly banquet – the right to sit at his right hand and at his left. (We would have heard that passage last Sunday had we not observed the Feast of St. Luke instead.  You can read it here if you like.) So here's the set-up: a blind man on the margins of society, who has not seen for himself any of the marvelous works Jesus has wrought heretofore, identifies him both by title and function. He says, "Jesus, Son of David." That is a messianic title. And then he says, "Have mercy on me." He doesn't ask for the world to revolve around his needs, like Peter. He doesn't ask for a guaranteed formula, like the rich man. He doesn't ask for special favors, like James and John. He asks the son of God to do what God does best. He asks for compassion. There’s a concept. And when Jesus asks for specifics, the blind man -- who ironically has seen more clearly than anyone else in the last several chapters -- asks for his sight to be restored. He is healed immediately, and his response to this healing is to then follow Jesus on the way.

In seven tightly packed verses, Mark gives us a template for discipleship. We've had three bad examples -- Peter, the rich man, and James and John -- and now, in the person of this blind nobody, whom we never hear about again, we are given a glimpse of what true discipleship is. What does Bartimaeus have to teach us? Well, first of all, he recognized the essential nature of God. That God is a God of infinite compassion. Or as the psalmist puts it, "full of compassion, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love." That was the God upon whom Bartimaeus set his heart. That is the God upon whom WE are called to set our heart.

Second, he named his condition. He dared to acknowledge his need for compassion and he dared to ask for restoration. That's a tough one. There is a great deal in our culture that conspires against naming what we need. Oh, when it comes to naming what we want, we're as skilled as Peter, the rich man, James or John. But to name what we need in many cases hits too close to the bone. We often are reluctant to reveal those places of woundedness and alienation  within us, even to God, perhaps especially to God. And so our prayers instead take the form of polite conversation, not the gutsy importunate cry, "Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me."

Third, Bartimaeus risked the transformation that healing brings. When you are healed, something changes. And change, as we all know, can be scary. In fact, it can be so scary that we often resist the healing because as bad as the illness or condition is, it is at least familiar. Bartimaeus knew how to be blind. He did not know how to do vision. He probably wouldn't be able to beg very successfully by the side of the road any more. Begging was all he knew. What would he do? How would he do it? There was a load of unanswered questions, and still he risked the transformation that healing brings.

And finally, Bartimaeus responded to his healing by following Jesus on the way. It was a response rooted in gratitude and in faithfulness. The best response to God's restoration and justice is to join in. As people forgiven, we respond in forgiveness. As people restored, we are called to restore. As people healed, we are called to be agents of healing. As people loved, we are called to love. As recipients of divine compassion, we are called to be compassionate.

That it what it means to follow our Lord to Jerusalem. 

© Grace and Holy Trinity Cathedral