Sermon Title: "Healed & Called"
Date: October 25, 2009
Minister: Rev. Susan Bjork

Lesson:  Mark 10:46-52

His name was Bartimaeus.  And he was healed.  And he was called.

His name was Bartimaeus.  It’s amazing that we even have a name on record for him.   To those who frequently traveled from Jericho to Jerusalem, he and others like him were probably seen as regular fixtures alongside the roadside.  For it was not uncommon in those days for people who lived with disabilities such as blindness, deafness, lost limbs, inability to walk, or illness to gather along well-travelled roads and ask for money and food.  In fact, for many of these individuals, begging (as Mark calls it) was the only way to survive in a world where any lack of physical ability meant lack of ability to work for even meager wages or a meal.

His name was Bartimaeus.  He lived on the fringes of society.  Many who passed by his way probably ignored him…one more beggar asking for money, asking for food, asking for mercy.  He was used to asking and accustomed to being bold enough to suggest that someone might help him.  He was used to being turned down and familiar with standing up for himself when those around him told him to be quiet and tried to put him in his place.  He was used to repeating himself when he had to in order to be heard, which may have been often.  Perhaps this learned boldness is what gave him the chutzpa to do what he did on that day when everything changed.

His name was Bartimaeus.  He had heard through the grapevine about this Rabbi, Jesus, who was teaching, healing, and performing miracles.  He heard stories of lives transformed, people healed of illness, even blind people like himself who were restored to sight.  He had heard about the crowds who had started to follow Jesus around in hopes that they too would be healed, that they too would be taught the key to their liberation, that they too would touch God.  So it was no surprise to him when he heard the crowds approach that day.  He probably knew that they would pass by his way sooner or later.  He heard their footsteps and their conversations and he knew that it was Jesus of Nazareth who approached.

His name was Bartimaeus.  In his boldness of faith, he called out to Jesus and asked for mercy.  They didn’t like it, of course, those who were traveling with Jesus: his disciples, the crowd.  They tried to silence him.  How dare he call out to Jesus and ask for help!  They tried to cut off his access to God’s healing love, to put him in his place, to exert their own power of position.  But they failed.  And he called out again.

His name was Bartimaeus.  He was the first person in Mark’s gospel to call Jesus by a new royal and messianic title: the Son of David.  By naming him in this new way, he took a new step towards Jerusalem with Jesus in bold hope and faith.  Perhaps he guessed what suffering and pain Jerusalem would hold for Jesus; perhaps he didn’t.  But he probably knew Jesus was taking a big risk by going there.  So perhaps he thought, “if I risk calling out and getting knocked back into my oppressed position, maybe Jesus will take a risk for me.”  So he called out again.

His name was Bartimaeus.  And Jesus heard him.  Jesus called for him to come to him, issuing an invitation once more not to the rich and the powerful, but to a poor man, cast aside by society because of his inability to see.  Some in the crowd were astonished, of course, paying attention to him only now because Jesus called him.  But he stepped out, jumped up, threw off his cloak (which was probably the only bit of shelter and earthly comfort he had) and put all his faith in Jesus’ hands, trusting in Jesus’ mercy.

His name was Bartimaeus.  And Jesus asked him what he wanted.  He asked Jesus for restored sight, new vision, altered perception, a new reality; in short, total transformation.  And Jesus responded to his faithful, courageous request.

His name was Bartimaeus.  And he was healed.  His eyes were opened anew.  He was touched with the healing love of God whose grace and mercy was there to be received.  He was transformed, renewed, and liberated, not just physically, but spiritually as well.  Jesus saw him, heard him, valued him, and blessed him.

His name was Bartimaeus.  And he was called.  Jesus gave him the opportunity to go after he was healed.  He didn’t have to stick around.  He could have thanked Jesus for his miraculous new vision and gone on.  But he didn’t.  Of course, he didn’t.  How could he depart so quickly after such a transformative experience?  He felt that tug, that pull, that call to follow in faith.

His name was Bartimaeus.  And he followed Jesus on the way.  His faith led him to trust.  His faith made him well.  His faith encouraged him to follow Jesus and the gathered crowd to Jerusalem, not knowing what exactly might happen next. 

His name was Bartimaeus.  And he was healed.  And he was called.

In many ways Bartimaeus taught the disciples an important lesson about discipleship.  Weren’t two of the disciples just bickering about who will have the most glorious status in Christ’s new kingdom?  They were distracted, focused on the wrong things, and ignoring Jesus in the process.  And right after that argument, a blind beggar who would not be ignored yells out to Jesus from the side of the road.  And it is he, the faithful “least” one, the poor one, the forgotten one, the one the disciples either don’t even notice or try to keep quiet, who becomes the focus of Jesus’ attention and the miracle man of the hour.  Essentially, the disciple’s focus on seeking eternal glory gets derailed by faithful disruption and total life transformation.

And perhaps this lesson in discipleship extends to us too.  We are, after all, doing this discipleship thing also, taking this faith journey, usually in the ways we know and are comfortable with.  So I wonder if perhaps we come across a story of a miraculous healing like this one and think, “well, it’s a beautiful story, but what does it have to do with me?”

After all, most of us probably aren’t sitting around waiting to be miraculously cured of our own blindness, whatever it may be, physically or spiritually.  We know from experience that healing is sometimes a long and arduous journey with many twists and turns and ups and downs, although we may have wished to skip these hard parts at times.  I know I have.

We also know that following Jesus in faith is not always easy.  It’s not always clear where we’re headed next.  Or we may think we know where we’re going at some stage along the way and we dislike the destination. 

So back we go to this lesson in discipleship.  You see, the disciples were focused on the destination, and particularly on eternal glory, thinking that only then could the fullness of God’s grace touch them and the love and mercy of Jesus be theirs. 

Bartimaeus, on the other hand, recognized that God’s grace, love, and mercy was right there, walking down the road, in the midst of the process, in the middle of the journey.  And he called out for it.

Transformation is possible in this life and recognition of God’s presence right here and now is possible.   This is what Bartimaeus taught the disciples and teaches us.  And I don’t think it is only his eyes that are opened by this recognition.

Over these past several weeks, I’ve had a really wonderful time facilitating my first adult education class here at Bay Shore Church on spiritual practices.  One of our focuses this past week was on the practice of pilgrimage, or in other words, finding God in the journey.

For centuries pilgrims have embarked on journeys to holy places and sacred sites (Jerusalem being one of the most popular destinations).  They journeyed to pray.  They traveled in hopes that they might find healing.  Sometimes they traveled to cleanse themselves of a burden in an act of confession.

Basically, the underlying principle of pilgrimage is that a physical, embodied journey can be an act of prayer.  A pilgrim can grow in relationship with God by stepping out of the familiar and moving toward the new, the holy, the sacred. 

In the Middle Ages, walking the labyrinths of the great gothic cathedrals such as the one in Chartres, France, became a popular practice.  In fact, walking the labyrinth was seen as taking a mini-pilgrimage.  The circular labyrinth path was called the road to Jerusalem and the center of the labyrinth was named the New Jerusalem.

Pilgrims were invited into a journey to the center to encounter God both on the path and at the finish.  But the journey didn’t end in the center because the pilgrims had to journey back out by the same path, back into their communities, and back into their daily lives.

The theological affirmation of pilgrimage is basically that God is at the beginning, in the middle, and at the end of the journey.  And since we are still pilgrims on life’s journey God is met on our path, here and now.  Bartimaeus experienced this.

In many ways the metaphor of pilgrimage sums up my understanding of spirituality.  Spiritual practices are not magic. They don’t make God appear as if out of thin air.  Neither are they to be used as status symbols for piety or holiness.

Spiritual practices are tools.  And they are most effective when we don’t get too caught up in the rules of a particular practice or doing it the “correct” way.  Whatever helps you stop and take stock of your life and recognize God’s presence in your life-long pilgrimage is a spiritual practice.

The pilgrim Bartimaeus was neither spiritual athlete nor sage, but a blind man forgotten by society and relegated to the streets to beg for his survival. 

The pilgrim Bartimaeus, in his bold faith and discipleship, recognized the immanent nature of God’s love and mercy.  And as a result he found healing and a new calling to follow Christ on the way.  If he could, then so can all of God’s children, including us.  Amen.