Sunday: 21st Sunday after Pentecost
Reading: Mark:10-46-52
Preacher: S. James Steen

Two weeks ago we encountered a rich man who was unable to follow Jesus because he valued his possessions too highly. Last week we encountered James and John, two of the closest followers of Jesus, whose discipleship was hindered by the value they placed on power and self-aggrandizement.

The third time, however, is a charm, at least in this middle section of Mark. Today Mark finally shows us someone who gets it; and it isn't a respected rich man or a pious disciple. It's a blind beggar named Bartimaeus. Typical of Mark, the unlikely outsider has the inside track to understanding what Jesus is up to. According to Gregory Jenks, Bartimaeus is in very rare company; for only a very few people in this entire Gospel actually understand the identity and mission of Jesus: There is Bartimaeus; then there is the unnamed woman who anoints Jesus for burial with costly ointment in anticipation of the crucifixion; and lastly, there is the Roman Centurion who, when Jesus has taken his last breath, says, "Truly, this man was God's Son!"1

Bartimaeus, this rare person with unclouded vision, who is physically blind, is the embodiment of Mark's appreciation of irony. The penniless, powerless, blind beggar is the person with true riches, real power, and 20/20 vision; and maybe he possesses these because he possesses nothing else, nothing that would prevent him from seeing that Jesus will die in order that others may live and be healed.

Although what I am about to tell you is a pale comparison to the story of Bartimaeus, as I read this passage I recalled how much I wanted to be a bishop when I was a young priest. I was even arrogant enough to believe that my ambition would be fulfilled. In the early days of my priesthood, I was one of those young clergy who, in those days, would be asked to speak to groups around the diocese like the Episcopal Churchwomen; and they would feed my ambition with comments like, "Oh, you're sure to be a Bishop someday."

Then, there came a time when I felt compelled to deal more openly with who I am. As I pondered this with a feeling of vulnerability and more than a little anxiety, it occurred to me that a decision to live with greater integrity would, in all probability, also be a decision to give up my ambition for the Episcopate. For a brief time this was very difficult. Then, before long, I was given an almost unimaginable sense of freedom. First, there was the realization that refusing to hide part of me was more than worth the pain. To use that wonderful phrase from the book Fierce Conversations, there was enormous joy in being able to come out from behind myself, to be fully present to everyone, not just to some. Then, as a lovely surprise, I discovered that I no longer wanted to be a bishop. The striving which that ambition had involved was lifted from me. So my decision to live in a more vulnerable way, which I believe was offered to me as an act of grace, was a supreme gift.

Addressing vulnerability as a gift, an oncologist named Rachel Naomi Remen writes that she has learned a great deal about life from the people she sees in her office. And she believes that this gift of learning comes from the way cancer forces people so deeply into their own vulnerability that they come to understand that we are all vulnerable, and that this vulnerability is a precious aspect of what we human beings have in common.

This, of course, was precisely what neither the rich young man nor the ambitious disciples wanted to acknowledge. And we can understand why. Acknowledging our vulnerability may be the first step on the path to healing; but we know how much easier it is to pin our hopes on material wealth, power, and all the other options that give us the illusion of being invulnerable.

The way Bartimaeus comes to terms with his vulnerability and then uses it to further his healing makes me not only admire him, but even a little envious of him. Bartimaeus has some great qualities that any of us would do well to emulate in our search for wholeness.

First of all, he is utterly courageous and determined. When he heard that Jesus was near, "he began to shout out and say, "Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!" Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly, "Son of David, have mercy on me!"" I'm sure Bartimaeus was an embarrassment to the respectable citizens of Jericho; but he couldn't have cared less. All that mattered to him was to reach the source of healing. When it comes to seeking healing for ourselves, instead of procrastinating and finding reasons to put off what we need to tackle, we could all use such chutzpah.

Further, Bartimaeus is resilient, and he doesn't play the victim, for which you could hardly blame him if he did. He must know that this Jesus is likely to become just one more disappointing healer. Surely there have been many before now. Yet he's willing to trust this new possibility as if he's never had a disappointment in his life. "Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me."

And when Bartimaeus hears that his shouts have paid off and Jesus is asking for him to come forward, there is the most wonderful sense of lightness and responsiveness. Bartimaeus throws off his cloak, which is possibly his sole remaining possession. It reminds me of the story about Socrates, who is said to have simplified his life to the point where he retained only the clothes on his back and a bowl from which he ate. Then, he accidentally dropped the bowl, and as it shattered, he shouted, "Ah, free at last."

After throwing off his cloak, Bartimaeus springs to his feet. All past disappointments are forgotten. This is a new day.

Not accidentally, Jesus then puts to Bartimaeus the identical question he has recently asked his disciples: "What do you want me to do for you?" But unlike the encumbered James and John who want thrones, Bartimaeus knows the one thing he truly needs: "My teacher, let me see again." I want to shout "Amen!" Apparently so does Jesus; for having rebuked the disciples, he says to Bartimaeus, "Go; your faith has made you well." Then Mark informs us, "Immediately he regained his sight and followed Jesus on the way." He became a disciple.

What this story teaches us about healing is just about perfect. The first lesson is that we, like Bartimaeus, must acknowledge the truth about ourselves: What is the healing that we need? What is the help we need in order to be healed? Who is the person - or the people - that can accompany us on this journey? Then we must believe that we can be healed, not perhaps over night, but over time. Even if we've accepted the inevitability of the status quo for years, we must seek healing with an open mind and heart, with prayer, hope, and a willingness to take a chance that healing will occur. And we must be tenacious, not using disappointments as excuses to give up, but as opportunities to begin anew.

I find inspiration in the example of the one I shall call Saint Bartimaeus. He, of course, regained his sight from Jesus, God's emissary. That was only the beginning of his healing; but it whetted his appetite and he knew he wanted more. So he then set off on a journey. He followed Jesus on the way. Much as I would love to know where that journey of healing led Bartimaeus, I never will. But we all have a standing invitation to discover where it leads us.

Amen.

Gregory Jenks, FaithFutures, 20th Sunday after Pentecost 2009. <http://wiki.faithfutures.org/index.php?title=Proper_30B>;