by Rev. Carolyn Estrada
Mark 10:46-52
Jesus and his disciples came to Jericho. As he and his disciples and a large crowd were leaving Jericho, Bartimaeus son of Timaeus, a blind beggar, was sitting by the roadside. When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, 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!” Jesus stood still and said, “Call him here.” And they called the blind man, saying to him, “Take heart; get up, he is calling you.” So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus. Then Jesus said to him, “What do you want me to do for you?” The blind man said to him, “My teacher, let me see again.” Jesus said to him, “Go; your faith has made you well.” Immediately he regained his sight and followed him on the way.
Jesus and his disciples accompanied by a large crowd are leaving Jericho.
Imagine the procession: the jostling and confusion, the banter, the calling back-and-forth among friends and acquaintances, the barking dogs, the dry dust of the road being kicked up as they walk along… and, on either side of the road, outside of the action, we find ourselves among the crowd of the lame, the halt, the blind. From a distance we can hear them coming, approaching closer and closer. We find our curiosity mounting, our excitement… We’re going to get to see him, this man we’ve heard so much about!
And then he’s here! Passing along the road between us!
Suddenly we hear Bartemaeus call out: “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” and suddenly we find ourselves, too, joining in the cry, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”
The words are out of our mouths before we know it.
Are we crying out out of fear? Afraid that we might be knocked over or trampled upon in the confusion? Spat upon?
Are we crying out out of desperation? Hoping for a bit of bread, perhaps, or a coin, if he has it to spare?
Are we crying out out of longing, a deep hunger for what they have, those “insiders” around Jesus, wanting some of – whatever it is they’ve got! – for ourselves?
The attention of the crowd around Jesus, inward focused, shifts, directs itself toward the beggar, towards us, and turns abusive: “Be quiet!” “Leave us alone!” “Let Jesus pass!” “Don’t bother him!”
Or, perhaps, those are our own inner voices we hear: “Why would God care?” “I’m not worthy.” “Why should Jesus bother with me?” “I should just be quiet. He probably doesn’t know I’m here anyway…”
But Bartemaeus – and, I hope, the beggar in all of us – persists: “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”
And Jesus, hearing, stands still.
Imagine the quiet falling around him: the noises abating, conversation trailing off as people become attuned to Jesus’ stillness, the jostling of bodies and appendages slowing, coming to a rest, and, in the silence, the quiet attention of waiting to see what is going to happen.
Imagine Bartemaeus’ anticipation – excitement, surely, some hope – and fear as well, as he hears the shift in the atmosphere. How will Jesus respond? How will the crowd respond? Is it safe?!!
We have cried out to Jesus – “Have mercy on me!” and now – now, something is going to happen.
What?
From the midst of this stillness, Jesus tells his disciples: “Call him here.”
We have called.
Jesus responds with a call of his own: “Call him here.” “Call her here.” “Call them here.”
Now what?
Bartemaeus responds with alacrity: he sheds his cloak, leaps up, and runs to Jesus.
And we?
Do we hold back? Are we afraid to come? What might happen if we leave our spot at the side of the road? If we move from the periphery into the center of life around Jesus? Is it safe? Will we be able to find our way back to our familiar spot again? Will we get lost in the crowds and the confusion, in the unknown?
Are we embarrassed? Who might see us? What might people say? Will we be rejected by Jesus? By others?
Do we come tentatively?
Is there that part of us that says, “Oh, come on Jesus – you can show me mercy from there! Do I really have to step out of my comfort zone?!”
However we make our way, when we get to Jesus, he asks: “What do you want me to do for you?”
Ah, there’s our question – what we’ve been wanting to hear!
“What do you want me to do for you?”
Think of the possibilities!
Bread? A coin? Lots of coins?!!! World peace?!! A seat at the left or the right in glory?
Sit with that question for a few moments, hearing Jesus asking you, “What do you want me to do for you?” while we follow Bartemaeus’ for a few moments.
“Let me see again,” Bartemaeus requests.
And Jesus answers, “Go, your faith has made you well.”
Go, your faith has made you well.
And we are told that indeed Bartemaeus could see again.
But I’m not sure that the restoration of Bartemaeus’ sight is the important lesson here.
I’m not sure the lesson is even his cry for mercy which begins their encounter.
I think it’s Bartemaeus’ willingness to go to Jesus, to respond to Jesus’ call to come to him: to go to the center of that life around Jesus, to risk letting go of the security of where he was, and moving into the unknown, trusting the relationship that had called him.
The restoration of sight was a bonus that was part of a far greater healing: it was part of the transformation, the being-made-well, that comes from the relationship to which Jesus called him.
Bartemaeus is changed.
Jesus gives him sight – in his eyes, and in his heart.
Bartemaeus has no need to return to his beggar’s spot at the side of the road.
However, Bartemaeus doesn’t even return to the life he had before he became blind.
Scripture tells us that after his encounter with Jesus, he “followed him on the way.”
It isn’t just his sight that is changed; it is Bartemaeus himself.
His response is a reminder that Jesus is not in the business of restoration – casting a blessing by the side of the road to “fix” something so that one can resume life-as-before. Jesus is in the business of transformation.
Bartemaeus cannot go back to “life as usual” – because he is different.
And here we are, like Bartemaeus, calling upon God: “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”
Have you been sitting with your response to Jesus’ question: “What do you want me to do for you?”
“What do you want me to do for you?”
We’ve all had times when, unbidden, we’ve TOLD Jesus what we want:
Heal my mother, daughter, sister, husband, friend…
Help my father stop drinking!
Keep my son safe…
Lift my depression…
Sometimes we’ve gone to the mat with Jesus, demanding, having what I often refer to as lapel-grabbing “chats” in which we’re quite clear about what we want.
And often what we want is “fix what’s wrong – but don’t muck around with the status quo!”
I don’t really want to be different – I just want things around me to be different!
And there’s a danger in hearing today’s text.
Too often we want to take Jesus’ words: “Your faith has made you well,” and use them as a litmus test for our own faith.
We place our order – and God complies.
Or, we think that’s what’s supposed to happen, if we’re a “Good Christian.” If we have sufficient faith.
If I ask Jesus for something, and I don’t get what I want, it’s easy to fall into a kind of balance-sheet thinking:
Has Jesus been listening?
Does it mean I don’t have faith?
Wasn’t I calling loudly enough?
Wasn’t I worthy?
Did I do something wrong? Am I being punished? Doesn’t God care?
We’re focused on “fix it” – on restoration, not transformation.
We hear “What do you want” and “let me see again” and think that Jesus is a kind of clerk in the Miracle Mail Order Business, a kind of middle-man, processing our request, filling our orders from the shelves of some heavenly warehouse.
We’re focused on the “doing what I ask” portion of the story.
Perhaps we might more appropriately be focused on the “doing what Jesus asks” portion.
“Call him to me.” “Call her to me.” “Call them to me.”
I believe the story hinges on Bartemaeus’ response to Jesus.
Jesus calls.
Bartemaeus comes.
Jesus calls.
We come.
Our eyesight may – or may not – be restored. Our eyes may not see again. But this I do know: in leaving the safety of our begging-spot by the side of the road, in letting go of the security of what we know, regardless of how diminished, and coming into the center of life with Jesus, the eyes of our heart are surely opened, and we are healed.
That “call response” is the faith that makes us well!
“Call him to me,” Jesus says.
And Bartemaeus comes.
“Call them to me,” Jesus says.
Can we come?
Can we move from where we are on the periphery of life with Jesus into the center of life in him?
Can we open ourselves to the transformation of that relationship?
For truly, Jesus wants us to be well.
Hear him saying today: “Call them to me.”
Call them to me.
Let us leap from our places, and come!
Amen.
