11:00 service, Sun., Oct. 29 - Reformation Sunday
I should know by now that anything marketed as easy rarely is. It’s no secret that I’m no cook—but I really thought this time would be different. Last Christmas the residents planned a Christmas potluck dinner, and I was so looking forward to a quiet evening with my most immediate Wilshire family. It was Christmas, so I really did want to bring something that I didn’t buy like I usually do. My mom was proud of my rare cooking initiative and cheered me on to “just” make her “easy” brown rice. You just throw in the soup, the butter, the rice, and let it bake—350 degrees for an hour. No work, not much prep, easy. Has anyone else learned that anything prefaced by the word just is bound to be complicated?
Only one small little detail was missing from the recipe that I made an educated guess about. The recipe was entitled “Mom’s brown rice.” What I learned in the end, as I showed up with still-crunchy rice, is that brown meant the final color of the dish, not the type of rice I should have used, as white rice will actually bake in an hour, whereas brown rice will not. Go figure.
In much of the same way, if we’re honest, don’t miracle and healing stories stir up a bit of skepticism in our hearts? Fairy-tale fixes are for Disney, not for real life. Bippity bobbity boo, abracadabra, even shazam—whatever Halloweenesque terms you want to give to the miracle story in today’s gospel seem legitimate. Wasn’t there part of you that heard this Scripture read and thought something to the effect of, “ah, another day, another miracle by Jesus.” The man who is blind calls out to Jesus; Jesus stops, hears him, asks him what he wants; and Jesus the divine miracle worker says, “Go, your faith has made you well” and he’s healed, immediately! Ta-dah! Healed, good as new, happy ever after.
I’ve got to be honest…I read this text with some amount of intimidation … not because it’s too hard, but almost because it’s too easy for me to believe at first. I watch Benny Hinn and other faith healers on TV with the same disdain. They make healing, faith, and Christianity just too easy. They say just pray more, just have more faith, just send us money for an autographed Bible, and you too can be healed! It breaks my heart to hear story after story of hurting, desperate people, hoping above hopes for a miracle, and giving all they have to Benny Hinn in hopes that he can fairy-tale fix their lives.
But we must quickly admit that Jesus is not Benny Hinn. Jesus’ miracles aren’t abracadabra spectacles; in fact, half the time, Jesus doesn’t want people to tell anyone that he has performed a miracle. He’s certainly not playing to sellout crowds at stadiums to show off his abilities. Not because he is ashamed, but because Jesus doesn’t want to be a merely a spectacle like many of the other miracle workers of Jesus’ day. Jesus wants to be real. Jesus is for real, and that is scary to folks. So scary that this same crowd that pushes blind Bartimaeus away from Jesus as they celebrate him will soon be the crowd that yells to crucify Jesus. And lest we suffer from the same sin of the crowd that shushes the blind beggar … lest we too quickly dismiss what God wants us to see, we must pay attention to what a man who is blind can help us to see.
First of all, Bartimaeus has a name. Most of the other people Jesus healed are nameless. Besides Lazarus, whom Jesus raised from the dead, the gospel writers don’t name most of the individuals Jesus healed. We know them as the woman who suffered hemorrhages, a child with epilepsy, a man who waited by the pool to be healed, the woman at the well, a man who was paralyzed and lowered to Jesus. All healed by Jesus and never a name given. The gospel writers focus more attention on Jesus the miracle worker and less on those needing a miracle, which isn’t a bad thing. These stories of healing and redemption help people begin to know who Jesus and what he’s up to. Jesus loves, cares for, and restores the brokenhearted, even the poor, the sick, the sinners. He loves all people in the name of God. Huh. Wonder what that’s about?
Bartimaeus wonders, too. No, actually, Bartimaeus knows. Part of the grace evident in the story of Bartimaeus is that we do have a snapshot of a person with a name, a face, a story, and a life full of hurt, much like each and every one of us whom God knows by name as well. It’s a reminder that Bartimaeus is a person, a flesh-and-blood human being, not a mere token of a particular infirmity or a class in society. No matter whether they are amed or unnamed, no matter the physical or spiritual infirmity, Jesus sees them all, knows them all, and restores them all. What has Bartimaeus learned from hearing about what Jesus has done? He has learned the name of God.
Bartimaeus, a person who is blind, poor, sits by the road, a person who physically can’t see Jesus, but knows it’s God he calls to, shouts out, cries, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” A man who once could see has gone blind and cries out, not to a Benny-Hinn flash-in-the-pants miracle worker, but cries out to Jesus, Son of David, Son of God, for help. Bartimaeus sees more than the crowd does.
Many in the crowd ordered him, sternly shushed him—“be quiet; don’t bother Jesus; he’s a busy, important person with things to do and people to see; he doesn’t have time for you, so don’t rain on our parade!” For all they see, how little they know of Jesus. Are they protecting Jesus here, or themselves? Maybe they don’t want Jesus to see this poor, blind beggar, because then they will have to truly see him, too. If they really see Bartimaeus, they’ll have to feel his pain and sorrow and hear his cries. And they’re trying to have a party! The crowd doesn’t want to dwell on the discomfort. We don’t like to dwell on others’ discomfort. It’s not that we’re all intentionally mean individuals, but we can’t fix it, we can’t make the person well, we can’t make it better, as much as we want to, and so we want to forget about it …but perhaps we too quickly dismiss that which God would have us see.
Thanks be to God that Bartimaeus doesn’t buy into their shushing. Bartimaeus has a heart full of holy chutzpah; he’s got a bit of gumption within him, and he keeps on yelling, he keeps on crying, “Jesus, Son of David, Have mercy on me!” And what does Jesus do? Jesus stands still, listens, and calls to him. Jesus stops what he is doing to embrace what everyone else tries to push away. When Jesus asks what Bartimaeus wants, Bartimaeus again names and claims his faith in God: “My teacher, let me see again.”
Jesus listens; Jesus responds; Jesus redeems. When we call, God responds, and there is hope in that. Much like God does with Job. Job cries out to God at the injustice, the pain, the grief—and God responds. Job too confesses, “Now, my eyes see you.” So Amy, what is this teaching us? Job and Bartimaeus get what they want; why don’t we? Why don’t we get the fairy-tale fixes when we call? Why does my husband still suffer; why does my heart still grieve; why am I still sick?
My friends, what we see here is not God waving a magic wand; we see hurting human beings whom God knows by name. As the psalmist asks of God more than once, “Who am I that you are mindful of me?” We see Bartimaeus and Job cry out to God, knowing, trusting, hoping that God hears them, God sees them, God knows them. This is the faith that makes them well. God indeed knows, hears, sees, and cares, and this, this is their redemption; this is our redemption.
We know it’s too easy to presume that all our physical and worldly infirmities and heartaches will magically disappear. You know you still hurt; you know you wake up some days asking or even screaming, “Why, God?” You know getting out of bed some days seems pointless. You know it’s not fair. We know, too, if we stop to peer hard enough into your eyes and behind the smiles. What can a man who is blind teach us to see? Bartimaeus teaches us that even when blinded by grief or hurt or the past or the unknown, there is real, amazing grace and we will see again when we call out.
One of my favorite books when I was younger was a Little Golden Book called Mr. Bell’s Fixit Shop. Mr. Bell was quite the handyman who made his living by fixing things. The story goes that whether it was broken locks or clocks, broken plates or skates, broken pans or fans—and, believe it or not, even those things that don’t rhyme—Mr. Bell could fix them all. The sign outside his business read: “Mr. Bell’s Fixit Shop: I can fix everything, except broken hearts.” Mr. Bell was really quite confident and comfortable with his ability to fix everything until he encounters Jill.
Jill interrupts Mr. Bell’s dinner one night with a desperate fixit emergency. She holds her doll and best friend Rosie out to Mr. Bell with tears in her eyes. She explains, “Grandma’s new puppy tore Rosie to shreds.” Now, Mr. Bell is a handyman, not a doll restorer; it’s after hours, he’s in the middle of supper, and you can tell he’s fearful that this shredded doll is one thing he can’t fix. But instead of sending Jill away, he says, “You go home, leave Rosie with me, and everything will be ok.” Mr. Bell’s not sure he can fix Rosie, but he leaves his hot supper and stays up all night trying.
In the end, Rosie’s not perfectly restored, but Mr. Bell succeedd in getting Rosie back to Jill, and Jill smiles again. A few days later, Jill is helping Mr. Bell clean his windows in exchange for his fixing Rosie, and she reads his sign. Jill says, “Mr. Bell, you need to change your sign. When you fixed Rosie, you fixed my broken heart.”
Mr. Bell knew he couldn’t work a miracle, he couldn’t make things brand-new again, he couldn’t actually take away Jill’s pain and hurt, but he stayed up all night trying. He didn’t shush her as the crowd shushed Bartimaeus; he saw her pain and inconvenienced himself to do what he could to help fix Rosie. That, my friends, is our task. We can’t fix all those who hurt around us, but we can leave our supper and stay up all night trying. We can choose to see, to feel for those who suffer around and amidst us even days, months, years after we think, “Oh, they’re ok now.” I’m not sure a broken heart is ever truly perfectly mended or restored here on earth. And I’m positive that it’s never easily or magically as good as it was before.
But I do know, just as Bartimaeus knows, that when you call God by name, God listens, God responds, God restores. It’s no easy fairy-tale fix; it is both real and amazing grace. We are all Bartimaeus in some way. Broken, blind, poor, desperately hurting and desperate to be fixed, to be seen and heard. May our faith make us strong to yell above the crowd, to take heart, to get up, and whether we leap up and sprint to Jesus or we limp or crawl or need our friends to lower us through the roof to Jesus, may we all come to Jesus to say, “My teacher, let me see again.” Amen.
under the chosen Sunday to hear audio of sermon (mp3 format) (beginning March 11, 2007).
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