Mark 10: 46-52
October 28, 2018
First Presbyterian Church, Sterling IL
Christina Berry
In a week when there was so much sorrow and violence in the news, I considered writing a new sermon, with a different text. But I remembered reading recently what a theologian had said about these times: now, more than ever, we need to hear words of hope. This text is a story of hope, and story of Jesus going up to Jerusalem for his last week, a week of sorrow and violence that ultimately ends in hope. So let’s listen for God’s hope in Mark 10:46-52.
They 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.
The word of the Lord.
Thanks be to God.
The son of Timaeus remembered what it was like to see.
He remembered the bright flash of a bird’s wing,
the way the morning dew sparkled on the grass.
Sometimes in his dreams, he would walk out from his house
and the darkness would lift and the sunlight would break through,
and he could see his house, his village, the women going to the well,
the children running along beside them.
Sometimes in his dreams he’d see the faces of the people he loved.
But then he would awaken, with tears on his face.
He’d wash his face, those useless eyes,
gather his cloak,
and go out to beg.
Today, the son of Timaeus decided, today would be different.
The road from Jericho to Jerusalem was busy these days,
with all the faithful going up to the temple for Passover.
The son of Timaeus had heard about the Galilean,
how he healed the sick and made the lame to walk.
He’d heard of how the Galilean had made a blind man see.
Surely this Jesus, son of Joseph, would take pity on the son of Timaeus.
If we were to follow the son of Timaeus to the roadside, the road that goes up to Jerusalem from Jericho, we’d see how the terrain changes, from the dusty, dry area around Jericho to a more Mediterranean climate as we make the ascent to Jerusalem. We’d proceed cautiously for most of the eighteen miles, since the road is notorious for the robbers who accost travelers here. We’d probably hear the footsteps and see the dust before we could actually make out the faces of Jesus and his followers.
We might not see Jesus right off, surrounded as he is by the men and women who travel with him. Some of them have been with him from the start, from the moment they saw his face and heard his voice. Others, like Bartimaeus, have walked out to the road from nearby villages, hoping for an encounter with this man they say is the Messiah.
Let’s sit here for a moment by the Jericho road, and wait with Bartimaeus.
It’s a hard thing, being blind.
You miss out on a lot of information.
You have to rely on your other senses, on what you hear, feel, smell, taste.
Simple little obstacles, like a large stone in your path,
can trip you up, cause you to stumble, even fall face down on the path.
You miss the subtle cues of body language, or facial expressions,
that might hint at what someone is thinking or feeling, but not saying.
You rely on other people to lead and guide you,
to give you the information you lack.
It’s hard to imagine how anyone who is blind would want to stay that way.
But there are some things about not seeing that might be nice.
Imagine if you couldn’t see the violence and bloodshed in the world.
Imagine if you couldn’t see the cruel twist of a person’s mouth
as they insult or belittle people of another country or race.
Imagine if you didn’t have to ever feel obligated to respond to injustice,
because you just didn’t see it!
Imagine never feeling a duty to help others,
because you consider yourself unable,
or because it is just too hard.
Imagine never looking at yourself in the mirror
and seeing yourself for who you really are,
with all your strengths and scars,
with all your flaws and failures.
But then Jesus comes down the road.
He isn’t looking for you, or at least you don’t think so.
But maybe you’ve been looking for him.
Maybe what he has to offer is exactly what you need.
Maybe you want to meet him, to see him, to be healed.
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.
The word of the Lord.
Thanks be to God.
The son of Timaeus remembered what it was like to see.
He remembered the bright flash of a bird’s wing,
the way the morning dew sparkled on the grass.
Sometimes in his dreams, he would walk out from his house
and the darkness would lift and the sunlight would break through,
and he could see his house, his village, the women going to the well,
the children running along beside them.
Sometimes in his dreams he’d see the faces of the people he loved.
But then he would awaken, with tears on his face.
He’d wash his face, those useless eyes,
gather his cloak,
and go out to beg.
Today, the son of Timaeus decided, today would be different.
The road from Jericho to Jerusalem was busy these days,
with all the faithful going up to the temple for Passover.
The son of Timaeus had heard about the Galilean,
how he healed the sick and made the lame to walk.
He’d heard of how the Galilean had made a blind man see.
Surely this Jesus, son of Joseph, would take pity on the son of Timaeus.
If we were to follow the son of Timaeus to the roadside, the road that goes up to Jerusalem from Jericho, we’d see how the terrain changes, from the dusty, dry area around Jericho to a more Mediterranean climate as we make the ascent to Jerusalem. We’d proceed cautiously for most of the eighteen miles, since the road is notorious for the robbers who accost travelers here. We’d probably hear the footsteps and see the dust before we could actually make out the faces of Jesus and his followers.
We might not see Jesus right off, surrounded as he is by the men and women who travel with him. Some of them have been with him from the start, from the moment they saw his face and heard his voice. Others, like Bartimaeus, have walked out to the road from nearby villages, hoping for an encounter with this man they say is the Messiah.
Let’s sit here for a moment by the Jericho road, and wait with Bartimaeus.
It’s a hard thing, being blind.
You miss out on a lot of information.
You have to rely on your other senses, on what you hear, feel, smell, taste.
Simple little obstacles, like a large stone in your path,
can trip you up, cause you to stumble, even fall face down on the path.
You miss the subtle cues of body language, or facial expressions,
that might hint at what someone is thinking or feeling, but not saying.
You rely on other people to lead and guide you,
to give you the information you lack.
It’s hard to imagine how anyone who is blind would want to stay that way.
But there are some things about not seeing that might be nice.
Imagine if you couldn’t see the violence and bloodshed in the world.
Imagine if you couldn’t see the cruel twist of a person’s mouth
as they insult or belittle people of another country or race.
Imagine if you didn’t have to ever feel obligated to respond to injustice,
because you just didn’t see it!
Imagine never feeling a duty to help others,
because you consider yourself unable,
or because it is just too hard.
Imagine never looking at yourself in the mirror
and seeing yourself for who you really are,
with all your strengths and scars,
with all your flaws and failures.
But then Jesus comes down the road.
He isn’t looking for you, or at least you don’t think so.
But maybe you’ve been looking for him.
Maybe what he has to offer is exactly what you need.
Maybe you want to meet him, to see him, to be healed.
So you call out to him.
You call out in a loud voice,
You call out in a loud voice,
because you really want him to hear you.
You call out in a loud voice,
because your plea is coming from the deepest place in your soul:
Jesus! Son of David! Have mercy on me!
The people around you are shushing you,
because there is always someone who wants to shush other people.
But you don’t care.
Because you don’t want to be blind anymore.
You can remember what it was like to see,
even when you wanted to avert your eyes
You call out in a loud voice,
because your plea is coming from the deepest place in your soul:
Jesus! Son of David! Have mercy on me!
The people around you are shushing you,
because there is always someone who wants to shush other people.
But you don’t care.
Because you don’t want to be blind anymore.
You can remember what it was like to see,
even when you wanted to avert your eyes
So you cry out again, even louder this time:
Son of David! Have mercy on me!
Then, even though you can see him, he sees you.
He has heard you cry out!
He has stopped to listen to you.
“Get up!” they’re telling you. “Take heart!”
“Get up! He’s calling you!”
For a split second you think about grabbing your cloak.
It’s everything you own, all you have to ward off the cold in the night.
But then you’ve jumped up and your cloak is on the roadside behind you.
You run to Jesus.
Somehow you feel his eyes on you.
He sees you.
He sees you for who you really are, everything about you,
and he asks you, “What do you want me to do for you?”
What do you want me to do for you?
Son of David! Have mercy on me!
Then, even though you can see him, he sees you.
He has heard you cry out!
He has stopped to listen to you.
“Get up!” they’re telling you. “Take heart!”
“Get up! He’s calling you!”
For a split second you think about grabbing your cloak.
It’s everything you own, all you have to ward off the cold in the night.
But then you’ve jumped up and your cloak is on the roadside behind you.
You run to Jesus.
Somehow you feel his eyes on you.
He sees you.
He sees you for who you really are, everything about you,
and he asks you, “What do you want me to do for you?”
What do you want me to do for you?
You can barely get the words out:
“My teacher, let me see again.”
And he does.
When it happens, you realize that you had always been blind,
even when you had your sight.
You can see so much that you had not see before,
so much beauty,
so much pain;
so much brutality,
so much glory.
It’s only natural that you’d leave everything behind to follow him.
Having seen who he is, having seen who you really are,
you join the others,
and you go with him.
In a few days, you’re still with him, and you’re on the roadside again.
It’s the same road – the road that goes up to Jerusalem,
only now you’re outside the city gates
and the crowd is with you beside the road.
This time, you can see him coming.
He is riding on a donkey,
and you can see in his face that something is different.
You see that he is coming into Jerusalem,
and you see that he is doing this for you,
and know that it will be difficult, and painful,
but that somehow, it will be alright.
You remember that day when he first saw you,
and how he called to you.
You see the cloaks, rough homespun like yours, laid out on the road.
You see the palm branches, waving wildly in the blue sky
outside the city gates of Jerusalem.
And you call out, as you once did, but now you say,
“Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna in the highest!
Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!
Hosanna in the highest!”
Even in the midst of the crowd’s roar,
you can hear his loving voice.
You can remember what it was like to be blind.
You have decided you would rather see again.
And you still get chills when you recall him asking
“What do you want me to do for you?”
You wish that everyone could see his face.
You wish that everyone could know that feeling,
could hear the others around them saying:
“Take heart. Get up. He is calling you.”
Amen.
"Blind Man" Slim and the Supreme Angels
And he does.
When it happens, you realize that you had always been blind,
even when you had your sight.
You can see so much that you had not see before,
so much beauty,
so much pain;
so much brutality,
so much glory.
It’s only natural that you’d leave everything behind to follow him.
Having seen who he is, having seen who you really are,
you join the others,
and you go with him.
In a few days, you’re still with him, and you’re on the roadside again.
It’s the same road – the road that goes up to Jerusalem,
only now you’re outside the city gates
and the crowd is with you beside the road.
This time, you can see him coming.
He is riding on a donkey,
and you can see in his face that something is different.
You see that he is coming into Jerusalem,
and you see that he is doing this for you,
and know that it will be difficult, and painful,
but that somehow, it will be alright.
You remember that day when he first saw you,
and how he called to you.
You see the cloaks, rough homespun like yours, laid out on the road.
You see the palm branches, waving wildly in the blue sky
outside the city gates of Jerusalem.
And you call out, as you once did, but now you say,
“Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna in the highest!
Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!
Hosanna in the highest!”
Even in the midst of the crowd’s roar,
you can hear his loving voice.
You can remember what it was like to be blind.
You have decided you would rather see again.
And you still get chills when you recall him asking
“What do you want me to do for you?”
You wish that everyone could see his face.
You wish that everyone could know that feeling,
could hear the others around them saying:
“Take heart. Get up. He is calling you.”
Amen.
"Blind Man" Slim and the Supreme Angels
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