Bartimaeus, Teacher of Mercy - Mark 10:46-52
Pastors are supposed to love people, everyone really. It’s in the job description. And we try. But my track record last week wasn’t great. There was this guy at Walgreens who was, let’s say, challenging to love. I was there to get my flu shot. By the way, I hope you get yours, too, and all your vaccines because you’re a pretty easy group to love and I want you to stay healthy this winter. Anyway, while I was browsing the aisles, I noticed a couple in there without their masks on. No judgment, but I tried to stay clear. The store was uncrowded, and they kept passing by me closely, lingering and talking loudly. I’d move away and then it would happen again. It kind of felt intentional, but I can’t be sure. I started to feel judgy. I went to the check-out line, and gave the person in front of me plenty of room. The couple also got in line and stood right behind me, still talking loudly. How rude, I thought. And so was their conversation. The man was complaining about Californians. I’m from California. He said all Californians are, and I quote, “a bunch of Nazi liberals.” I did not turn around to engage him, but I really wanted to assure him that I have never harbored Nazi sympathies. I mentally prepared a speech to explain that whatever political or social positions I do hold come from an honest and ongoing wrestling with the complex moral universe we find ourselves in. I was offended, and rattled. I thought ill of him. How could he say such a thing? He doesn’t even know me.
Afterward, as I walked to my car, there was a man in a wheelchair a ways down the sidewalk. He shouted to get my attention. I assume he wanted to ask for money. Panhandling is an obvious part of that moral complexity I just mentioned. Still rattled, I didn’t want to engage him, and kept walking. He shouted louder. I got in my car and pulled out of the parking lot, not quite sure if I was feeling anger, guilt, or despair. Whatever it was, I was not able to love those two men very well that day.
There is nothing extraordinary about the story I just told you - it’s the everyday stuff we all navigate. Things feel a bit rough out there. We know that tribalism is on the rise, which is another way of saying we have become more adept at dehumanizing one another. Anger, fear, and suspicion are on the rise, too, not only in other people but, I suspect, in ourselves, too. These days, there are fist fights on airplanes and at school board meetings. There’s a pandemic of a different sort happening, one that afflicts the human heart. It’s certainly not new. The church calls it spiritual blindness, which is the inability to see ourselves and one another as Jesus would have us see. And it’s at the heart of an old story about a blind beggar named Bartimaeus.
Maybe he was the first century version of the guy in the wheelchair outside of Walgreens. In the story, Bartimaeus has exactly four things working against him. He’s blind, which people associated with sin. He’s a beggar, strike two. He is Bar-Timaeus, which means the son of Timaeus, and Timaeus means defiled or unclean. On the fourth count, there’s a good chance that he has presented himself to Jesus completely naked, having thrown down his cloak. He shouts at Jesus, who stops. “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” shouts Bartimaeus. Jesus asks him, “What do you want me to do for you?” “My teacher, let me see again.” Jesus restores his sight, and Bartimaeus becomes a disciple, following him on the way.
It’s a wonderful healing story. Restored sight is no small thing. But here’s the real genius of how the story is told - all of the details show us one thing: Bartimaeus is not the blind one. Spoiler alert, it’s the disciples. In fact, even before his sight is restored, he is the only one who can see Jesus for who he really is. “Jesus, Son of David,” he shouts. He is calling Jesus a king, the true king. Everyone tries to shush Bartimaeus because those are dangerous, political, even seditious words under Roman occupation. This is remarkable foreshadowing. Right after the healing of Bartimaeus in Mark’s gospel comes the story of Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, when people throw down their cloaks, hail Jesus as a king with shouts of “Hosanna!”, and put their hope in the coming kingdom. Blind Bartimaeus is the first to proclaim Palm Sunday. His eyes may be blind, but his spiritual sight is crystal clear.
Jesus is a different kind of king, who has a very different kind of kingdom, which Bartimaeus can see. When Jesus walks by, he asks for mercy. Not power, or glory, or money, but mercy. It turns out that mercy is the main currency in this very different kingdom. It’s the stuff Jesus always talks about - the forgiveness of sin, helping the poor and the outcast, loving your neighbor. Bartimaeus understands this sooner and more completely than just about anyone else. Just last week, Jesus asks the same question of James and John, “What do you want me to do for you?” They ask for power and glory, to sit at Jesus’ right hand and left, seats of honor in Jesus’ cabinet when he takes the throne. Even his closest disciples can’t quite see how different this kingdom is, one that runs entirely on mercy. They can see well physically, but their spiritual sight isn’t so great.
We are a lot like James and John, enthusiastic about Jesus but still not quite getting it much of the time. We share a kind of spiritual blindness with them. But I’m hopeful, because Jesus is a healer. The more time we spend with him, our spiritual sight will be restored. Hearts can soften. People can re-humanize one another. Mercy can become our go-to starting point.
Do you know the story of the legendary black musician, Daryl Davis? Davis has an usual calling: he hangs out with Ku Klux Klan members and neo-Nazis and chips away at their racism (NYT). When he experienced racism at the young age of 10, Davis began to ask how people can hate someone they don’t even know. Years later, after playing a show one night, he happened to meet the Imperial Wizard of the KKK, Roger Kelly, who wanted to visit about the show. They ordered drinks and sat down, the first time Kelly had ever had drinks with a black man. Davis asked him his question, how can you hate me when you don’t even know me? That was the first of many conversations. Against all odds, they became friends. Davis attended KKK rallies to hear his friend speak. Talk about courage. Over the years, they worked hard to understand one another. Eventually Roger Kelly left the KKK, and sent Daryl Davis his wizard robe and white hood, grateful for the relationship that helped heal Kelly’s heart of the dehumanizing racism that plagued it. Their story is living proof that spiritual blindness can be healed, and that mercy for one another can work wonders.
As we consider the message of hope and healing in the gospel this morning, we can imagine Jesus stopping and asking us his question. “What do you want me to do for you?” What shall we answer? We would do well to ask for mercy, following the good example of blind Bartimaeus. Jesus has shown us the way of mercy, which has the power to heal our many blindnesses. Bartimaeus shows us the next step, too, which is to follow Jesus on the way, toward a kingdom that runs entirely on mercy.