October 25, 2009
Job 42:1-6, 10-17
Hebrews 7:23-28
Mark, 10:46-52
+ In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
In 2004, The Guardian, a leading British newspaper, began an obituary:
Anybody who has bought a pair of over-the-counter reading glasses has reason to be thankful to the eye surgeon Patrick Trevor-Roper, who has died aged 87. Their sale was once banned, as a powerful and self-serving opticians' lobby had persuaded parliament that they could be harmful; Trevor-Roper knew they were not, and convinced his friends in parliament.1
Trevor-Roper’s passion for access to inexpensive spectacles developed out of his work as an eye surgeon. His improved the vision of hundreds, probably thousands, of patients, some of whom were blind. In writing, researching, and reflecting on his work, Trevor-Roper concluded that the recovery of sight in people who had either been born blind or lost their vision was, at best, a mixed blessing.2
He recognized that learning to see was often an overwhelming challenge, a struggle to enter a new world. Trevor Roper writes, “[The person who receives vision] acquires for the first time an interest in objects and the desire to possess them, that may lead to dissimulation, envy, theft and fraud.”3 Trevor-Roper points out that a sighted person is more aware of being viewed by others and often finds oneself lacking, displeased with one’s own appearance, and that a personal shame occurs when one is able to observe oneself. He cited specific cases where patients became less happy, more disturbed, after receiving vision. So even while he performed surgeries that gave vision to his patients, he wondered, “Is it really worth it?”
In asking Jesus to give him his sight, Bartimaeus was acting courageously. He’s asking to enter a new world. There are great advantages, but also new responsibilities, dangers, temptations, and burdens. It would be disorienting, strange, even frightening. Let’s not overlook the symbolic meaning for each of us. Receiving sight is like growing spiritually, being enlightened, entering the world of faith. Perhaps we can all see ourselves as Bartimaeus.
Repeatedly, the gospels portray human beings as blind. Jesus says that he came into the world that those who do not see may see. (Jn 9:39) He asks, “Why do you see the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not see the log that is in your own eye?” (Mt 7:3) At the resurrection, Mary Magdalene doesn’t recognize Jesus, mistaking him for a gardener. On the road to Emmaus, the disciples don’t recognize Jesus walking with them. When the disciples went out fishing and saw Jesus on the beach, they didn’t recognize him.
Jesus didn’t look different after the resurrection. The resurrection didn’t leave Jesus with bouncier hair, whiter teeth, fewer wrinkles. The disciples were finally seeing Jesus as he was – not as they imagined, not as they wanted, not as they expected. How could Messiah, God’s Son, also be the crucified and humiliated? The great English preacher, Herbert McCabe says, “They are recognizing him as the man they sort of knew and thought they knew, but didn’t really know until now.”4
The disciples didn’t understand how their own preconceptions and desires had blurred their vision of Jesus, had prevented them from seeing Jesus. Do we recognize how our own preconceptions and desires of God blind us from seeing Jesus? Do we have expectations that if unmet mean we can’t recognize God’s presence?
The beginning of seeing Jesus is being aware of our own desires and expectations of God. The beginning of prayer is desire.5 If we are perfectly happy and content, we make no room for God in our lives. So in a way it’s a blessing that human beings are restless, dissatisfied, craving fulfillment, greedy for more, and being honest about this is the first step to growth.
Jesus asked Bartimaeus, “What do you want me to do for you?” It’s the same question he had asked James and John in last Sunday’s gospel. James and John wanted to sit at either side in Jesus’ glory; they wanted preference, privilege, importance. But is that what they really wanted most of all?
Imagine that you are strolling through a fancy boutique and you see a beautiful coat. It’s perfect, but expensive. You try it on, and you look marvelous in it. You’ve gotta have it. So you throw caution and prudence to the wind and put it on the plastic.
Does that purchase represent a deeper desire? Does that coat make you feel good about yourself, somehow enhance your sense of self-worth? Does it make you feel special, less fearful, less resentful? Do you think that now you’ll be more attractive to other people? Will it win you recognition? Nice clothes certainly make a difference in how we’re perceived. In buying that coat, possibly what we’re really trying to get is acceptance and connection with other people.
When we buy that coat, we’re asking it to deliver on a lot of deeper desires, often our unknown desires. And if a coat really could bring us friendship or a lasting sense of being attractive, accepted, desirable, if it could make those feelings of being under-appreciated go away, then it would be a bargain. I’d be investing in coats, not in the mission and ministry of Jesus Christ. “What do you want me to do for you?” Give me one of those coats.
When James and John ask Jesus to give them seats of honor, they’re looking for worldly acclaim, worldly power, worldly importance – stand ins for deeper desires: meaning, love, friendship, personal growth, eternity. Once we become aware that these are our deepest desires, we begin to see that the way to fill them is not through self-seeking and rat-racing, but rather through self-giving – service, generosity, humility, mercy.
Another British Newspaper, The Independent, noted that Trevor-Roper was an aristocrat with a strong establishment pedigree, but added that he also “had a particular talent for making those less eminent than himself feel clever and interesting.” It’s the opposite of James and John: worldly importance and recognition, trumped by graciousness, by serving the interest of others, by helping others feel special, attractive, desirable.
Bartimaeus was sitting by the roadside begging. He called out to Jesus, who responded to him. Bartimaeus jumped up and left his mantle, his cloak which would have been spread on the ground to receive alms. Bartimaeus left everything he had and came to Jesus.
“What do you want me to do for you?” Bartimaeus asks Jesus not for glory, nor wealth, nor honor, but for sight. Bartimaeus is ready to enter a different world – full of new responsibilities and challenges, the world of faith. He receives sight, and Jesus says that Bartimaeus’ faith has saved him. “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believed.” In other words, when we begin to trust Jesus, we will see Jesus. The story ends with Bartimaeus following Jesus in the way, with Bartimaeus being a disciple.
“What do you want me to do for you?” How would you answer Jesus? At our vestry retreat last month, that was essentially one of the questions on which we prayed and reflected. It requires time, repeated reflection, deep-digging, honesty. It may be that as we crudely pour out our desires, we’re able to refine them – albeit quite gradually. Then we may begin to see our deeper needs, and then sooner or later we might find ourselves asking Jesus, “What can I do for you?”
Bartimaeus received sight and then responded by following Jesus. He received and gave. As we grow spiritually, we desire more and more to respond to God. This is the context for stewardship. We create a fuller, deeper relationship by receiving and giving. This is what we’re doing together, and it’s a great blessing to be part of it.
+ In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
The Rev. Lane Davenport
1 Caroline Richmond, ‘Obituary: Patrick Trevor-Roper,’ The Guardian, May 6, 2004.
2 Donald Capps, Jesus the Village Psychiatrist, Westminster John Knox Press (2008), p. 78f.
3 Quoted by Capps, p. 79.
4 Herbert McCabe, God, Christ, and Us, Continuum (2003), p. 94.
5 Ann & Barry Ulanov, Primary Speech, Westminster John Knox Press (1982), p. 13.