Sermon: Sunday, October 25, 2009 - Mark 10:46-52

Sermon: Sunday, October 25, 2009 - Mark10:46-52

I was born on a ranch near Colorado City, Texas, which is about 65 miles west of Abilene, and I grew up there. You’d never know it today, but in the 1950’s, it was a busy place where it was hard to find a parking place downtown, especially on a Saturday. And I was downtown on most Saturdays, because I wanted to be at the Palace Theater for the matinee, which always included cartoons and sometimes serials. Plus, the Palace was air conditioned one of the few buildings in town that boasted such a convenience in those days, so it was a great place to be. I would pay my 20 cents entrance fee and then spend my extra dime on candy – usually a giant butterfinger bar – and settle in for the afternoon.

I remember many things about that movie theater, like how gooey the floor was, but I particularly remember it because it was there that I saw my first horror picture. I went that day with Reggie Noble and Skipper Warren, and I think the movie was called “Attack of the Giant Scorpions.” Anyway, it scared me badly, especially when one of the scorpions, which had become giants because of atomic bomb tests (naturally), grabbed a lineman off a phone pole and stung him to death before my horrified eyes. I didn’t sleep for about a week.

I liked most things about downtown on a Saturday except the man who was always there between the movie theatre and the Ben Franklin store. He stood rattling coins in a tin cup, his half-closed eyes showing filmy whiteness that gave me the creeps. He was not quite as scary as the giant scorpions, but he unnerved me, and I hurried on by him, always having the irrational fear that he was going to reach out and grab me.

Then, one Saturday, the blind man was gone. I never saw him again.

At the time I didn’t know the story about Bartimaeus the blind man cured by Jesus. If I had, perhaps I would have had a little more understanding of the blind man on the sidewalk in Colorado City. Maybe I could have regarded him with compassion instead of fear.

Jericho was also a busy place; a good place for a blind beggar. The crowds went back and forth, and Bartimaeus sat in his usual place, begging for coins, just as he had done for many years. No doubt he was pretty much invisible to those who passed by every day. He was part of the landscape, not even worth noticing. Perhaps those who did stop and drop him a coin thought that it was money wasted, because, after all, nothing would ever change.

I don’t know how Bartimaeus felt. Perhaps he, too, thought that nothing would ever change, or perhaps there was still some unspoken hope inside him.

When the noisy crowd came down the road, Bartimaeus knew that Jesus was in the midst of it. No doubt he had heard stories about the healing rabbi who was creating such a sensation. Perhaps he heard people around him talking and speculating about Jesus.

And suddenly that wisp of a hope blooms inside Bartimaeus, and he begins to shout and scream and make a scene. People around him tell him to be quiet, but he won’t be silent, because he knows that more than anything in the world he wants to see, and this – however slim – is his one chance. He doesn’t act in the humble manner appropriate for a beggar. He wants the attention of this man whom he gives the Messianic title Son of David.

And like so many of the healing stories and parables about Jesus this one, too, is filled with irony. Jesus has been trying to make the disciples, his closest followers and truest believers, understand who he is, but they just don’t get it. Last week in the readings from Scripture, after Jesus had spent his time telling the disciples that he came not to be served but to serve and not to be king but to suffer and die, James and John, the sons of Zebedee, come to him and ask to sit it his right hand and his left hand. They just don’t get it.

But Bartimaeus gets it. Here down the road comes the real deal, and this blind man sees him when those all around him cannot see who he really is.

I’ll bet that after his healing, Bartimaeus never took his vision for granted. I’ll bet he saw every face and every leaf on every tree, and I’ll bet he was never blind to blind beggars as the crowds had been to him.

This story always makes me think about how little I really see. I don’t see the poor along the city streets; there is too much of interest that catches my eye instead. I don’t see the people around me for who they really are; I just see them for who I think they are. I don’t even see the beauty of the world around me, because I am usually in a hurry, or late, or worried about something that ultimately is of no consequence. And most seriously of all, I don’t see Jesus, who is always in my sight in the guise of friends and strangers and all of creation.

I do think about that blind man in Colorado City who patrolled that portion of the pavement between the Palace Theater and the Ben Franklin store, counting the parking meters as he went to know where he was. I particularly think about him as I have now developed macular degeneration and am experiencing gradually diminishing sight. My prayer is that as my vision gets worse, my ability to see Jesus Christ my Savior in his many guises will become clearer.