A Cure for Blindness!

David Orendorff · Mark 10:46-52 · October 29, 2006

The healing of blind Bartimaeus is a favorite of many a Christian. It is the gospel of Mark’s last witness to who Jesus is before he enters Jerusalem for his final days.

The story functions on two levels. On a simple level it is the story about Bartimaeus, the son of Timaeus. Bartimaeus was a blind beggar. In first century Palestine the life of those with challenging physical conditions like blindness, was hard. The blind man and all those like him were absolutely dependent on the caring of others. Without compassion there was nothing. There was no public assistance, no medical care and no jobs. The blind, the lame, the deaf, the paralyzed, the mentally ill or slow, were simply on their own and dependent upon the mercy of others.

The fact Bartimaeus is begging means that his father, family or friends do not support him, that his existence is fully dependent upon passing strangers. So desperate is Bartimaeus that he will not be silent when scolded for calling to Jesus. He must have compassion or he will die. And what he really wants, when Jesus asks him, is to see and so end his beggar’s life. So compassionate is Jesus that though he is on his way to his death, he calls Bartimaeus to him, and listens to his pain and crying need.

Then a strange thing happens. We often read this passage in such a way that we think Jesus healed Bartimaeus. But a careful reading indicates that Bartimaeus’ sight is restored not by Jesus but by Bartimaeus’ faith in Jesus, in God. Though Bartimaeus has asked Jesus to heal him, Jesus says it is Bartimaeus’ faith that has given him sight. Bartimaeus has faith, trusts, that in the compassionate listening of Jesus he is healed by his faith. And Bartimaeus follows Jesus on his way.

Saint Mark means for this to be not only about the faith of Bartimaeus, he also means for it to be about the healing and faith of everyone who hears the story. We are blind, all of us. We don’t know how our lives will work out. We don’t know what illnesses, failures, woundings and wounds await us before we die. Any illusions we have about being fully wise and totally independent are false.

But by faith in the compassionate God we are made to see. We see that our lives are bigger and better than any disease or disaster. We see that that we are whole and holy in the mercy of God. We see that all the deaths of this life, including our final death, are just beginnings of new life and a new heaven.

And we are beggars, all of us. There is an old bumper sticker that says it well, “Life is hard and then you die.” We can’t name one thing we have done for ourselves alone. We didn’t birth ourselves, we don’t feed or house ourselves, and we can’t even love ourselves without the love of others. Without God’s gifts of breath, water, talents and meaning we are nothing. Without the compassion of those who surround us, we are desperately alone and lost. Without the community of compassion that give us bread, wine and forgiveness we would perish. Without God’s coming to Jerusalem, innocent death and conquering resurrection, we have no life. Without the compassion of God blessing us in a thousand ways we would not be and we would not continue to be. Without compassion there is no life. Not only our joy, but our very survival depends upon the generous and compassionate hearts of family, friends and strangers.

By faith in the compassionate God our begging days are over. Jesus, hearing our beggar cries, stops and listens to our suffering and hope, and we have everything we need. By the compassion of Jesus as lived in the world the hungry are fed, the naked are clothed, the ill are visited, the prisoners are set free, the homeless are housed and our wars are ended. By the ever present compassion of God we are embraced, thanked, and healed.

And the early church, following Jesus, gave compassion as freely as they had received it. They fed beggars, prostitutes, tax collectors and enemies. Sociologists studying the early church say it is the church’s compassion for the blind, the widow, the ill, the poor, the orphan and the stranger that set them apart from their world and was the source of their exponential growth.

The core of our faith is that by compassion God brings the healing of our sight and the end of our begging. We are the people who have been blind and now see; who have been deaf and now hear; who have known that a life without compassion is living death and have now been found by love. We are the ones that follow Jesus, as did Bartimaeus, and continue Jesus' way of mercy.

It is compassion born of our own healing that leads us as United Methodists to be servant missionaries in 110 countries, to be present at national and international disasters, both of nature and of violence. It is compassion that hears the cry of beggars around us and responds to their pleas with healing at Country Doctors, Matthew House, Habitat for Humanity, Chrysalis, Walk to Emmaus, Tent City, and the myriad of ways you are in the ministries of healing faith. It is compassion that keeps parents being parents. It is compassion that makes us teachers and nurses, bus drivers and beauticians, accountants, plumbers, lawyers, executives and more.

We are compassionate because we are made in the image of the compassionate God; and when by compassion we are freed to see then we cannot help but follow Jesus and be compassionate with our lives and to our world.

The birth of the song "Precious Lord" tells well the story of a wounded healer, to use Henri Nouwen’s phrase to describe us. Thomas Dorsey, the author of this brilliant and healing hymn writes:

Back in 1932 I was 32 years old and a fairly new husband. My wife, Nettie, and I were living in a little apartment on Chicago's Southside. One hot August afternoon I had to go to St. Louis, where I was to be the featured soloist at a large revival meeting. I didn't want to go. Nettie was in the last month of pregnancy with our first child. But a lot of people were expecting me in St. Louis.

I kissed Nettie good-bye, clattered downstairs to our Model A and, in a fresh Lake Michigan breeze, chugged out of Chicago on Route 66. However, outside the city, I discovered that in my anxiety at leaving, I had forgotten my music case. I wheeled around and headed back. I found Nettie sleeping peacefully. I hesitated by her bed; something was strongly telling me to stay. But eager to get on my way, and not wanting to disturb Nettie, I shrugged off the feeling and quietly slipped out of the room with my music.

The next night, in the steaming St. Louis heat, the crowd called on me to sing again and again. When I finally sat down, a messenger boy ran up with a Western Union telegram. I ripped open the envelope. Pasted on the yellow sheet were the words: YOUR WIFE JUST DIED.

People were happily singing and clapping around me, but I could hardly keep from crying out. I rushed to a phone and called home. All I could hear on the other end was “Nettie is dead. Nettie is dead.”

When I got back, I learned that Nettie had given birth to a boy. I swung between grief and joy. Yet that night, the baby died. I buried Nettie and our little boy together, in the same casket. Then I fell apart.

For days I closeted myself. I felt that God had done me an injustice. I didn't want to serve Him any more or write gospel songs. I just wanted to go back to that jazz world I once knew so well. But then, as I hunched alone in that dark apartment those first sad days, I thought back to the afternoon I went to St. Louis. Something kept telling me to stay with Nettie. Was that something God? Oh, if I had paid more attention to Him that day, I would have stayed and been with Nettie when she died. From that moment on I vowed to listen more closely to Him.

But still I was lost in grief. Everyone was kind to me, especially a friend, Professor Fry, who seemed to know what I needed. On the following Saturday evening he took me up to Malone's Poro College, a neighborhood music school. It was quiet; the late evening sun crept through the curtained windows. I sat down at the piano, and my hands began to browse over the keys. Something happened to me then. I felt at peace. I felt as though I could reach out and touch God. I found myself playing a melody, once into my head-they just seemed to fall into place:

Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me on, let me stand,!

I am tired,

I am weak,

I am worn,

Through the storm, through the night

lead me on to the light,

Take my hand, precious Lord, Lead me home.

As the Lord gave me these words and melody, He also healed my spirit. I learned that when we are in our deepest grief, when we feel farthest from God, this is when He is closest, and when we are most open to His restoring power. And so I go on living for God willingly and joyfully, until that day comes when He will take me and gently lead me home. 1This is not the Tommy Dorsey of the Dorsey brothers but an equally accomplished musician and composer who lived from 1899-1993.

-Thomas A. Dorsey

We cry as beggars and Christ hears us and in compassion asks us what it is we desire. And when we speak the truth of our need for sight in our souls, by faith God gives us sight. And with sight we see the compassion that is Jesus among us, and we cannot help but follow Jesus, walking the way he walks, loving others as he has loved us. We see because compassion has healed us. This is the Christian way.

Amen and Shalom.