October 27, 2024 – The Twenty-Third Sunday After Pentecost

The Rev. Mary Davis

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my strength and my Redeemer. Amen.

Before moving here to Knoxville, I was Rector of a church in a pretty small suburban town in northern New Jersey. This meant that fairly often, while going about my days, I would run into parishioners. At the library. In line at the pharmacy. In the frozen foods section of the grocery store. While buying stamps at the post office. Just walking down Main Street. And while I enjoyed these surprise encounters and their resulting conversations, I have to admit that, at times, they pushed the boundaries of my introverted self.

So, whenever I felt like I needed to disappear for a while, I would hop on a train, and head into the city. New York City. There, with millions of other people, I could get lost on the streets and become invisible.

Of course, I realize what a privilege it is to be able to slip in and out of sight. I could pretty much choose when I wanted to be seen and when I didn’t. But there are plenty of people who are desperate to be seen, and aren’t. In New York, of course, crowds of people rush past homeless women and men sitting under awnings or doorsteps. And here, even in this very neighborhood, individuals hold signs at the entrance and exits to I-40 or as they walk along Cedar Bluff Road. My guess is that to most people, they are largely invisible.

One day, though, as I walked through mid-town Manhattan, I saw a man with a cardboard sign. This man was sitting on a step, off to the side of the busy sidewalk, just part of the landscape for most people. But his sign read, “Today is my 27th birthday,” which stopped me in my tracks. Because this man went from being practically invisible to being a man with a mother who had given birth to him and named him, a man who had grown up to live 27 years of life. All of a sudden, he had likes and dislikes, perhaps brothers and sisters, and presumably childhood friends. I’ll bet he had blown out candles at one birthday or another.

Knowing about his birthday made him “real” to me.

That cloak of invisibility had been cast off, and I saw him in a new light.

Today in our Gospel, we meet a similar man, one who is living a life of invisibility. Bartimaeus. He was blind, and in that first century culture, blindness was equivalent to being dead. Sure, Bartimaeus was living, but barely. He existed on the margins of society, a parasite and a helpless beggar in Jericho, Mark tells us.

It’s helpful to know, that at that time, Jericho was a large and wealthy city – think, first century New York City – thanks to an oasis which provided fruit and balsam in abundance. Crowds of people would have been moving in and out of the gates of the city – pedestrians, animals and carts, all loaded up with merchandise and supplies for trade and sale. So in all likelihood, Bartimaeus would have purposefully picked this busy side of the street so he could receive the alms for which he begged. But for most, I’ll bet he was a sight unseen, invisible, just part of the landscape.

That is, until he began to shout out for Jesus’ attention, crying out over the noise of the bustling crowd. The crowd desperately tried to keep him quiet – to keep him in his place – but it was no use. It was as if Bartimaeus had a sign that said, “Today is my 27th birthday.” Jesus heard his cries, saw him, and then called him over, out of the shadows and back into community. Notice how Bartimaeus was first brought back into community, and only then healed of his blindness.

But there’s more to this story. It’s important to hear this as something more than ‘just’ another healing story from Mark. Of course, there are many healing stories in Mark. But there are also a handful of stories about ‘call,’ about being called to follow Jesus . . . about being called to discipleship. And this is one of them.

Sure, we know about Jesus’ call to Peter, Andrew, James and John from earlier in Mark’s Gospel. They all dropped their nets to follow Jesus as his disciples. And you may remember the story of Levi, the tax collector. Jesus called him too, and Levi followed. And while Bartimaeus didn’t have much of anything to leave behind, when he heard Jesus’ call, he too cast off his only possession – his cloak – to follow Jesus. This is all in interesting contrast to the rich man we met just a few weeks ago, who heard Jesus’ call, but refused to give anything up to follow.

In throwing off his cloak, Bartimaeus welcomed and embraced his new life – a life of both literal and metaphorical vision – the life Jesus had given him. In throwing off his cloak, Bartimaeus set aside the past and walked into the hope of the future, a hope and promise that he was seen and loved by God. In throwing off his cloak, Bartimaeus moved from being virtually invisible and alone, to being a part of the community that followed Jesus.

Notice, too, that Bartimaeus never turned back to get that cloak . . . he just followed Jesus along the road, forward, walking faithfully into the future. That’s the “Faith” that made him well.

And yes, we all have a “cloak” of some sort. Something, or somethings we carry around and cling to. Something that’s hard to release. Something that weighs us down or distracts us from our spiritual journey. Something we like to hide behind. I like to think back to that moment when we were baptized – in that very moment when we were called by name and marked as Christ’s own forever – because in God’s eyes we shed any cloak of invisibility. And yet over and over again throughout our lives, we take that cloak and put it back on. We disappear into fear or isolation, distraction or anger. But when we do, just like Bartimaeus, we can turn back to the God of compassion, power and presence, crying out “Have mercy on me” and resume living out our faith. I now believe that’s what Jesus meant when he told Bartimaeus “your faith has made you well.” I had always thought that what Jesus was saying by that was that Bartimaeus’ faith was matured or perfected somehow. You know, the kind of faith that allows one to walk on water or to move mountains. But I think that what Jesus is actually referring to is the kind of faith which is active. A faith which is exercised. A faith that is moving. A faith that is growing. Not perfect or completely matured. But active, moving and growing. “Faith that makes us well” is faith that prays for other people. “Faith that makes us well” is faith that walks through sadness with hope. “Faith that makes us well” is faith that sees and loves others. “Faith that makes us well” is faith that serves others.

So, with today’s Gospel reading from Mark and with Bartimaeus, consider today your birthday. We are not invisible, but actually quite the opposite – we are standing in God’s presence. God has given us life – named us, claimed us, and called us – and God has set us free to release those things that hold us back from God’s presence. Lean into that faith with no limits today, because that’s the faith that makes us well. Amen.

Year B  –  Proper 25   –   October 27, 2024  –  The 23rd Sunday After Pentecost   –  The Rev. Mary Davis