You'll See

2024-57
sermon preached at Church of the Good Shepherd, Federal Way, WA
www.goodshepherdfw.org
by the Rev. Josh Hosler, Rector
Twenty-Third Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 25B), October 27, 2024
Jeremiah 31:7-9 ; Psalm 126 ; Hebrews 7:23-28 ; Mark 10:46-52

I like surprises. Usually—you know, if it’s a good surprise. A birthday surprise, or a Christmas surprise, or any sort of special treat.

Some people really don’t like surprises. They prefer to know what’s coming, even if it’s something good. Better to be able to plan for anything, right?

For folks like this (and maybe you’re one of them), situations where we simply can’t see what’s coming might feel intolerable. Some people will even decide—consciously or otherwise—to make up an explanation of a situation in order to decide what to do next, even if that understanding later turns out to have been wrong. Some people may be able to assess that they were wrong but will never admit it, because they don’t like the other possible explanations, and because brutal honesty will make the world feel too chaotic.

I think there’s something of this tendency in all religion. Because, by its nature, religion deals with a lot of things we just can’t know for sure. We rely on our faith to tide us over until we find out. For instance: What happens when we die? We don’t get to see that. The Bible doesn’t provide a clear, authoritative answer that can be corroborated by external evidence. It’s just not there. Actually, not much in the Bible is. It’s a spiritual toolkit, not a history book, science book, or operator’s manual.

We all pick and choose our dogmas based on what will make us feel more secure. It’s unnerving to realize this, but it really is true, and it’s pretty much undeniable. Welcome to the world. Choose your dogmas carefully.

We are all beggars without sight, sitting by the road, waiting for someone to come and shed some light on our futures. Someone we can trust. Maybe even someone we can worship.

But be very, very careful whom you worship. If you follow them into the unknown, your courage—and your principles—will be tested.

When you read the gospels over and over like I have, you come to remember where the pivot points are in the narrative. Today’s gospel reading is one of those pivot points. It shows up in Mark, Matthew, and Luke, and it’s very similar in all three. After the story of healing a blind man (or two blind men in Matthew), Luke inserts the story of Zaccheus, which is his story alone. But after that, all three of the synoptic gospels shift to the story of Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a humble donkey—what we have come to know as the story of Palm Sunday and the beginning of the final week of Jesus’ earthly life.

I can’t help but look at today’s gospel with this larger narrative in mind. This is the conclusion of one section of the story … and a “ramping up” to the next. We’ve just been through Mark’s tenth chapter together, dealing with questions about divorce, and children, and wealth, and sacrifice, and the coming of death and—supposedly—resurrection. We’ve talked about power and how not to get it, and we’ve talked about what it might mean to serve others. Wrestling with these topics requires a lot of courage and honesty.

And then, on his way to Jerusalem, Jesus comes to Jericho, and a huge crowd with him. They know where they’re going, and they’re excited to be a part of it. A man named Bartimaeus hears who’s coming: the blessed one he can’t see. And he cries out, “Son of David, mercify me!”

Yes, “mercify” is a real word, or at least it used to be. I typed it into my computer and a red squiggly line appeared underneath it. It hasn’t been used much since the 19^th century. And that’s a shame, because it feels like a far more direct request than merely “have mercy on me.” I can have mercy in my head and never show it. I can pity a person and then go on with my life. But if I’m going to mercify somebody, that’s going to demand something of me!

“Son of David, mercify me!”

In other words … “I see that you are the long-promised Messiah, the descendant of David who is to restore the kingdom to Israel and overthrow the horrific Roman Empire! I know that you’re on your way to Jerusalem to do just that! Well, as long as our paths have crossed, do something for me! Make me a part of your miraculous arrival!”

The crowds try to shut Bartimaeus up, maybe because his transgressive “Son of David” language is a little too on the nose for public consumption. But Jesus picks this one man’s voice out of everyone else’s and stops in his tracks. “Hey, you insensitive jerks, there’s someone clearly in need. Quit being obstructive and bring the guy here!”

“Oh, OK!” they bumble. “Uh, dude, the Master is calling you! Gather your courage! This way!”

Off goes Bartimaeus’s cloak. He knows he won’t need it anymore. He will be able to keep warm and dry in other ways from now on.

“What,” asks Jesus … “What do you want me to do for you?”

“My teacher! Let me see again.”

Let’s pause there for a moment. You didn’t think I was only going to talk only about the gospel and none of the other readings, right? But rather than look today at Jeremiah or at the Letter to the Hebrews, I want to look at the psalm. It’s Psalm 126. And it’s really quite remarkable, because you could put it into Bartimaeus’s mouth. Or maybe you could put it into your own mouth!

When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion,
then were we like those who dream.
Then was our mouth filled with laughter,
and our tongue with shouts of joy.
Then they said among the nations,
"The Lord has done great things for them."

Remember the good old days, the days when we could see? We knew what was coming. We could count on a future that was at least somewhat predictable, if not in details, at least in its overall nature. Things will keep getting better. Our children will have more than we do—more money and more security, but also more reason to hold their heads high. The bad times are behind us. There were horrible sins in our past and in that of our people, but we don’t do those things anymore. We have seen the light!

People said of us, “Now that’s the greatest nation on earth! God shed His grace on them!”

The Lord has done great things for us, 
and we are glad indeed.

“Where are we going, Jesus?”

“You’ll see.”

“Oh, ha, Jesus, I see what you did there. You said ‘you’ll see,’ and you just restored my sight! I get the joke.”

“Sure, Bartimaeus.”

“Yeah, but, Jesus … you put it in the future tense. I can already see. You restored my sight, and I praise God for bestowing such power on His Messiah! So … I intend to follow you now as you exercise your Messianic call. I’ll follow you all the way. But … what’s going to happen in Jerusalem? Are we going to storm the castle?”

“You’ll see.”

“Hey, why do you keep saying that? I already see.”

Jesus doesn’t answer. He just keeps walking. Bartimaeus, a spring still in his step and no cloak around his shoulders anymore, continues to follow. Where are they going? They’re on the way. On the way to where? What’s going to happen in Jerusalem?

Why don’t the people still say that God has blessed our nation? Why do they so often pity us instead? Remember when things were clear? Now they’re far more … opaque. What happened to our nation’s good fortunes? Are you the Messiah who will restore them? Will you force the crisis we need? And will you walk us through it and protect us at every step?

Restore our fortunes, O Lord,
like the watercourses of the Negev.
Those who sowed with tears
will reap with songs of joy.
Those who go out weeping, carrying the seed,
will come again with joy, shouldering their sheaves.

I have sowed with tears all my life, Jesus. I’ve never seen clearly, even when I thought I should be able to! So please, please … I want to see again. I want to know that everything will be OK, that I will not feel so insecure, so needy, so weary … and that the ones I deem to be my enemies will pay the price for their misdeeds! Please, Jesus—don’t mercify them in any way! Mercify me—us—and us alone. Our nation first!

We all want someone to swoop in and fix everything. We Christians claim Jesus for that role in our lives. But the way he did it—the way he keeps doing it—refuses to square with anything we can easily understand.

What if Jesus saves us by making clear that nobody’s coming to save us?

What if “me first,” even when it seems necessary, is actually heresy?

Can we admit that we are all blind beggars by the side of the road? Our fortunes are restored simply through this realization. Our exile is over. It was only ever in our heads anyway. But it was so real to us. We went out to plant seeds because we could do no other. And we wept the whole time, dropping seeds into the ground, saying prayers for all those we’ve lost. One for every seed. We’re still planting those seeds, though we may never see the harvested sheaves.

And nobody’s coming to save us … because our savior is already here, in this very room with us. So what will we do next?

We still can’t see what’s coming. But we can ask to be able to see again.

And maybe that’s enough for now. Maybe for now, our prayers can take the form of questions … not demands. Like, “Are you with us, Jesus? If so, where are we going?”

And though he answers, “You’ll see,” we already know the answer. He’s not going to storm the castle and throw the bums out. He’s going to Jerusalem, yes. But he’s going to the Cross. And we’re going there with him. Every day.