In Bartimaeus we have a story not only about faith that heals but also about faith that stops; faith that is aware and awake; faith that is in touch with pain and grief, hunger and need; faith that cries out; faith that will not be silenced; faith that groans; faith that begs.

         After hearing that description, you might want to add: faith that is embarrassing. And I wouldn’t argue with you. The faith of Bartimaeus is also faith that makes us uncomfortable; faith that gets down in the dirt and wrestles with inner demons; faith that speaks the truth and exposes personal, family and national secrets; faith that upsets the status quo and threatens the dominant culture.

         It is a faith that speaks not only in words but in the way we live and in the choices we make. It is faith made real in a group of seniors learning about spirituality; in a protest against a weapons conference; in adults teaching children about a God who welcomes and loves all people; in a vigil of light to remember the war dead.

         When everything and everyone around us is saying “Don’t worry; everything is fine”; “stay the course”; and “back off” . . .  when the powers outside us and the fears within us say, “Don’t think about that”; “everything’s okay”; and “get over it”; . . .

         This is the faith that won’t take “no” for an answer; that stands up and says, “Everything is not okay—people are dying in Iraq for no good reason; the poor are getting poorer; racism and white privilege continue to hurt and oppress; gays and lesbians are, once again, being used as get-out-the-vote bait; the environment is being destroyed.” This is the faith that begs, like Bartimaeus, “Jesus, I am hurting. I need help. Have mercy on me!”

          And why would we want a faith like that? Because, in the words of Biblical scholar Walter Brueggemann, it is only when we break through the numbness fostered by our dominant culture; it is only when we give voice to the pain and suffering of the marginalized in our society and the shadows within ourselves; it is only when we “bring to expression all the hurt, human pain, and grief that the dominant royal culture tries so hard to repress, deny, and cover over” that “external transformation is possible.” It is “only grief,” Brueggemann says, “that permits newness”; “it is only holiness that gives hope”; and “it is only memory that allows possibility.” **

         To fully understand the significance of the Bartimaeus story, it helps to remember what has been happening up to this point. A key contextual element here is one of motion, movement, momentum. By my count, the first 10 chapters of Mark mention movement or travel some 38 times—“from this region he went on to that village,” it says again and again; then he left that town and went back across the sea. Jesus is forever “setting out on a journey.” If there were a soundtrack to this part of the gospel it would be Willie Nelson singing “On the Road Again.”

         All along the way, as Jesus’ traveling road show gathers steam and attracts more people, momentum is building. The sick and lame are being healed, the dead are being raised, demons are being cast out, thousands of people are being fed with a few crumbs, Jesus is transfigured, and his followers are getting a taste of glory, a glimpse of the kingdom, a touch of power. The excitement is building, the air is electric, the momentum is all but addictive.

         Jesus’ followers are so caught up in the miracles and hope and newness of it all—Look! He’s walking on the water!—that they have no idea what’s coming.  Oh, Jesus tries to tell them. By the time we get to Bartimaeus, Jesus has tried three different times to tell his disciples of the suffering and death that are around the corner.

         But they can’t hear it; they won’t hear of it. “Come on, Jesus, don’t stop now,” they say. “This is so cool. Oh and, by the way, since you’re obviously The Man, we want you to let us sit beside you when you reach the top.”  They just don’t get it.

         By the time Jesus and his disciples get to Jericho, they have so much momentum that they don’t want to stop even for a minute. They’re moving so fast toward the Big City that they don’t stay in Jericho for even a single verse. Mark 10:46 says, “They came to Jericho.” Next sentence, same verse: “As he and his disciples and a large crowd were leaving Jericho, . . .”

         Do you get the sense that these people are in a hurry?

         But hang on. The clue that something important is about to happen comes in the very next phrase: “Bartimaeus son of Timaeus, a blind beggar, is sitting by the roadside.”

         There you have it. After chapter upon chapter of movement, immediately following the fastest-ever tour of Jericho—there’s Bartimaeus, a blind beggar, just sitting there. Not that Jesus’ followers take notice.

         No, Bartimaeus has to yell. Then, when he does get the attention of Jesus’ followers, they try to ignore him. They tell him in no uncertain terms to be quiet. Come on—they’re on the move, they’re doing important things; they’re following Jesus. They don’t have timefor the whining of a blind man—a beggar, an outcast. When Bartimaeus yells louder—“Jesus, have mercy on me!—they get more annoyed, and try even harder to silence him.

         But Jesus hears. And Jesus stops. In the midst of all this movement and action, the scripture says, “Jesus stood still.” That’s right. Jesus stands still and says, “Call him here.”

         You can almost feel the wheels of a mighty, speeding locomotive come screeching to a halt. The persistent cry of Bartimaeus, the stubborn begging of a blind man, has broken through the self-centeredness of Jesus’ followers and reached Jesus.

         Sound familiar? Or do we not even recognize the numbness in our own lives? You know: The numbness that comes from working 60 hours a week, from the non-stop busy-ness that takes us from work to soccer game to church meeting to grocery shopping to the next thing on our never-ending to-do list. The numbness that comes from drinking too much, from spending too much time watching TV or sitting in front of a computer, from focusing our efforts on achievement and success and possessions.

         This is the political, social, spiritual and emotional numbness that says, “Just keep moving. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain—or the homeless person on the street, or the stabbing pain in your abdomen, or the rising death toll in Iraq, or the lack of joy in your life.” This is the numbness produced by an entrenched culture of too much news and too little content, too much work and not enough play, too much money and too little meaning, too much power and not enough compassion.

         It takes so much energy and effort just to “keep up” that we grow numb to the suffering that’s right next door or right inside of us. We grow numb to the ongoing impact of racism, to the problems of our children, the accumulating evidence of global warming, the headache that won’t go away, to how little time we spend with family and friends, to how we’ve run out of things to talk about with our partner.

         It’s so much easier to keep going, to ignore that nagging little voice that says something isn’t right—especially when we live in a society that measures worth by how much we do and how much we have. Sometimes it takes something from outside to point out our blind spots, to penetrate our numbness. It might be planes flying into skyscrapers, bad results from a biopsy, an untimely death, a destructive hurricane, the ending of a relationship, getting laid off from a job, a child’s suspension from school, or a harsh word from a colleague or friend or psychologist.

         The story of Bartimaeus suggests a better, gentler way to break through the numbness and make our way toward healing and wholeness. We must give voice to our own pain and hearthe pain of others, it says.  But that requires us to stop. It requires being still. It requires us to pay attention, to step out of the flow of traffic and just sit by the side of the road. It calls for the mindfulness of prayer and meditation; it calls for listening to God, ourselves and one another.

         Where do you fit into the story this morning? Are you like Bartimaeus, trying to get someone’s attention, calling out for someone to do something about the pain within you and the injustice around you?

         Or are you like Jesus’ followers—so caught up in all the action, so busy even with good things—that you can’t be bothered to hear a cry for help, that you’re annoyed by those who would interrupt your pleasant life and important schedule with pleas for justice and mercy?

         Wherever you are this morning, I invite you to notice where Jesus is. In the midst of a world where things keep moving, surrounded by well-meaning people who are busy doing good, Jesus is standing still. Jesus is the one who hears your cry and all the cries of a hurting world.

         In the middle of it all—the heartbreaking pain, the unbearable beauty, the unspeakable love—Jesus, the Light of the World, is standing still and saying, “Come here, dear child. What do you want me to do for you?”

         And what will your answer be? Do you know what you want? Or are you still having trouble giving yourself permission to grieve, to protest, to be angry—to allow yourself to want something, to even stop and notice what you’re feeling?

         The good news of the Bartimaeus story is that Jesus has already given us permission. Even more than that, Jesus encourages us to have the faith of Bartimaeus—the loud, disruptive, discomforting faith that begs. This is the faith that heals, Jesus says.  This is the faith that brings justice, promotes reconciliation, encourages understanding and makes wholeness possible.

**Walter Brueggemann, The Prophetic Imagination, pp. 90-91.
   Brueggemann, The Hopeful Imagination, pp. 132-133.