October 25, 2015

                  I spent a great deal of time with the healthcare system this week. I am happy that things went well, and I am grateful for the excellent care we received from the hospital staff. What was most healing was the many ways that people showed compassion. I know that it was the skilled hands of the surgeon and the wonderful use of modern medicine that brought healing to my wife. I also know that it was the kind words and attention of staff that made a great difference.

                  The modern hospital is a complicated system of service. There is a steady parade of people coming and going. There are the primary providers of care – the doctors and nurses. There are also whole hosts of support people: receptionists, security officers, cleaners, cooks, aids, and nursing assistants. Adding to this crowd are all the family and friends of those who seek healing. I counted at least thirty people who had direct contact with us during my wife’s surgery. I’m sure there were many I never saw.

                  The challenge of this complicated system is to keep it human. My wife is more than a number or a scanned barcode. In the rush to make medicine efficient and cost-effective, human feelings can get lost. We spent quite a lot of time waiting. The complicated system did not always work effortlessly. I know I helped move things along simply because I was there and I could pay attention and I could ask a question.

                  It is easy to lose sight of what is important. We get sidetracked from the important things because we are engaged in equally important other things. It is laudable to offer excellent health care. In the rush and complication of modern medicine, we can lose the humanity of the patient. Things are much better than when I was a chaplain twenty-five years ago. Doctors have better training in communicating and in understanding feelings. There is still a little reluctance to acknowledge our common human challenge. We are mortal, and no amount of excellent medicine will change the fact that we will all die.

                  We avoid uncomfortable reminders of our mortality. This is why we often shun the sick or push them away to the margins. We recognize the crowd’s response to the calls of Bartimaeus. “Be quiet! Keep your problem to yourself.” Even in scripture, we treat the sick as if they are only their symptom. He is the blind beggar. He is only known by his physical limitation. (He doesn’t even really have a name, since Bartimaeus means only “Son of Timeaus.”) Of course, we know he is much more. He is stubborn. He is determined to see Jesus. He is unafraid to speak his mind. He has great faith.

                  Jesus accepts the interruption of Bartimaeus, even as others would hurry Jesus along with much more important things to do. He accepts the title pronounced by Bartimaeus, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” (If we change the title to Son of God, he is almost saying the Jesus prayer.) Jesus does not name him by his illness. Jesus doesn’t even assume that he knows what he wants. Jesus asks, “What do you want me to do for you?”

                  In this asking, Jesus is lifting up the man. Bartimaeus is no longer the beggar sitting by the roadside, easy to ignore and look down upon. Bartimaeus is standing before Jesus, speaking freely what is on his heart. Jesus gives him respect and a voice. In the asking, Bartimaeus is healed. There is no complicated incantation offered by Jesus. “Go; your faith has made you well.” Then Bartimaeus follows Jesus on the way – the way to Jerusalem and the work of death and resurrection and new life.

                  Bartimaeus shows us where faith resides. We are tempted to seek faith in the courageous and the accomplished. We want to hear perfect words and easy steps that lead us to some better place. Bartimaeus shows us that faith can begin when we are at our worst. He does not wait until he is healed. He does not care that he is looked down upon. He cries out what he believes and what he wants even as things are not going well for him.

                  Bartimaeus asks exactly what he wants. We are often timid in our asking. Maybe we are afraid we’ll get it wrong. Maybe we are afraid of looking foolish. We are invited to ask. Perhaps our first words will not be perfect. In the asking we continue the process of learning just where Jesus is calling us. Maybe in the asking we will change what we know and what we need. So we ask anyway and trust that God will use our intention.

                  Perhaps we don’t ask because we fear that we will not be heard. We often ask for things that do not turn out the way we wish. The sick get sicker. The job doesn’t work out. Our loved ones die. We don’t know what to do with prayer that seems to fail. Our prayers are only the beginning of a conversation. In asking we open our hearts and make ourselves ready to listen to the voice and will of God. We are invited to speak and listen – even when we don’t hear what we want to hear – even when we hear no answer at all. This, after all, is the work of faith: to ask and believe not what we know but what we hope.

                  The boldness of Bartimaeus humbles us. We don’t really know what someone else needs until we ask them to tell us. The crowd was content to hurry along and ignore the need right beside them. What do we miss in our hurry? It is a loss when we can’t help someone right at hand because we aren’t paying attention. The greater loss is losing whatever that person on the margins has to offer. Who knows what great gifts are lost because we think others are helpless or broken or sick – and that’s all we let them be to us.

                  Bartimaeus is a witness. He alone among the important crowd knew Jesus for who he is and believed what he could do. All this encourages us to look beyond what we think we know. This makes us look beyond what we think of as our health and power and agency. Who do we miss at the edge of the crowd who has wisdom and blessing for us?