Katie Derksen
Last week we had a pretty neat show outside. I'm not sure if you all caught it, but Monday night, there was a sound and light show such that only Mother Nature can put on. I wasn't aware that thunder and lighting were in the forecast for that day, though I remember hearing that there was a possibility of rain, and of seeing said rain at various points during the day. That night, though, there was some lighting action that was really quite neat to see.
I miss a good storm – living downtown, in a building that literally hums and vibrates on its own, I don't always hear the thunder, and know that a storm is coming. Similarly, having a window that faces a wall and rooftops isn't conducive to knowing that a storm's even going on. The storm has to be pretty close for me to be aware of it, or I have to look outside from the righ window at the right time to see it. And that's too bad. I really enjoy watching lighting course through the sky, and hearing the booms of thunder.
Before I moved into my current apartment, I remember getting excited when I'd hear thunder from far off, and getting excited about what was coming my way. However, when I lived at home, I'm sure my parents thought of it in a different way, especially when I'd run outside to be in the rain as the storm moved closer and closer. I'm sure they were thinking of the deaths that can happen, or the injuries, or some other more responsible way of looking at it. I only wanted to enjoy it, and had no thought for the consequences. As well, I was too busy running around to know how close it really was. I'm sure if they could have, they'd have turned the volume down on the thunder so that I wouldn't know it was coming until it was far too close for me to consider heading out in it.
However, that thunder can be a good warning. I'm not sure if I've mentioned this before, but I used to be a lifeguard. I had a short stint as a pool lifeguard at Brandon's YMCA, but I didn't last long there. Where I guarded the longest was at the Thunder Mountain Waterslides, a waterslide and camping park that was conveniently located a 15 minute bike ride from my parents' place. Although the slides aren't there anymore, they used to twist and turn down the side of the Assiniboine valley, which they were built into. There were a number of different slides: most of them were laid out along the slant of the valley, but there was one slide that needed a steepness that the valley sides couldn't offer, and so a tower of concrete and metal was built to give it the added angle.
The view from the top of this slide was spectacular. You could see across the valley floor, where there were farmer's fields. You could see up the valley, towards an area where there were woods. You could watch the cars and trucks fly by on the Number 1 highway – not as nice if you're into the natural scenery, but I'd imagine that some people who were more into vehicles could find some enjoyment out of that. One of the other things that could be watched better from this higher vantage point was the weather: most days were clear, but by the end of it, clouds would start to build. Some days were cloudy right through, and, after a month of working there, I got to know which clouds meant rain, and which were just there for looks.
Now, it being a waterslide park, there was obviously a lot of water around. As well, this one particular slide, the speed slide, involved a lot of metal for the support structure. Quite the playground in a thunderstorm.
One of the tasks of the lifeguards was to listen for thunder, and watch for lightning. If it were merely raining, we'd stay open, if people were still wanting to slide. However, at the first sign of lightning, the whistle would be blown, and the fun would be over.
I remember thinking that if the lightning were far off, we'd be ok, and there wasn't much danger. Then I heard from someone that as soon as you can hear the thunder, you're in potential danger from the lightning, or from the electricity that could be coursing through the water. That certainly changed when I blew the whistle while I was guarding. It also changed the vigilance with which I listened for the thunder.
Thunder itself isn't dangerous, but the lightning certainly can be. Every year people die because of being hit by lightning, or are injured from it. For those of us who can hear it, the thunder is a warning of something more coming, or that there's something happening that's changing things for people in another, not-too-far-off area.
That warning can be of great value. However, ignoring that warning can have rather dire consequences. Although it's not terribly often that injuries happen, they can and they do. Every year, 1000-1500 people around the world are seriously injured by lightning, with a 25-32% fatality rate. Although these aren't very high statistics, it's probably a pretty safe bet to listen to the warning of the thunder, and get out of the open into safety.
Just as thunder can start off quietly, in the distance, so can calls for help, or calls to God. In reading the story of the healing of Bartimaeus, I was struck by how those who were following Jesus commanded Bartimaeus to be quiet. According to the NRSV, they were stern in their orders to Bartimaeus to be quiet. But that only made him call out louder. He knew what he wanted, and so he went for it. Just like ignoring thunder doesn't make it go away, ignoring Bartimaeus' calls to Jesus didn't make him disappear.
I'd imagine that having the followers of Jesus, the one he was desperately wanting to talk to, pretty much tell him to shut up would have been a rather frustrating experience for Bartimaeus. However, he knew that talking to Jesus was something he needed to do, and so he not only didn't listen to their rudeness, he called out louder.
While looking around in some of the books that I have lying around, trying to read up on this story, I found something that I want to share with you. I don't know aobut you, but sometimes I have a hard time just sitting and listending, without imagery to go along with what's being said. I found two reflections on this Gospel text in "The Upper Room Disciplines," a book of devotions that walks the reader through the lectionary readings. The authors change each week, and the author for this last week was a woman named Karen Jones, who is both a student at Temple University, and a member of the Salford Mennonite Church in Pennsylvania. Her thoughts on the Gospel readings are split into two parts. What she wrote for the first half of her reflections on this story is like a guided meditation, and I found it helpful to enter into the story in this way. So I encourage you to sit back and listen. It goes like this:
Yet today seems different. Something exciting is happening. You can hear the difference in the crowds, in the voices. You can feel the tension in the air. You listen carefully and hear the name, Jesus. Jesus? You grab at the people pushing past and ask impatiently, "Is it Jesus of Nazareth?" Most brush you aside in their hurry to move on, but a few answer, "Yes."
You stop, listening carefully. You hear the crowd going away from you down the road. No – you must do it now. You might never have another chance.
"Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!" You scream the words at the top of your lungs. Your throat is dry and dusty, but you continue calling. People around you yell back, telling you to be quiet. They push at you. They treat you like a stubborn child and respond, "Hush. Jesus is busy. He's on his way to Jerusalem. He doesn't have time to spend with you."
Each one of us calls out to Jesus, longing for healing. Voices tell us that he is too busy for us, that our troubles are not important or, even worse, that we are not important enough to deserve his love and attention. Yet Jesus stands still and invites us into his presence.
Everyone, whether they acknowledge it or not, has some sort of spirituality. And, just as everyone is unique, so is everyone's spirituality. Therefore, each person's needs will be different, just as the fruits of their faith will be different. We hear from the Scriptures that some people are better at praying, some at teaching, some at caring for others. Some people will have a faith that's obvious to all those they meet, while others will have a more quiet, dormant faith, that exists and is lived out in ways that may be harder for others to see. Some people long for a physical healing, while others wish for a spiritual or an emotional healing.
Bartimaeus knew what he wanted. He wanted to talk to Jesus, to have the chance to have Jesus hear his request, and, hopefully, grant it. He stood up for his needs when others tried to shut him down. That takes guts.
The second part of Ms. Jones' reflections on the healing of Bartimaeus is more of a devotion, and deals with what Bartimaeus does when he's told to be quiet. It goes as follows:
See yourself standing before Jesus. He asks you, "What do you want me to do for you?" The obvious answer is, "Rabbi, I want to see." Is that the truth? Stop and think for a moment.
Illness, pain, and suffering can become a way of life, comfortable because they are known. Healing is a journey into the unknown. Healing brings more than restored sight; it opens you to a new way of life, a new way of seeing yourself and the world around you.
What is the blindness in your life? Are you ready for healing? What will you see if you are healed? What will change if you gain your sight?
Jesus said, "Your faith has made you well." Faith requires persistence: continued belief even when belief seems irrational. Faith requires courage: courage to go against the crowd, to follow your own path, to face a new way of living. Faith requires trust: trust that God can heal and that you can be made whole.
Of the two possible sides of this story, I'd have to say that I'd almost rather be in Bartimaeus' shoes. To have the courage to call out for what is needed, or even to know what is needed. To have the courage to stand up to people when they're so insistent on denying the call, when what is needed is being ased for. Bartimaeus has a hard road ahead of him: his entire world has changed. He's no longer blind, and will have to suddenly be able to recognize things on sight, whereas before he recognized things by touch, or by sound. He'll have to figure out how to get money, as begging both won't work as well, nor would be something he'd like to do, I'd imagine. The ways in which he interacts with people, with the world, have changed. It'll be tough. But, as he followed Jesus after his healing, I'd imagine that he's got a pretty great supporter right there, and hopefully some of the other followers of Christ will assist him, too.
The other side of the Bartimaeus story isn't so appealing to anyone, I don't think. Who wants to be the person who tells a needy person to shut up? And yet, I think most people do that throughout their life at various times. Sometimes we're not even aware that we're doing it. This is probably the tougher of the two. It involves a selflessness that is hard to achieve. It involves an awareness of the world around us that can be exhausting, and at times depressing. Yet, I think that, of the two options present here, we're called to be Bartimaeus, not the followers of Christ.
Bartimaeus' calls to Jesus probably started off quietly, but gained volume both as people told him to be quiet, and as he realized that the one he was calling wasn't hearing. Just like thunder starts off quietly and can gain in volume until the clap of it literally shakes us where we stand, the calls that are within us that want go out to Jesus can start off quiet. However, I think that if we ignore them, they'll become shaking booms that are impossible to ignore. They may come out in other ways, such as short tempers, lack of motivation or the desire to do what we know we should, but they're there. They're begging to be heard.
And it's the same within the family of God. There are people everywhere calling out – the problem is not only whether we hear them or not, but also whether we silence them or not. The people who come to church but leave right after the service might be calling out for a sense of welcome into the community, not just into the sanctuary. The people who talk to the same people week after week might be calling out to know more people, but lack the courage to introduce themselves, or even the knowledge of the avenues through which they can do that. Those who have stopped coming to church may be screaming out for someone to contact them, to make them feel like their presence (or lack thereof) in the congregation makes a difference. The people we see on the streets, asking for money, or trying to sell trinkets may be calling out for an acknowledgement of their humanity, for eye contact and a smile, for a conversation. The person service you behind a counter in a store, or in a restaurant, may be calling out ot be acknowledged as a person who matters, not just a person in the service industry.
All of these calls to God and to us as the family of God are thunder. Quiet or loud, they're calling. And, just as those with Jesus that day by Jericho, sometimes we don't hear the rumblings of thunder, or sometimes we're simply too busy to pay attention to them. However, we can't go through life quieting that thunder. Sooner or later, it'll burst into a storm right over our heads that we will be forced to deal with.
So often when we hear of the stories of Jesus healing, we get so caught up in the fact that these people will no longer have to suffer their infirmity. However, as we're reminded by Ms. Jones, there's a flip-side to healing. It can be an abrupt about-face, and that can lead to facing things that we'd much rather not. It's a scary thing.
Though not all of us here are literally blind, we all have our infirmities, or things that we'd much rather not look at. However, those things are calling out, first for us to hear, then for us to call out to Jesus in turn, and ask for the healing of ourselves. They're quiet rumblings of thunder, waiting to be heard.
Just like the other lifeguards at the slides and I would keep an ear cocked to hear the rumblings of distant thunder, we're all called to do the same. We're kind of lifeguards of ourselves, and also of other Children of God. We're called to listen for rumbles of thunder, of things that people need, or of things that aren't being addressed. We're also called to listen to rumbles of things that we need, or that we aren't addressing in our own lives.
We need to be more like Bartimaeus, and not only listen for the rumblings of what's needed, but to also stand up for them, and call out. We need the courage, perseverance, and trust to not silence the thunder, but to listen to it, to hear it's warning, and then to do something about it.
May God grant us all the grace to do so.
Amen
What Ms. Jones says can certainly be true. We all feel the need to call out to God, or to God's people. And yet, so often, something holds us back. Sometimes it's fear that others will silence us, as people tried to silence Bartimaeus. Sometimes it might be fear that what we're calling for isn't worthy of being asked for. And yet, is that really our decision to make? Do we really get to decide whether or not what we're calling for is "worthy" of Jesus' attention? Or, is it for us to decide whether or not what someone else is calling for is worthy, or even done in a worthy way, as it seems that Jesus' followers were doing?
While Ms. Jones' devotional ends there, the impact of this story does not. Something else that struck me about this Gospel story is that there are two perspectives to it. The first is that of Bartimaeus, blind, craying out, and being told to be quiet. The second is that of the followers of Christ, telling him to be quiet. At different times, we can play out these roles within ourselves, or in our interactions with others.