Mercy [Proper 25B - Mark 10:46-52]

 The Rt. Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Mark 10:46-52

 

Mercy

 

Before sight, instead of money, his first request was for mercy.  Bartimaeus, the man we encounter in Mark’s Gospel today, was a blind beggar – two conditions that were, of course, in no way mutually exclusive.  He sat by the road in extraordinary need; that was obvious to everyone, and still is.  He was blind.  And so he was poor.  And, he was, based on the initial reaction of the crowd around him, something of a pariah or nuisance.  His temporal needs were vast.  But his first request, his primary plea, was for mercy.

 

On this particular day, the day recorded in our Gospel reading, Jesus was in Jericho.  And for the people of Jericho that was a really big deal.  It wasn’t every day that a miracle worker passed through town.  And so the buzz built and the crowds assembled.  They came to see Jesus.

 

And see Jesus they did.  Well, not everyone did.  There was one man who could not see Jesus: Bartimaeus.  He was blind.  But also, he was on the route; Jesus and all the people were walking right by his spot.  And while he couldn’t see what all the fuss was about, he had heard the stories – the stories of miracles, the tales of healing.  And he took it all very personally.  Because one of the stories was about the healing of a blind man.  And so, it was possible.

 

Bartimaeus knew he could not navigate the bustling crowd, to get to Jesus.  Sometimes in the Gospels people in need of healing break through the throngs and make it all the way to Jesus.  But those people can see.  A blind man would never make it to the hem of Jesus’ robe.  And so his only hope was to scream and shout and hope that the healer would stop and find him.

 

And so he did; he screamed and he shouted.  And, man, was it annoying.  The gathered crowds, they were there to hear Jesus; they were not there to hear a blind beggar yell over Jesus.  And so they did what they had to do: they sternly ordered Bartimaeus to be quiet.  What choice did they have?  He wouldn’t stop.  And maybe it wasn’t all that nice to silence a man in obvious need, in clear desperation, but this was an exceptional day.  Jesus was in their town.  And they wanted to hear him.  But every time Jesus opened his mouth to unfurl one of his brilliant orations, Bartimaeus would have another outburst.  And every time they hushed him, he just ratcheted up the volume.  And they did not want that; they wanted him to stop.    

 

Because this was Jesus.  They were in that crowd, neglecting the wash and the fields and all their daily duties, to hear him speak.  They were there to receive a word from Jesus.  They were contemplatives trying to hear the elusive whisper of the divine.  And they couldn’t focus because of the beggar.    

 

Finally, Jesus stops.  The shouting and the stern rebukes.  The jostling chaos of the conflict.  The frustration of distraction.  There were so many reasons to put things on pause.  But what stops Jesus in his tracks is the cry for mercy.  It gets him every time.

 

Bartimaeus was a man in tremendous need.  He obviously had very little.  And, truth be told, without Jesus there was no hope that his circumstances would ever change.  Before Jesus walked his way, that roadside position was his destiny.  To survive in that ancient world, he needed to be able to see.  He needed financial stability.  He needed friends.  He needed autonomy and opportunity.  He was a blind beggar in first century Jericho.  He needed a break from the struggle and the suffering of his life.

 

But what he asked for, his desperate prayer, was for mercy.  He wore his throat raw for mercy.  He defied the angry crowd for mercy.  He out stepped his station for mercy.

 

Because living in a merciless world is far too painful to bear.  It was then.  It is now.

 

And Jesus responded.  And he showed the man mercy.  Jesus gave him what he needed most.

 

We live in an exacting time of ruthless expectations.  And perhaps this is never as obvious as in the days and months leading up to a national election.  The partisan nature of our culture demands a kind of cruel allegiance.  In the place of kindness, it enshrines tyranny.  Instead of love, loyalty.  And mercy is displaced by the harsh tones of triumph.

 

Until our land is decorated with the broken pieces.  Of families and friendships.  And hearts.  And lives. 

 

A merciless world is far too painful to bear.  And it will not survive.  And that is why Jesus stopped.  To save a man, but also a town, and also the world, through mercy.

 

And in doing so, Jesus sets for us an example.  Mercy is a divinely appointed responsibility.  Because it does not come naturally.  But also we cannot survive without it. 

 

Back on the mount, Jesus told his listeners, “Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.”  The statement was not a cold, transactional equation; it was not about quid pro quo.  It is a promise: a promise to those who are stubborn and faithful enough to plant the seeds of mercy in the parched, cruel places of this world.  Our hope lives in the hearts of those willing to show mercy against the rigid violence of this merciless time, to see the face of God in the clouded eyes of our broken siblings, in the pained expressions of the lonely and the desperate, of the ashamed and the shameful.  Mercy is the blood we donate for the life of the world.  Mercy cost Jesus his life.  And mercy will also cost those who hope to be like him.

 

Mercy is dangerous work.  We are called to stand still in the midst of the tumult.  To plant our feet against the violent rhetoric of our age.  To stop despite the frantic push and pull of the current, despite the momentum of the crowds, despite the rush of the calendar.  So that we can hear and respond to the cries for mercy – those persistent, strangled cries for mercy.

 

Blessed are the merciful.  For they are doing the work of Jesus.