The Eyes of the Heart

Homily for The Twenty-Third Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 25b

Saint Peter's | Arlington, VA

“I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear, but now my eyes see you.”

Certain things have a way of changing our perception. It could be something really quite common, like witnessing the bloom of azaleas or magnolia trees in the springtime—or maybe watching steam rise from a warm beverage in the quiet hours of the morning.

Maybe its life event that is actually quite out-of-the-ordinary. Like laying eyes on a newborn. Or whispering final words to a loved one. In truly beholding a moment —and in turn letting it take hold of ourselves—we see differently.

As a restless, young, twenty-year old, I set out on a solo, summer-long roadtrip. I was wanted more from life but couldn’t quite put my finger on just what that might be. So, naturally, I outfitted a two-door sedan with a custom-built bed made of foam and plywood and drove across the country. One night, after several hours of driving, I stopped alongside an empty field some ways off the highway, matted down a small patch of tall grass, and set-up a tent for the night.

Later, once the sun had set, when I unzipped my tent and peaked my head outside: I was greeted by a horizon filled with tens of thousands of fireflies. And it took me completely by surprise. This vast, open midwest landscape full of twinkling lights was unlike anything I had laid eyes on before. I’ll never forget it and—for reasons known only to God—it changed something in the way I see everything.

The Catholic mystic and peace activist, Thomas Merton, describes a transformative moment that shaped the rest of his life. Standing in Downtown Louisville, Kentucky in 1958, Merton says:

“...at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the center of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all those people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers. It was like waking from a dream of separateness… […] This sense of liberation from an illusory difference was such a relief and such a joy to me that I almost laughed out loud. […] I have the immense joy of being man, a member of a race in which God Himself became incarnate. As if the sorrows and stupidities of the human condition could overwhelm me, now that I realize what we all are. And if only everybody could realize this! But it cannot be explained. There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun.”

Merton’s experience is much like having scales fall from one’s eyes. Which is just what happens with Job...

Job has literally lost everything but his breath. So, it’s understandable that he pleads for some kind of explanation. Rather than receiving a satisfying answer from God though, he is met instead with a question: “Who do you think you are?” As the poet Christian Wiman describes it, God in essence responds to Job’s anguish with a “blast of beauty.”

And it changes Job. With amazing humility, he says these words from today’s lesson: “I have uttered what I did not understand, things too wonderful for me, which I did not know.” Much still remains uncertain and unknown. But somehow through this unvarnished encounter with the Divine, Job sees something he couldn’t see before.

Restoration of sight is a theme repeated quite often in the Bible. And as we read the story of Bartimaeus in the Gospel of Mark, we reach the conclusion of a series of stories around this theme:

A blind man is miraculously healed after Jesus rubs mud in his eyes...

A rich man can’t quite grasp the thing Jesus attempts to reveal to him, so he leaves heavyhearted holding tightly to his many possessions...

And in story after story the disciple’s limited vision also keeps them from seeing what the ministry of Jesus is really about...

Finally, we come to “Blind Bartimaeus” who professes Jesus as “the son of David”—or rather, the promised and long-awaited Messiah. In antiquity it was common to view those with blindness as having some kind of prophetic insight, or vision if you will. So, in Jesus, Blind Bartimaeus recognizes something more than just an itinerant miracle worker. With the eyes of the heart, he sees Christ the savior. And he quickly lets go of all inhibitions, cries out, and asks that he might see again.

Faith makes him well and then in faith he chooses to accompany Jesus on the way. Bartimaeus’ story is lifted up as a model of discipleship, and concludes Mark’s aim to illumine different forms of spiritual blindness.

Now, to be clear: I do believe a real miracle occurs here. This is more than just a good story or an effective allegory. Jesus physically heals this man—and the explanation is simply too wonderful to understand.

But it is no coincidence that Mark chooses to record this event at this particular point in the gospel narrative. This is the final miracle Mark records in the long journey from Galilee to Jerusalem. And shortly after the confession of who will restore Israel, Jesus enters into Jerusalem—and Bartimaues is surely there among the crowd crying “Hosanna!”

Here’s the irony in all of this: for as much as the blind prophet is able to see what others cannot, it would seem Bartimaeus’ vision is also limited. Because the jubilant crowd that celebrates the “Son of David’s” triumphal entry into Jerusalem does so thinking he has come seeking political power and to upend the social order with a militarized uprising—when in actuality his confrontation with the Powers will come through humility and suffering.

Even though Bartimaeus’ encounter changes the trajectory of his life, he still gets some things wrong... And it is for this very reason that he truly is a model of discipleship for us.

Because faith isn’t about certainty. And neither is discipleship about perfection. It’s about following Jesus. It’s about trusting and committing to continue walking the way—no matter how often we miss the mark or doubt or how prone to wander we may be.

Faith and discipleship is a lifelong process—and there is no final destination.

This morning, I think Blind Bartimaeus extends to us an invitation...

It is no surprise that we are deep in the trenches of an election season. Perhaps you’re feeling these waning days all too closely. It can feel like the very air we breath. And all of the noise coming at from every direction can make it quite difficult to see. To see one another clearly and to bear witness to that truth in our lives.

From that busy intersection in Louisville, Merton’s reflection continues with these words:

“If only they could all see themselves as they really are. If only we could see each other that way all the time. There would be no more war, no more hatred, no more cruelty, no more greed... But this cannot be seen, only believed and ‘understood’ by a peculiar gift.”

So, alongside the beggar Bartimaeus, we might wonder...

What things in our own lives do we want—or need—to see?

What uncomfortable truths in our nation might we prefer not to see?

What apart from the grace of God are we unable to see?

And with whatever may surface, hear these words of Jesus spoken to you: “What do you want me to do for you?” What are the true desires of your heart?

Living into discipleship is the work of a lifetime. But in being faithful to the way we will more and more clearly as we encounter Christ in the world and in one another.

In summary, the writer and theologian Frederick Buechner puts it like this:

“To see [Christ] with the heart is to know that in the long run his kind of life is the only life worth living. To see him with the heart is not only to believe in him but little by little to become bearers to each other of his healing life until we become finally healed and whole and alive within ourselves. To see him with the heart is to take heart, to grow true hearts, brave hearts, at last. That is my dearest hope and prayer for all of you and also for me.”

Amen.