Two psychiatrists were talking, and one asked the other, "What was your most difficult case?"
His colleague answered, "Once I had a patient who lived in a pure fantasy world. He believed that a wildly rich uncle in South America was going to leave him a fortune. All day long he waited for a make-believe letter to arrive from a fictitious attorney. He never went out or did anything. He just sat around and waited."
"What was the result?" asked the first psychiatrist.
"Well, it was an eight-year struggle but I finally cured him. And then that damn letter arrived..."
This blind beggar named Bartimaeus is one of the few recipients of healing in the Gospels who are given names. It’s always striking when someone’s name is preserved for us. The vast majority of those Jesus healed are anonymous—in fact basically all of them are unnamed.
Bartimaeus could not see Jesus but his sense of hearing was keen and he calls out: 'Son of David, have mercy on me!' and, like the patient waiting for that letter, he persists even though the crowd tries to silence him.
Jesus has them bring Bartimaeus to him and asks what he wants; he asks to be able to see again. The beggar, on being called to Jesus, discards his cloak. Why is this significant? Because that cloak would serve as his only protection from the weather. It would also have been his “sleeping bag.”
Once he cast his cloak aside, there was no guarantee that someone would not take it or that in his blindness he would not be able to retrieve it again. Bartimaeus made himself totally vulnerable to Jesus and to the crowd.
Being so very vulnerable is never comfortable for any of us but to some degree we are all vulnerable, all exposed to the uncertainties of life and what it brings our way. Some of us to illness or loss, some more vulnerable than others to ridicule, prejudice, and belittlement. We are all vulnerable at least some of the time.
I suspect that is one of the reasons we are here because we know what it is like to feel helpless. We remember when we also wanted to cry out, even if without giving voice to it, “Jesus, have mercy on me!” And I suspect that all of us have in some way known God’s mercy and compassion, God’s healing power and abundant grace just as did Bartimaeus.
I wonder if this story is still told around the world because blindness can be much more than obstruction of sight. Episcopal Bishop Steven Charleston put it this way: We have all been in dark places, that shadow land just next door to what we call reality, where clarity is lost and doubt swells, where we are uncertain what tomorrow will bring, if tomorrow will come at all. The dark places can appear slowly or suddenly, but either way they cover us in a fog of doubt, leaving us feeling alone.
“It is at this moment that faith becomes our compass, for it reminds us that darkness is only a detour, never a destination. These small corners are not the true landscapes of our life. They cannot restrain the power of love. We have only to listen to our heart.
Then the Spirit calls for us until we find our way, out of the dead-end of worry, and back to the broad and bright streets of hope.”

And believe that it was hope that kept Bartimaeus going, waiting, persistent in having an encounter with the one who could respond to his plea, “Jesus, Sob of David, have mercy one me!”
I’ll leave us today with the question Jesus asked when he heard the cries of Bartimaeus: “What do you want me to do for you?” In the brief silence that follows now we might want to answer that question. What do we want Jesus to do for us?
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