Bartimaeus began to shout out and say, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly, “Son of David, have mercy on me!” Jesus stood still and said, “Call him here.” And they called the blind man, saying to him, “Take heart; get up, he is calling you.” So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus. [Mark’s Gospel 10.47-50]

An argument can be made that the Harry Potter books are, essentially, not about magic at all. All the palaver from a few groups in our community about witches, wizards and wands – and the banning of books – meant that a handful of people missed the story entirely.

A engaging story of the journey through high school and adolescence was wonderfully about courage and grief, teenage humour and discovery, fear and love and laughter, the making of friends and the hope of a future after significant loss. The magic, for most of the story, was icing on the cake.

A similar argument can be made about Bartimaeus and his encounter with Jesus – that it’s precisely not about fixing the sight of a blind man. An extraordinary series of gospel stories culminates in this man seeing more clearly than anyone else. The irony is that almost no one notices him, ever. The irony, magnified, is that his physical vision is almost entirely impaired.

Mark builds the story carefully, with the disciples walking, stumble by misstep, after Jesus.

A foreign woman, least expected to understand the mission of Jesus because of her gender and being a gentile, redefines his calling through desperation and hope. In the next breath, children are welcomed by Jesus, as he declares their perspective as most appropriate to comprehend God’s reign.

The disciples, and the crowd of which we are a part, are amazed when a rich man rejects Jesus’ invitation and challenge, and again when the Pharisees see their task as stumbling blocks as opposed to stepping stones. How is it possible that the rich and the clergy fail to understand Jesus’ call to discipleship?

Thus we meet Bartimaeus, who sees clearly enough to defy the crowd. The rich man was unable to leave everything behind; Bartimaeus walks away from his livelihood in order to discover life. The Pharisees laid traps for Jesus and Bartimaeus evades them all as he walks from a beggar’s life to discipleship.

Jesus asks James and John the identical question that he asks Bartimaeus. The brothers request glory, greatness and recognition. Bartimaeus asks for mercy.

When we read this story, the culmination of this stanza in Mark’s Gospel, do not miss the meaning by looking only for the illustrations.

When we encounter Jesus, despite all the obstacles we have overcome, what do we need to ask him? And what, in mercy, do you believe Jesus will say?

Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind:
“Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge?
Gird up your loins like a man, I will question you, and you shall declare to me.
“Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?
Tell me, if you have understanding.” [Job 38.1-4]

“Smite me, O mighty smiter!” yells the lead character in the movie, Bruce Almighty, daring God to act, as one misstep after another leads to chaos in his life.

We have similarly laughed at Basil Fawlty raising his clenched fist, heavenwards, as his life enters another spiral, with accusation laid at the feet of the Almighty. Even in the more complex and engaged debate from President Jed Bartlet in West Wing, we hear the most powerful man in the world accuse God of wilful behaviour and arbitrary punishment.

This cartoon from The Far Side echoes the anger, or fear, of Bruce and Basil and Bartlet, as they come to terms with catastrophes of various dimensions. The reason these images work so well is that, deep down, many of us fear that God has that capacity, that character flaw, waiting to push the “smite” button, simply because God can.

When we read the extraordinary tale of Job and his family, we are at risk of equating a story of suffering and injustice, of faithfulness and despair with the imaginary, vindictive deity against whom Basil Fawlty raises his fist.

We are called to advocate for those who suffer; we are commanded to offer our compassion. We are also called to engage with faithful questioning, to wrestle out our discipleship, to engage and contend with God. Our faith, through Christ, compels us to address suffering, to confront injustice and to stand, with open hearts and hands, beseeching our faithful God, and asking why.

Job enquires of God why such punishment has been visited upon him and his family. God’s response to Job describes far more than arbitrary action. It is the reply that says there is more happening than we can know, and that God is, essentially, more than we can imagine, or prescribe.

Our faith, through Christ, compels us to address suffering, to confront injustice and to stand, with open hearts and hands, beseeching our faithful God, and asking why.

God’s answer, for those who know the depths of injustice and suffering, always seems insufficient. It is, however, the wrestle of every human being to understand why wrong things happen across the world and history. As people sit in dust and ashes in Gaza and Lebanon; as the folk in Ukraine watch their history and future destroyed; as politicians play the lottery with economic policy and people’s lives, the appeal of Job to God makes absolute sense to all of us.

Jesus’ life and death and resurrection at the heart of history speaks into the question of suffering and injustice. The proclamation that God is not above and beyond our lives, but with us, articulates something more profound and wonderful than Job hears from his fickle friends, or even from God’s response.

Yes, God is indeed more than we can ask or imagine. God, however, is with us. That assertion calls for our voice and our action as disciples of this God. Our faith, through Christ, compels us to address suffering, to confront injustice and to stand, with open hearts and hands, beseeching our faithful God, and asking why.

Our Armidale Congregation is compiling a number of faith stories, to encourage and help each other remember – and “remember forward” – in our discipleship.

When asked to consider my journey of faith, one of the most difficult steps was not to launch into a formal account, but to sit and remember those stanzas which have brought me, under God’s mercy, to where I am.

I have wandered and walked, danced and stumbled, and waited. My faith has roots in the maternal branch of my family, deep roots of discipleship and integrity, to which I have grafted my experiences.

I found my first home in a large Sydney youth group in the last years of the seventies, having been coerced to join by my parents, and discovering relationships which shaped me in new ways. It was here that I first heard – and answered – a call to faith in Jesus; I began to understand forgiveness and the anticipation of following Christ.

The youth group offered the necessary ingredients of people my age, and slightly older; people with whom to learn and grow, and people to admire. There were weekly bible studies and worship, discipleship and small groups – all of these shaped me into my understanding of how community is essential to discipleship and also gave me deep grounding in scripture and prayer.

The charismatic movement was a lively (and often criticised) movement in the Church, and many of us engaged with enthusiasm. The presence of the Spirit, and the excitement of renewal were pivotal in shaping my sense of discipleship, and the possibilities of what an unconstrained God can – and will – do in the world and the Church. As an extrovert, the renewal of the Church makes my heart race.

It was during these years that I first had a sense of call to more formal ministry, even as I found myself on the margins of the traditional Church. At this time, most of the mainstream Church seemed naively confident that it was well resourced to address the challenges happening around us. Many of us were, and remain, impatient for change.

My formation into ordained ministry at College was rigorous and wonderful, and a revelation. I learned better to listen to those wiser than I am, to colleagues around me, to my heart, and to the Spirit. The depths of theology and scripture echoed my desire for transformation, in myself and the Church, echoes of hope and impatience. These still resonate, ever loudly as I write this.

The irony of serving in traditional ordained ministry, and yearning for transformation is not lost on me. Notwithstanding, I believe I am where I am supposed to be, and am entirely thankful to God.

I rejoice in the stanzas of my discipleship, with more to come. I have remembered to treasure the time before people arrive for worship, praying in the silence, listening. I am most affected by hope; the hope found in the risen, crucified Christ. This hope is essential for me, and addresses our frailties as both disciples and church, and the wounds the world bears so heavily.

In my impatience for transformation, I continue to learn about the action of God, in God’s time. In my hope, placed in Jesus Christ, I wait with expectation and joy.

Kneeling | R.S. Thomas
Moments of great calm,
Kneeling before an altar
Of wood in a stone church
In summer, waiting for the God
To speak; the air a staircase
For silence; the sun’s light
Ringing me, as though I acted
A great role. And the audiences
Still; all that close throng
Of spirits waiting, as I,
For the message.
                        Prompt me God,
But not yet. When I speak,
Though it be you who speak
Through me, something is lost.
The meaning is in the waiting.

– R.S. Thomas, Selected Poems (Bloodaxe Books, 1986)

Jesus said, “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.” They were greatly astounded and said to one another, “Then who can be saved?” … Jesus said, “But many who are first will be last, and the last will be first.”  [Mark 10.17-31]

We have developed, even cultivated, an elastic capacity when we hear Jesus’ words.

We attend to the astonishing challenges of his teaching, or the stories Jesus tells and, moments later we return, reflexively, to where we were.

We encounter wayward sons and roadside Samaritans, soldiers and Sadducees, forgiveness beyond our counting, and are astonished that blind beggars see more clearly than community leaders. Children become the hallmark of God’s kingdom, for both hospitality and understanding, while those who are hungriest and least likely are desperate for the life Jesus offers, grasping with both hands – and their hearts.

So easily we discover ourselves looking for another inference, or something which won’t disrupt the shape we have made for our lives.  

“Christianity is one beggar telling another beggar where to find food” a missionary suggested.[1] Perhaps our diet is too rich? Are we too well fed?

Many of us read the story of a rich man walking away from Jesus and immediately dismiss the idea that the story has anything to do with money. It’s a metaphor, or something; an illustration about what weighs us down or distracts us.

Don’t worry, I get it. The story unnerves me too.

I want to suggest that, at the core of many of us is the flimsy and undisturbed belief that money is a valid marker of value and achievement. That people who get ahead (or are born ahead) will, deservedly, remain ahead.

Thus, when Jesus trips the disciples by declaring anyone who is wealthy is too encumbered to enter the kingdom of God, we nod our heads wisely for a moment, mentally check our bank balance and decide (thankfully!) that we have less money than Lachlan Murdoch, and we start measuring embroidery needles.

You see, Jesus can’t be inferring this has anything to do with me.

And a blind man leaves his livelihood pushing his way past us, to risk himself with Jesus, discovering sight and life and one to follow into eternity.

What must we do to inherit eternal life?

How hungry are you?

---

[1] D.T. Niles

John said to him “Teacher, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he was not following us.” But Jesus said, “Do not stop him; for no one who does a deed of power in my name will be able soon afterward to speak evil of me. Whoever is not against us is for us. For truly I tell you, whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because you bear the name of Christ will by no means lose the reward. [Mark 9.38-41]

How easily we find reasons to take sides.

We decide who belongs; more often, we decide who does not. We know the journey, from the painful process (for some) of teams being chosen in the playground in primary school, to the social, or political, or religious gauntlet in which we live and are allocated.

I referred last week to Stan Grant’s comment[1] about identity being “a cage in search of a bird” and that has some weight here. We identify a person by their gender, or skin colour, or age, or sexuality and decide their inherent merit, or their capacity to belong to “our” group.

This behaviour is accelerating in our community, as we find ourselves more likely to associate primarily with those who think and vote like us and, more pronounced, offering condemnation to those who do not. We discount their views and express contempt for them as whole; if you vote for that party/person/policy then you have nothing to offer.

Before we reflexively become too defensive, wait a moment and reflect.  

There are echoes for us in this week’s Gospel reading, with the disciples behaving as we often might, by staking our ground and our privilege, and warning others away.

It’s simple, is it not? And it saves time.

And it infests many faith traditions within the whole Church. The strident defence of being evangelical or progressive, of being “bible-based”, builds into finger-pointing and, tragically, fence-building.

Our identity as followers of Jesus will be formed and discovered by the cups of water we offer to the thirsty, not the quality of fence strainer or barbed wire we use.  At this point in the Gospel, Jesus is stepping into the journey towards the cross, for the sake of those who accept him, and those who do not.  

What might that look like, in our Congregation, in our relationships, in our community?

---

[1] Frank Archibald Memorial Lecture, 19^th September 2024 

The old white box stands sentinel, resolute and resilient, in the middle of our front paddock. Older, perhaps, than colonisation, this tree has borne steady witness, weathering – and outliving – each seasonal challenge. We were present for a lightning strike, several years ago, blasting off a limb, and some resolve.

Still, she stands.  

​In the first words offered to us by the Psalmist, we hear

Happy are those who do not follow the advice of the wicked,
or take the path that sinners tread, or sit in the seat of scoffers;
but their delight is in the law of the Lord,
and on his law they meditate day and night.
They are like trees planted by streams of water,
which yield their fruit in its season, and their leaves do not wither.
In all that they do, they prosper.

A podcast asked the question this week, what sort of tree would you imagine yourself to be?

Sit for a moment, and ponder. What tree do you imagine yourself to be? Consider your leaves and twigs and boughs, your roots and bark, your canopy. What feeds you? Where are the streams which nourish you?

At the Frank Archibald Memorial Lecture this week, Stan Grant noted that the steady diet for our community includes UberEats and Married At First Sight. The distance and the anti-hospitality of an anonymous food carrier, and the bastardisation of relationship and covenant. Nourishment, indeed.

The psalmist talks of “scoffers”, a term barely used these days. Perhaps they are those who mocked Christ at the cross; more normally, they are those whose words are designed to chip and chasten, with cynicism in their commentary and muttered criticism for things they can’t tolerate or imagine.

We meet them in ourselves when tired or discouraged. We meet them in others, and it is most disabling when we are beginning to hope, or act, again. Their voices whisper in our churches and communities, thinking themselves clever. However, at their best, all they can offer is hindrance.

Think of what water feeds your soul, quenches your thirst, refreshes you. What story of Jesus, what experience of others, what song you sing, which poem or performance, lifts you to life and hope?

Which experience of Jesus might you be courageous enough to believe will give life to others, and would you offer it? Imagine that, in tendering your story of hope and life, others will prosper in their turn, growing into the life created for them in Christ.

Jesus went on with his disciples to the villages of Caesarea Philippi;
and on the way he asked his disciples, “Who do people say that I am?” [Mark’s Gospel 8.27]

In a world immersed in words, it becomes more and more difficult to discern and offer the words which are hopeful, creative, life-giving. Advertising, podcasts and the misnamed “reality TV”, media of all forms, shout at us incessantly or sit on our shoulders and chatter in our ears like monkeys.

Opinions are everywhere, and quantity seems in inverse proportion to quality. Undaunted by this, offering – and amplifying – a bizarre opinion is the most likely way to garner attention and, following hot on attention’s heels are those who accept, believe and adhere.

Who do people say me to be?

Amidst all the noise, can we attend to what people are saying? One of the interesting tests of many modern church movements is how little they mention the person and work of Jesus Christ, and how much more is spoken about you, and me. The next line is either our abject failure, or the five alliterative steps to self-actualisation.

A number of faith traditions enlist Paul to their particular frame of thinking, neglecting the reality that Paul’s central point of reference is never himself, or us, but “Jesus Christ, and him crucified.”

Who do people say me to be?

The temptation is to believe ourselves sufficiently nourished by miracles, or wisdom, or seeing a person healed. The wonder of a crowd being satisfied by a handful of bread is something we would tell our children and grandchildren, but is it enough when we can’t pay the bills tomorrow, or our home is unsafe tonight?

When Peter names Jesus as Messiah, he imagines a story far away from suffering and struggle. His rebuke of Jesus’ words of rejection and death arises from fear and discomfort, and the consequence for him of following such a one.

Who do you say me to be?

The only way that tangible words of hope can be offered to broken lives is when the one who speak knows what suffering is, the lash of injustice and the hammer blows of rejection. When Jesus names who he is, we are immediately aware of our identities, as those who follow him.

We are named as those who know that suffering and injustice are real, but they are not the final words spoken. We know that violence happens, but death is not the end of the story.

We name Jesus as Immanuel, God with us. This is not a nickname for a manger-born infant, but the identity of one with us in every stanza of our lives.

Crucified, and risen. This is who we say Jesus to be. Jesus, the purpose and fulfilment of God in creation and history. Life is the complete word spoken, heard in silence and wonder at the first and final moments.

Who do you say me to be?

She begged him to cast the demon out of her daughter.He said to her, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”But she answered him, “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” [Mark’s Gospel 7.26-28]

What happens when Jesus says something which we think he should not have said? How do you feel when Jesus says something which, from anyone else, would create a response of condemnation or criticism, at the very least?

A common response is that we try to ameliorate what Jesus has said, or we make excuses for him, by claiming he meant something different, or the translation misses the nuance of the words, or he didn’t call her a dog, it was more like a puppy.

We are so caught up in the moment, we don’t see Jesus as the human being God has so clearly intended him to be.

Exhausted, driven, with little chance to rest and facing criticism from the Jewish leadership and many in the community, Jesus seeks refuge in a Gentile town where he hopes he is not known. He slips into a home, and looks for a space to stop, perhaps seeking a moment’s sanctuary. Not a chance.

This mother of a desperately ill daughter, unnamed but identified, falls at Jesus’ feet and begs him for help. Could there be a more significant contrast with the confrontation of the Pharisees and lawyers from whom Jesus has just taken refuge?

However, Jesus dismisses her with a word and a cruel name. For half a breath, we don’t know what to think. And yet, this mother behaves as mothers have behaved throughout history, doing anything to save her child. She answers back, challenging and correcting Jesus.

We hold our breath for another heartbeat. And Jesus is recalled to the breadth and depth of his ministry; not just to the people of Israel, but to all who hunger and thirst for justice and mercy.

In the Old Testament, we hear Abraham, Moses and the Psalmist call God to remember mercy, to remember justice, to remember God’s people. Just like the patriarchs and prophets, this Gentile woman, this foreign mother, calls Jesus to discover and to remember that the hope of life inherent in Jesus is for everyone.

Just as God has cause to remember at the call of his people, so does Jesus. A young girl is given life and the gospel story expands before our eyes from the nation of Israel to a deaf man, to four thousand hungry Gentiles and thus, to us – and all creation. 

For if any are hearers of the word and not doers,
they are like those who look at themselves in a mirror; for they look at themselves
and, on going away, immediately forget what they were like.

– James 1.23-24

How easy (and convenient) to have “predictive text” as we read and listen to the Scriptures.  We have a glimpse of what we think is coming, or someone reads the title of the section before the text itself and really, we almost don’t need to listen too hard.

The Letter of James has endured much in this regard. “Faith without works is dead” becomes the simplistic mission statement, thus justifying all the responsibilities, jobs and rosters. Finally, we corral the story of Mary and Martha in order to take sides – are you Mary, or are you Martha? Thus, we summarise this profound epistle before the kettle has boiled (expecting Martha to pour the tea).

Might I encourage you to stop for a second and observe that James’ letter is not an advertisement for the protestant work ethic, but rather an encouragement to be both hearers and doers of the word.

This is neither about indolence and apathy, nor about busy-ness and activity; it is about allowing our lives and selves to be shaped by the word. James’ original text does not have the distinction of a capital for “Word” (the original text was entirely in capitals), so we are entitled to ask to which “word” are we paying attention?

The New Testament had not yet been compiled when James was writing, so we can assume there were narratives, letters, even testimonies about Jesus, to which the communities of faith had access. These reports of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection were compelling and transforming, but I would suggest that there is more that James intends.

In the verse just before this, James talks of “the implanted word that has the power to save your souls.” Might this be more than narratives, reports and testimonies? This is the Word proclaimed at the majestic commencement of John’s Gospel; “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God.”

If this Word, known to us and among us as Jesus, is implanted in us, what might identify our community as “doers of the Word”? Perhaps how we speak and act and serve and forgive? Perhaps how we bridle our tongues from cynicism and gossip, and release them to bless and honour those around us? How might our lives reflect the presence of Jesus?

Our significant mistake will be to assume we have this in hand. As we pray this week, let us pray for the Word to be embedded, implanted in our lives and our Congregation, that we might be known as “doers of the Word” for our community around us.

“Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life.”

It’s when we make that one decision that everything begins to change. Many of us belong to groups passively, just testing the water, unsure of whether we belong. This is as true of a walking group, or regular Thursday coffee, or settling into a community of faith.

We come along, check if it’s safe and whether we feel we can belong. Belonging may take time. At some point, we decide to stay, or not; to belong, or not; to commit.

In the gospels, the safety and obscurity of the crowd is where we often find ourselves; listening to what Jesus has to say, being fed with thousands of others, chasing him around the lake, expecting a miracle, or a show.

Then Jesus asks more of us. It might feel like too much. We watch him invite himself to lunch with that tax bloke. We see him eating meals with those disreputables. He makes extraordinary claims for himself. He asks us to follow him, risking everything – career, family, income, reputation, life.

When this happens, we find we can no longer just settle obscurely into the crowd.     

A suggestion. We’d like it we could buy the hoodie and the stubby holder, and not need to change how we vote, and how we spend our money, and how we live, and how we speak to others (especially the ones we find difficult to like). Just a suggestion.

In the letter to the Colossians, the author writes, “If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!”

We can’t just buy some merchandise. We are asked to follow, to die and live.

It is only when we test ourselves against the words of Jesus that we discern whether there is real life there, or just a meme. Shall we risk loving – and forgiving – our neighbour, even our enemy?  Shall we risk being forgiven, in our turn?

When we trust that Jesus is more than a persona, more than ethics and morals, we discover there is life for us. And everything changes.