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Mark
10:46-49
They came to Jericho. As he and his disciples and a
large crowd were leaving Jericho, Bartimaeus son of Timaeus, a blind beggar,
was sitting by the roadside. When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he
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.’
Mercy
Have
mercy on us. Open our eyes that we may see ourselves, our society, our nation
and neighborhood. But this is a fearful thing. Do we really want to see our privilege
and wealth, how entitled we are, a fact of which most are oblivious?
Have
we lost sight of holiness and beauty? Can we feel the wonder of true human communion
and know it as communion in the Love you are, a communion you happily create
among us when we stop letting our lives run us and truly look at each other?
Can we
again know and feel that these lives we are given are for something beyond ourselves? Can we still know the joy of being blessed, broken and given away in love for
purposes far more holy than our own comfort?
Can
we be truly human again, images of the Christ?
Days
come when I lose hope for our society, for the neighborhood in which I live,
for lives so caught up in the rush of western culture that they fail to see
they no longer make choices but are driven, automatons of a society that knows
nothing higher than self-seeking.
I
know … it’s not so bad. Glimmers of hope and beauty often appear in the acts
and eyes of those who are not entirely absorbed in the soup of our societal obsessions
with more and more, faster and faster, me and more me.
Some
are not blind but see beauty and wonder … and the pain of a world not so privileged
as we. Some have suffered greatly, opening their broken hearts to see and bring
solace and seek justice.
Some
are filled with joy that escapes me when the world is heavy on my heart and
anything I do seems fruitless. Their joy bears fruit, bearing the rest of us up
on discouraging days. So does this time, this prayer of exploring the darkness
of heart that sometimes comes.
Morning
clouds clear even as I write. For I hear you whisper, “Take heart. I will open
your eyes to see and know … me.”
This is all I need. Truly.
Pr.
David L. Miller
