I’m both the daughter and the mother of physicists, so—even though I was never much of a scientist myself—I am fascinated with the intersection of scientific ideas and theology. I think that I share this interest with your priest, who has been kind enough to allow me to preach from her pulpit twice. Thank you, Mother Neli! Let me confess, however, that I actually asked for this privilege, because Bartimaeus is one of my favorite Bible stories. Not usually one that we associate with the physical sciences, but bear with me.
In her 2006 book Leadership & the New Science, Margaret Wheatley wrote “In the quantum world, relationship is the key determiner of everything. Subatomic particles come into form… only as they are in relationship to something else. There are no ‘basic building blocks’… These unseen connections between what were previously thought to be separate entities are the fundamental ingredient of all creation.”
For those of us who don’t happen to be students of quantum physics, unseen connections between subatomic particles are probably hard to imagine. But to observe the power of unseen connections in everyday life, we actually need look no farther than the calling of blind Bartimaeus. “Have mercy,” pleaded the blind man. “Take courage,” insisted the crowd. “Go,” said Jesus. In the relationship between these requests—made despite the obvious challenge of blindness—something fundamental was created: the capacity to see God at work in the community.
You may have noticed that I described Bartimaeus’ as a story of calling. Usually we think of it a healing narrative, for which all the normal elements are present: someone has a physical problem, there is some factor that complicates matters, Jesus effects the cure, and then there is a response to the miracle. And all of this happens with Bartimaeus. Biblical call narratives—that’s another specific genre of Biblical literature—also have a typical structure. There’s a divine encounter, a naming, some kind of objection or complication, a reassurance and a sending. All this happens with Bartimaeus too.
Mark’s gospel in particular is full of stories like these: in the first chapter alone Jesus calls four disciples, heals Peter’s mother, a leper, and multitudes with unclean spirits. And today’s gospel bookends a central section that began in the 8th chapter with the healing of another blind man. This other restoration of sight, curiously, took two tries. After Jesus laid hands on the nameless man, he saw only partially and had to go back again to ask for greater clarity. Then before we get to the story of Bartimaeus, there are a series of encounters in which Jesus is trying, mostly without success, to teach his oblivious disciples.
All of which serves as our clue that Mark wants us to understand the healing miracles as being not merely a restoration of sight to the eyes, but also a gift of spiritual insight. For some of us it takes a while to understand what God is doing in our midst. But Bartimaeus—the consummate disciple—sees Jesus with the eyes of his heart, and his response is that of one who knows himself to be called. Immediately, he follows.
At the root of both calling and healing is relationship, that fundamental ingredient of creation according to Margaret Wheatley. Even before he encounters Jesus, Bartimaeus’ very name—Hebrew for son of Timaeus—bespeaks the relationship he was born into. And it’s not just ancient names that reveal relationship: it’s through relationship we come to be named, baptized and called. And relationship is also how we are healed. While not all human sickness and suffering is overcome in this life, the healing that Jesus manifests always involves restoration to community.
So what do we do when we encounter Jesus, know that we are called by name, and our isolation is healed? We heed the call of the healer. Which means not only following Jesus on the way to Jerusalem, as indeed Bartimaeus did, but also emulating his relational practices of healing and calling as part of our own ministries.
This process may resemble quantum mechanics, but it’s not rocket science (to mangle science metaphors). All of us are engaged in ministries of calling and healing—and likewise of being called and healed—all the time. I think especially of those of us who have come to Antigua from afar: we take on and learn new names and languages, we develop new relationships, and we encourage each other to discover new places and cultural practices. “Have mercy,” we plead in our ignorance. “Take courage,” insists the community of locals and expats. “Go,” says Jesus.
None of this happens in isolation: we need each other to show us the way. And the same can be said for Guatemalans who emigrate to the United States, and immigrants to other global destinations. Relationships guide and encourage us when we are blind—culturally speaking—until such time as we are free to go our way and live our particular calling.
In congregations and communities—as in the quantum world and in Bartimaeus’ world—relationship is everything. While you may not think of it as miraculous in Gospel terms, you already live in this quantum reality. I’ve been here long enough to know that, at St. Alban’s, people are called by name. Lonely people have friends. Sick people are prayed for. Hungry people have the bread of heaven, and hopefully lunch after Sunday services as well. Shout out to Jeanne for organizing!
In addition to being the kind and welcoming people that you are, I know that you do a lot of good in Antigua and the surrounding communities. But let me remind you that it’s not the particularities of your kindnesses that are the miracles, or at least not just them. Rather, it is the relationship that both inspires and ensues from your kindness. The very fact that you are here—calling each other by the family names of Anglican and Episcopalian as well as by your personal names—is a miracle already. And a also miracle waiting to happen.
You know, I hadn’t actually intended to preach this, but something happened this week that reminded me of the foundational power of relationship. A dear friend of mine—an Episcopal priest in Florida—was attacked at local coffee shop. It was a life threatening injury from which he is likely to recover fully, but it made churchwide news. It was not news I was watching from here, however.
But a former parishioner of mine in Portland Oregon knew that Fr. Matt was a friend of mine, because her mother is a member of his Florida church. So she emailed to let me know. Between Portland and Antigua and St. Augustine, prayers filled the relational space between us. It was shocking to me, of course, because we are all wounded when bad things happen. But we are also all healed when we support and pray for each other, even in trauma and sorrow.
The more we practice loving broadly and giving freely, the more powerful our network of relationships become. So let me bid you to open your eyes, friends: see and celebrate all the ways in which God is already present and visible in the spaces between us. And then take courage, encourage each other to even greater faithfulness, and follow the Lord your God on your way.
Very nice! Godspeed!
Amen.