Quantum Calling

Proper 25B

“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.”

So writes Margaret Wheatley in her book Leadership & the New Science. Since I’m both the daughter and the mother of physicists, I probably ought to know this already. But if I want to actually observe the power of unseen connections I need look no farther than the calling of blind Bartimaeus. “Have mercy,” pleaded the blind man. “Take courage,” insisted the crowd. “Go,” said Jesus. And through these highly relational requests—made despite blindness—something fundamental was created. The capacity to see God in our midst.

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 actually a 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 8^th 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. 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 its not just about ancient names: relationship is how we all 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 overcoming shame and restoration to community.

So what do we do when we know that we are called by name, and our shame and 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 in our own lives.

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 all the time. I think especially of the parents in our midst: we name our children, we teach them the skills of relationship, we pick them up and encourage them when they fall down, and then—against every protective instinct—we send them on their way.

We send our children, trusting in their own capacity to enter into relationships of their own making, even though we cannot necessarily see what that will look like. And we do this for friends and lovers and coworkers as well. We love them, and we also let them follow their own call. It’s the hardest and most life-giving thing we do, and I suspect that we do it because—in some deep way—we recognize these dynamics of caring deeply and giving freely as the Spirit of Jesus Christ working through us.

Which brings me to our annual stewardship campaign, which wraps up this week. You knew that I had to go there, right? I might say that—in the world of church pledge drives, as in the quantum world and in Bartimaeus’ world—relationship is everything. Its tempting to think of money as a thing—and at times even a thing in short supply when we’re trying to manage the expenses of active lives—but that would be like reducing healing to getting a better pair of glasses, or calling to a text message. It’s not the particular means that makes the miracle possible, but rather the relationship that both inspires and ensues from the way we treat our money.

When we allow our money to become less of a thing we cling to, and more of the means of relationship, miraculous things really do happen. At a place like St. Stephen’s, lonely people have friends. Sick people have prayers and visitors. Children and youth know themselves called by name. Vulnerable people have care and resources. Hungry people have the bread of heaven… and one heck of a coffee hour. These are just a few of the relational connections that our pledging makes possible, and the more we love deeply and give freely, the richer our network of relationships become.

I’m not suggesting that changing our understanding of money from that of a thing we have—or don’t have—to a medium of relationship is an easy transformation. I’d be the first to confess that I count the cost of my giving as if there were some finite limit on what I return to God, and I need daily healing of my desire to hang onto people and things. Which is another way of saying that I’m still a far cry from the faithfulness of Bartimaeus, who was so swift to shed his cloak and follow Jesus. I’m more like the other blind man who had to go back and ask for greater clarity, or like the disciples who failed to see the obvious.

But that’s the great thing about pledging as a spiritual discipline. We can keep trying, and get a little better at it each year. Healing and calling is God’s work within us, so we actually don’t need to worry about whether we’re getting our pledge (or anything else we do in response to God’s call) right or wrong. All we have to do is cooperate with God who calls us into generous relationship—perhaps stretching ourselves to give a bit more than we did last year—and then open our eyes to the miracles that ensue.