Cherishing Infirmity

Jericho first became famous, of course, when Joshua, son of Nun, in a flurry of virile righteousness blew his trumpets, stomped around the city perimeter, and the walls of Jericho came tumbling down. By Jesus’ day, however many thousands of years later, it would have become a prosperous farming village, lying right at the crease of the land, where the Jordan river valley abruptly gives way to the steep and rugged hills of central Judea. The land immediately surrounding Jericho is flat and fertile. Olive and pomegranate trees and other crops are abundant. But to leave Jericho and to travel west is to begin the very steep, rocky, desolate climb up to Jerusalem.

In Mark’s Gospel, Jericho marks the close of Jesus’ public ministry of teaching and healing. After he leaves Jericho he will no longer plant seeds and nurture growth in the people who gather around and follow him. His eyes will be firmly focused on a rocky hill and a cross. But just as he leaves… just as he steps from the fertile orchard land of Jericho onto the stony mountain path of the Jerusalem road, he encounters blind Bartimaeus.

We know little about Bartimaeus except his name. And that is actually more than we know about most of those whom Jesus healed. And we know what he said to Jesus. When Jesus asked, "What do you want me to do for you?" the blind man replied, "My teacher, let me see again." We do not know any medical details about Bartimaeus’ blindness. The fact that he asks to see again suggests that at one time he had sight. When or how or why he lost his sight isn’t told to us. We don’t know if the loss was somehow his own fault, or genetic, or an unfortunate accident. All we know is that his vision was impaired. He was infirm. Weak. Physically lacking. Yet we do know one more important thing about him. One writer, describing this passage, notes that Bartimaeus was not one who "cherished his infirmity." He did not cherish his infirmity.

An interesting turn of phrase. He did not cherish his infirmity. Your first reaction might be to say, of course not. Who, in his right mind, would cherish an infirmity? Speaking myself as someone whose vision without correction is very poor, it is difficult for me to imagine some one with impaired vision not wanting to correct that particular infirmity. Yet if we pause and reflect for a moment… maybe it isn’t so hard to imagine some one, some one perhaps whom we know well, who does cherish an infirmity. There are many kinds of infirmities, impairments… spiritual infirmities, infirmities of character, physical infirmities. And I expect that all of us have infirmities that we cherish, hold dear, cling to… infirmities that we would actually be reluctant to have cured.

If you think you might be one of those folk who cherishes an infirmity or two, you (and I) have some good company. The disciples, for example. In the chapters leading up to today’s reading, Jesus and his followers are traveling "on the way." Mark uses that phrase—on the way—to speak, not just of a physical journey from town to town, but also a journey of discovery about who Jesus really is and what he is called to do. To be "on the way" is to be hearing and seeing and learning about Jesus as the Son of God. Again and again along this journey Jesus teaches the disciples… teaches them, for example, that his ministry is not about power and triumph, but about service and reconciliation.

But they don’t get it. They don’t hear Jesus. Their hearing is infirm. Not that there is any physical impairment to their hearing. But their hearing is limited. They are not hearing things they should be hearing. Even though Jesus repeats it over and over louder and louder.

In last week’s Gospel Jesus asked James and John exactly the same question he asks Bartimaeus today, "What do you want me to do for you?" But unlike Bartimaeus, they do not ask to hear again; they do not ask for their infirmity to be lifted. Instead, they ask for prominence and power.

Infirmities make good excuses. The child who says, "I didn’t hear you call me for dinner. I was late because I didn’t hear you. It wasn’t my fault." Or James and John who might have said, "We didn’t hear you, Jesus, when you said we were all supposed to be servants. It isn’t our fault we didn’t know; it’s our infirm hearing." No, they didn’t ask to have their hearing or their perception improved. With a hearing infirmity, they could always claim not to have heard the things they didn’t want to hear.

So you can see why we might cherish infirmities, whether they’re real or not. Think of some of the other things people say all the time. "I can’t help being stubborn, my Daddy was stubborn. It’s in my genes." Or "Love me or leave me. This is how God made me. I’m not gonna change." Or all those girls for all those years who didn’t take math or science classes in high school because they lived in a society that cherished girls’ perceived infirmity with math. Or how often people in positions of power, whether they got that power because they were smart or rich or white… how often they literally don’t see or hear the lesser folk. "It isn’t our fault you have been neglected, we just didn’t see you." Churches do it, too, cherish their infirmities. One writer/researcher has noted how small churches, in particular, cling to their smallness as a cherished infirmity. It’s not our fault we can’t do anything or be anything, we’re small.

Cherishing, clinging to, our infirmities is a handy way to avoid responsibility or change. Unfortunately, of course, it’s also inevitably a way to avoid truth, honest self-awareness, and God. I don’t suppose most of us close our eyes and ears with the specific intention of avoiding God, but that is the result. We miss seeing and hearing God’s presence and God’s words in our lives.

It can become an awful catch-22. As we cherish and cling to our infirmities, we fail to see and hear and know the one who can heal those infirmities. God can and will and yearns to heal all of our infirmities, both the real ones and the ones we have chosen to adopt. God wants us to see and hear and be strong in our bodies, minds and souls. God stands right next to us asking us the same question Jesus asked James and John in last week’s Gospel, the same question he asks Bartimaeus in this week’s Gospel. "What do you want me to do for you?"

Bartimaeus might have kept his blindness. After all, as a blind man, he didn’t have to work; he didn’t have to care for anyone else; and there was obviously no way he could follow Jesus as long as he couldn’t see where Jesus was leading him. He could stay right there in Jericho and eat pomegranates. But Bartimaeus said, "My teacher, I pray, let me see again." And the first thing he saw was Jesus. And the first thing he did was stand up and follow… follow Jesus on the way to Jerusalem.

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