Imagine what a terrible thing it must be to have eyes and not be able to see. I know of such a person: his name is George, and he was born sighted, like the rest of us. Although George needed glasses at an early age, he was pitied by no one. A natural athlete, he won respect in field sports as well as in the classroom, for his mind was as agile as his body. Near graduation, George eye-doctor told him that his eyesight was rapidly deteriorating, and that its eventual loss was irreversible. Still, showing the same determination that made the crowds in the bleachers shout, George applied to and was accepted by a respected university, where he would quietly work late into the night, reading books with a magnifying glass when no one else would see this young man who had the eyes of an old man.

George told his friends he felt a call to ministry, but as he was now legally blind, seminary did not seem very likely. Then came a blessing - his sister put her plans on hold to come alongside him, learning Greek and Hebrew right beside him, dictating his homework and exams, and transcribing his answers. Although now unable to see anything but shades of light, George tried hard to be thankful to God for the sacrifice his sister was making, and especially for the girlfriend who had recently accepted his proposal of marriage.

But sadly for George, this would not be his way in life: his fiancée had a change of heart, telling him that she just could not spend the rest of her days as a blind man’s wife - and she broke the engagement. Later, his sister fell in love and announced her own engagement, at last moving on with her life - and George, though happy for her, was utterly devastated. He wondered why God would abandon him to a life of uselessness, of dependency on those who clearly had other plans. On the day of his sister’s wedding, George sat in his room, alone, in total darkness.

In Mark’s Gospel, we meet another man who sat alone - except that his place was in a filthy ditch beside a busy thoroughfare. His name was Bartimaeus, but very few people knew his name. He was “Hey, you!” – a charity case, a panhandler. It had not always been so. In verse 51, Mark tells the alert reader that at one time Bart could see. So we know his birth would have been a joy to his parents, at a time when the elderly had no security save dutiful sons. But as Bart gradually lost his sight, the bright promises of his life grew dim, and then faded completely away. Jewish law allowed the blind to beg for alms, and this he did in order to survive – though you could certainly not call it a living. Along the busy road that led from Jericho to Jerusalem, Bart sat wrapped in his ratty cloak in the dust, hoping that with Passover just a week away, maybe the spirit of the season would put the throngs of Jewish pilgrims in a generous mood. Still, most did not even notice him, a tattered splotch of humanity in the gutter, one more blind man in a world with very little use for the sightless. Again, how terrible to have eyes and not be able to see.

George and Bart, though separated by centuries and continents, were two people relegated to the margins of life, sidelined by disabilities that came to them for incomprehensible reasons, for no reasons. Had we lived in their day we could have looked at them and seen their stories clearly enough: one, a lonely blind man, mired in self-pity after the loss of companionship, the other a sightless bum, pleading for handouts from those who set their pace to get past him and their faces to hide the embarrassment of ignoring his outthrust hand. We’d look at these two and see much the same story, a story to our eyes probably quite sad in the telling.

But thanks be to God, there is One who has a very different way of seeing - One in whom there is no darkness - or blindness - at all. Jesus was passing by in Jericho that day. And unlike the crowd that later that same day would be waving palms and hailing a conquering king, unlike nearly everybody in Mark’s Gospel who saw Jesus only as what they wanted him to be, something he was not, Bartimaeus somehow knew better. A man who learned to get through life by listening, Bart had somehow discerned a profound truth about Jesus’ identity: he is the promised one, the King in the line of David – but even so, an odd king, one merciful enough to stop and to save. When the critical moment comes, Bart is crying at the top of his lungs, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” And when those around him hiss at him to shut up, he shouts all the louder, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” He does not know how close Jesus is, but knows that he is near, that the time is now or never. He is done with living on the sidelines, and is about to enter the game.

There is something about Bartimaeus that I admit makes me wish more of us in the modern church could follow his example. In our time, the airwaves are clogged with this party or that one claiming the mantle of Christian candidacy, claiming Jesus’ endorsement for their mission, their brand or platform. Nor can we in the Church hold our heads too high: we squabble within our denominational walls about who the ‘greater sinners’ are, and lob words like “liberal” and “fundamentalist” over the ramparts at each other. A bunch of religious folk engaged in familiar routines, we like the crowd swirling around Bartimaeus can easily become blind to what was true then and is certainly true today, namely: there are an awful lot more people cheering for Jesus than following Jesus. He has always managed to attract many admirers, but far fewer disciples.

And maybe you know what I mean, because those who admire Jesus may mention him quite often. They may be upstanding citizens, and might be found sitting in his Church on Sunday. They’ve come to know the sound of his voice, and are comforted by it – but strangely they do not listen to him. They have eyes, yes, but choose to remain blind to his invitation to jump up, get out on the field and follow him. He is offering healing and wholeness, a new reason for living that imbues all that we do with meaning. His signing bonus is salvation from sin, and his team will experience total reconciliation with the God who made us. And all it will cost those who join the game is their life, one day at a time. Bartimaeus was blind, yes, but he saw this. He leapt up, cast off his cloak which would only slow him down, and got started on following his Lord. That’s why we know his name in the first place. He began living to see Jesus.

Remember George? There’s something more about him you should know, as well. In his great loneliness on the day of his sister’s great joy, he pondered as never before the reality of God’s love. It struck him that the way God loves us is never conditional, never limited or temporal. Out of this profound moment of realization, in the year 1882, George Matheson wrote the hymn “O Love that Wilt not Let Me Go,” with which we’ll end our service today. When we do, we’ll hear after all these years the defiant hope George discovered when he got up and ran to Jesus: “O joy that seekest me through pain, I cannot close my heart to thee / I trace the rainbow through the rain / and feel the promise is not vain…” (UMH #480).

We said it before: it is a terrible thing to have eyes and still not be able to see. Bartimaeus heard Jesus passing by, leapt up, cast off and followed him – and received again the gift of sight. In his own darkness, George also sensed Jesus was near, left the shadows of life he knew, and followed him. George did not receive the gift of sight again - nor did he ever marry. But in time, George Matheson would become one of the most famous and sought-after preachers in all Scotland. His sermons were heard by thousands, who were invariably struck by his optimism and radical confidence in God’s goodness toward us in Jesus Christ. It is said that because of George’s exceptional ability to memorize sermons and Bible passages, many who heard him believed he was reading, and was not blind at all. In August 1904, a care-giver found that Matheson had suffered a stroke, and could not speak. But as he let go of his earthly life, it is said that George Matheson left smiling broadly, grateful for all he’d received, and eager to trace that rainbow that would lead him home.

As for the rest of us who have eyes, but often do not see, we sometimes may miss the reality of Jesus’ passing by. We remain complacent on the sidelines, imagining what it might have been like to hear Jesus, to see him, to witness his miracles. You could say it is a terrible thing we were born too late. But somewhere I heard that the Lord opens the eyes of the blind, and even as blind as I am, I’ve seen it happen again and again. Perhaps you and I, like Bart and George, will find the moment to jump up, emerge from the shadows, and follow our Lord. Maybe if we pray for such moments to come our way, we’ll see them when they do draw near.

So would you pray with me?

O Lord who will never let us go, how close can you come to us today? Are you near to us in Spirit? Are you already here, hovering like breath? Open our eyes to your presence, give us the courage to throw off anything that holds us back, and give us the resolve we will need every day to follow after you, and only you. Amen.