30th Sunday in Ordinary Time (B) : Homily / Sermon

“Courage … he is calling you.”. (Mark 10:49)

The crowd underestimated poor old blind Bartimaeus.

As Jesus came by, his shouts and appeals were treated with embarrassment by the crowd. They told him to shut up.

He wasn't only blind, he was also a beggar, because how else could a blind man survive. He was to be pitied, for sure, but not respected. To be given the odd coin, or a scrap to eat, perhaps, but not to be listened to, not to be accorded an opinion. Not to be allowed to get in the way.
Don’t shout out blind man, they say. Don’t make a scene, poor beggar.

Our attitudes to disability of various kinds have changed greatly, of course, over the years. But many of the older attitudes lie just a little below the surface.

Deafness, for example, is still associated, in the minds of many, with a lack of intelligence, even though we know this is not true. And the word "dumb" is still used to mean both "unable to speak" and "stupid", as if one were the same as the other. And when someone is confined to a wheelchair, people often talk directly to the person pushing the chair, rather than the one sitting in it - as if being unable to walk also affected your ability to understand and answer simple questions.

 

And in a more blatant way, you can see this kind of attitude in today's Gospel. But then, as now, it is very foolish to underestimate or patronise someone simply because they have a disability of one kind of another. This too, is a kind of blindness - a failure to see beyond the disability to person within.

And so it is with this crowd.
And then, something changes. Jesus calls the Blind Man. And the people catch on, and call to him too - they realise that the call of Jesus is not just for them, but for everyone.

And blind Bartimaeus is now bold, because although he cannot see Jesus with his eyes, with his heart he had already made an act of faith.

Your faith has saved you, Jesus says.

While those around may be inquisitive to see what this man, Jesus, looks like, the blind man, apparently unable to see him, nevertheless reveals great insight.
Despite his blindness, he has vision, and the call of Jesus, and his healing power, gives new vision to the crowd too,
so that all of them, together, in faith, freed from their blindness, walk as one with Christ along the road.

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Image: Jesus healing blind Bartimaeus, by Johann Heinrich Stöver, 1861
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Healing_the_blind_near_Jericho

29th Sunday in Ordinary Time (B) : Homily / Sermon

“Anyone who wants to become great among you must be your servant, and anyone who wants to be first among you must be slave to all.” (Mark 10:43)

If you ever wondered whether the words of Scripture ever had any relevance for today’s world, that question is certainly answered by today’s’ Gospel. Speaking of the empires, nations and provinces of the ancient world, Jesus points out: “their so-called rulers lord it over them, and their great men make their authority felt”. Nothing much has changed, and while we may have world organisations which cross borders and promote human rights, it is nevertheless obvious that powerful rulers secure their status, assert their authority, and crush their critics.

Yet Jesus promotes a very different kind of leadership. To be first, you must be last, he says, to be great you must be a servant, to rule you must serve. It is Humility, not autocracy which he preaches.

We might think it is all very well, even very praiseworthy, but idealistic, and therefore unrealistic. And when we look the so-called great and good today - the Putins, Trumps and Salmans and so many more- we see little evidence of humility, and even if they are not always self-serving, they certainly see their role as promoting their own people, their own class or race, their own country.

So is the kind of picture of leadership which Jesus paints actually realistic, or even possible?

Well, yes, I think it is. Though it is not easy. Nor is it comfortable.

Let us take one extra-ordinary example, and that is Saint Oscar Romero, who was canonised, declared a saint, in just the past week.

Oscar was a member of the ruling class in his home country of El Salvador in Latin America. He had a wealthy and well educated background. He had many friends who were part of the rich, land-owning, governing classes. He was a quiet, bookish, educated man, a priest who rose through the hierarchy of the Church and was known for his holiness and piety. When El Salvador needed a new archbishop, he was considered a very safe pair of hands, someone who would not upset the apple-cart, not get caught up in the political turmoil in the country, but lead the Church quietly and discretely, steeped in prayer and cautious in action.
But something changed. Oscar became aware of the extreme poverty of so many Salvadorians. He saw how they were mistreated and exploited by those who owned the land and controlled the government. He discovered that priests who tried to help the poorest, provide them with education, help them to assert their rights to vote and to be treated according to the law, became the victims of murder squads.
He tried to approach those he knew to treat the people fairly and with compassion and justice, and came up against a brick wall. So, this quiet, unassuming, scholarly man, the leading figure in El Salvador outside the government, decided that if the people could not speak, then he must.
He used the national catholic radio to give addresses denouncing the death squads, pleading for justice, exposing the lies of the supporters of the government. And as time went on, he realised that his commitment to the truth would have its price.

Oscar Romero was an extraordinary leader, who so easily could have lived a comfortable life, marrying the children of the ruling elite, baptising their babies, and celebrating the funerals of the wealthy and powerful. He could have spent his time sending his clergy here and there to tell the poor to keep to their place and be grateful for what little they had.

He easily could have “lorded it over them” and “made his authority felt”.

Instead he supported the poorest, baptised their children, and officiated at the funerals of the murdered, and defended the priests who were tortured for standing alongside the poor.

And he knew that this kind of leadership brought its own consequences.

Just a fortnight before his death, he said these words in an interview:

Martyrdom is a grace from God which I do not believe I deserve. But if God accepts the sacrifice of my life, then may my blood be the seed of liberty, and a sign that hope will soon become a reality. May my death, if it is accepted by God, be for the liberation of my people, and as a witness of hope in what is to come. Can you tell them, if they succeed in killing me, that I pardon and bless those who do it. But I wish that they could realise that they are wasting their time. A bishop may die, but the Church of God, which is the people, will never die.

And here of course is the very point.
On 24th March 1980, while he was saying mass in a hospital chapel a sniper shot him dead. He fell heavily at the foot the huge cross that hung above the altar. His life ended, his mission ended.

Was he defeated? Well no. The struggle for peace and justice continues, El Salvador is still a poor Latin American country not unlike so many places in the world, and justice and equality under the law certainly does not come easily - but Romero is not forgotten, the his struggle, in the name of Christ, against injustice, still continues.

A bishop may die, but the Church of God, which is the people, will never die.

For Son of Man himself did not come to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many (Mark 10:345)