30th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: Jeremiah 31:7-9; Hebrews 5:1-6; Mark 10:46-52

VIDEO

“Master, I want to see.”

The beggar Bartimaeus wants so badly to see
that even when people are shushing him
he continues to cry out:
“Jesus, son of David, have pity on me.”
He wants so badly to see
that the minute he hears 
that Jesus is calling him 
he leaps up and, 
leaving behind the cloak 
that is likely his only possession,
he runs, heedless 
of the unseen obstacles in his way.
Bartimaeus wants so badly 
to be cured of his blindness,
which has consigned him to a life of poverty,
begging by the roadside,
that when Jesus asks him,
“What do you want me to do for you?”
he does not hesitate: “Master, I want to see.”

He asks for physical healing,
but his words speak of even deeper desires.
I want to see not simply the world as it is,
but the world as it could be.
I want to see the salvation 
of which the prophet Jeremiah spoke:
the great throng returning 
to the land of promise—
the blind and the lame,
the mother and the child,
those who left weeping
but now return consoled.
I want to see 
all that is scattered made one,
all that is broken made whole,
all that is sorrowing made joyful.
I want to see hatred vanquished,
selfishness shamed,
fear put to flight.

Bartimaeus longs to see fulfilled
the promises of God to his people Israel.
But most of all, he wants to see Jesus,
for he already senses
that Jesus is “the Son of David,”
God’s anointed savior,
in whom the hopes of humanity 
have taken concrete form,
the one who comes to heal 
the ancient curse of sin and death.
He feels this in his bones,
but he wants to see it with his eyes—
not just with his physical eyes,
but with the eyes of faith,
the faith heals both body and soul.

Master, I want to see you,
for you are the light 
that lights up the world
and keeps the dark at bay.
I want to see you,
for you are my true homeland,
you are the eternity for which 
my time-weary soul is thirsting.

I want to see you,
but I am a blind beggar,
sitting alone beside the way 
on which you pass.
I cry out again and again,
“Jesus, son of David, have pity on me.”
Have pity, for my sins 
have dimmed the light of my eyes
and darkness is all around me.
Have pity, for the dark terrifies me.
Master, give me the light of your glory
in which I might see you.
Give me the gift of your Holy Spirit,
who promises wisdom and understanding, 
counsel and fortitude, 
knowledge, piety, and fear of the Lord.
Let your Spirit’s light guide me
so that I may no longer 
stumble unseeing through life.
Let the Spirit’s fire dazzle my eyes
and make my heart pure so I may see you.

His eyes healed and his soul given light,
Bartimaeus now follows Jesus on the way.
He joins Jesus on the journey to Jerusalem,
the city whose name in Hebrew 
means “vision of peace.”
He joins Jesus on the way that leads 
through suffering and death to resurrection,
to that heavenly city whose light is the Lamb,
where God “will wipe every tear from their eyes, 
and there shall be no more 
death or mourning, 
wailing or pain.”

In our Catholic tradition we speak of
the ultimate fulfillment promised us by God
as the visio beatifica—
the “beatific vision”—
which we might also translate as
“the seeing that makes us blessed”
or “the beholding that itself is bliss.”
Saint Paul writes to the Corinthians,
“At present we see indistinctly, 
as in a mirror, 
but then face to face.
At present I know partially; 
then I shall know fully, 
as I am fully known.”
The fulfillment for which we long
is to know the depths of God,
to know the divine dance of love
that is the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,
and in knowing the depths of God
to truly know ourselves for the first time
by seeing ourselves as God sees us,
artifacts of eternal love.

Master, I want to see.
I want to see with the eyes of faith,
the faith that weds my soul to you.
I want the bridal veil to be lifted
so that my soul can behold 
its beloved face to face
and see itself 

through your eyes of love.

Jesus, Son of David, have pity on us all.
In your mercy, let us see your face.

28th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: Wisdom 7:7-11; Psalm 90:12-17; Hebrews 4:12-13; Mark 10:17-30

We hear in today’s responsorial psalm,
“Teach us to number our days aright,

that we may gain wisdom of heart.”
Presumably this means wisdom has to do
with counting the days of our life correctly,
with neither overestimating nor underestimating them.
So I checked.
The average life-expectancy of a male in the U.S.
is 78.79 years.
By my calculation I am currently about 60.06 years old,
which means that I can number my remaining days
at 18.73 years, or 6836.45 days—
though that’s not counting leaps years,
which I think will get me an extra four days,
for a grand total of 6840.45 days.
More or less.

It’s the “more or less” that is the problem.
Because averages presume
that some people live much longer lives
and others live much shorter.
I could live into my nineties, like my father has,
giving me an extra 4500 or so days,
or I could get run over in the parking lot after Mass today,
making my allotted days considerably fewer.
So as I strive to number my remaining days, 
I’m stuck with a figure somewhere between 
11,340.45 and zero.

“Teach us to number our days aright,
that we may gain wisdom of heart.”
But how can I number my days 
amid so much uncertainty?
Should I spend my days 
taking every possible precaution 
to mitigate that uncertainty?
Should I plan and stockpile to make sure 
that my future is as secure as possible?
But experience tells us that the only certain thing 
is that no amount of planning and stockpiling
can eliminate uncertainty.

Perhaps the only way to number our days aright 
is not to number them at all,
but to accept and embrace the truth
that however much we might try 
to calculate and mitigate risk,
however many resources we store up 
against future calamity,
the future is unknown and uncertain.
Our calculations are always off,
our stores of wealth are subject 
to decay and corruption.
As the hymn writer Isaac Watts put it,
in a paraphrase of today’s psalm, 
“Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
Bears all its sons away;
They fly forgotten, as a dream
Dies at the opening day.”
We know not the number of our days.
But the truly wise heart knows
that all that we have amassed and accumulated
to hold back time’s ever-rolling stream
will one day be reduced to dust.
That fine house, 
that beautiful car,
that stock portfolio,
that power and influence and reputation—
they will all one day be gone.
It may be 11,340.45 days from now,
or it may be this very day,
but the truly wise heart knows
that the day will come.
And if we wish not to vanish with them
then we must place our hope not in passing things
but in the life offered to us by the one who is eternal.

In today’s Gospel 
Jesus is questioned by a rich man
about what he must do to inherit eternal life.
After the man assures him 
that he has kept all the commandments,
Jesus tells him, “Go, sell what you have, 
and give to the poor
and you will have treasure in heaven; 
then come, follow me.”
Jesus knows that what this man lacks
is in fact the only thing necessary:
to learn to number his days aright
so that he may gain wisdom of heart,
to place his hope not in his wealth, 
but in Jesus, in whom is found
the depth of the riches
of the wisdom and knowledge of God.

For the rich man to number his days aright
is for him to recognize that it does not matter
whether the days that lie ahead of him 
number 11,340.45 or zero,
for the only day that matters is this day,
the day on which he meets Jesus, 
who speaks to him the words,
“come, follow me”:
follow me on the journey 
from this world of anxious uncertainty,
this world of decay and death,
into the world of life eternal.

We are told that the man,
“went away sad, 
for he had many possessions.”
He went away sad 
because all that he had amassed
in his futile quest to hold at bay
time’s ever-rolling stream
now stood in his way 
like an insurmountable obstacle
blocking his path on the journey to eternity.
“How hard it is for those who have wealth
to enter the kingdom of God!”

“Teach us to number our days aright,
that we may gain wisdom of heart.”
Teach us, Lord, that our days may be few or many,
but that the only day that matters is this day,
for this is the day that Jesus stands before us
and says, “come, follow me.”
Teach us, Lord, to know what is
the one thing necessary,
to not let fear of loss 
of wealth or power or reputation
keep us from answering your call.
Teach us, Lord, to trust 
that with you all things are possible,
that through your grace even we,
weak and frightened and clinging to this life,
can become sons and daughters of God,
and heirs with you to eternal life.
May God’s grace grant to us 
true wisdom of heart,
and may God have mercy on us all.