October 25, 2009

1997 was a very good year for a great many people.  1997 was an especially good year for Mike and Suzanne Ferguson.  It was the year they brought home their daughter Bailey.  It was a good year for Alan and Lesli Kathman as it was the year their first son Brandon was born.  1997 was a good year for Super Bowl winners, the Green Bay Packers, and World Series champs, the Florida Marlins. ’97 was a banner year for Jody Williams.  She won a big check and that rare attribute, uncontested, positive fame.  Ms. Williams was 1997 Nobel Peace Prize winner, celebrated for her work banning and clearing anti-personal land mines.  1997 was a good year for many, but it was a sad, hard year for my family.  That was the year a huge hole was ripped in the fabric of our family.  It was the year everything we knew about love and steadfastness, health and sacrifice, shifted.  The way our family functioned day to day was upended.  The normal routine, the division of labor, the team approach changed forever.  What we could count on was called into question.  We experienced loss.  There was a hole left in our hearts, at the table, in the bank account, in our security, certainly in our peace of mind.  In that sad, hard year each of us dealt with the trauma differently.  The girl got sad and very quiet.  Her room and her imagination became her sanctuary.  I became an over-functioning dervish.  I just kept moving, plowing ahead through a never-ending to-do list.  The mighty dog, Nimitz, learned to dodge the flinging doors as the family ran in, ran out, ran in, rushed out. 

And the boy, well that was the year the notes from school increased in frequency and fervor.  After the litany of infractions, the series of phone calls, came the face-to-face conference.  “Ms. Moscovitz, is he being disrespectful to you or any of his teachers?”  “No.”  “Is he interfering with the learning of his classmates?”  “What do you mean?”  “Is he talking in class or acting the clown, writing notes, throwing paper footballs?”  “No.”  “Is he going to pass end of year tests?”  “Yes.”  “So, what’s the issue?”  “Well, Ms. Hollar, we don’t believe your son is performing up to his optimum potential.”  “Ahhh, well, Ms. Moskovitz, I so appreciate your concern and your dedication to your vocation.  I applaud your instincts and determination to be an advocate for your students, but this year we are in the middle of a huge trauma and optimum performance isn’t even on the radar.  This year, our goal is survival.  Every day we get out of bed and show up where we’re expected – that’s a gold star day for us right now.  “Well, I think your son is doing his homework, but he’s not turning it in.  Maybe you can work on that.  Maybe talking to a counselor would help him get his assignments on my desk.”  “ Sure.  I’m happy to try that.” 

1997 was the year I researched and networked and took my son to the best “adolescent male” therapist in the Piedmont.  And, after the initial meeting, I asked, “So how was he, did you like him?”  “He’s okay.”  “Did you feel comfortable talking”  “It was okay.”  “All right, then we’ll come back next week.”  “Noooo! Please, please don’t make me talk about my feelings with strangers.”  “All right son.  What about talking to your grandmother?  She’s a counselor, or with Bill the youth minister?”  “Noooo!  Please don’t make me talk about my feelings with people who love me.  I promise I’ll turn in my homework. Just don’t make me talk about my feelings.” “Okay, okay. Listen, this was not meant to be a punishment. I’m on your side. This was meant to be a help.” “It’s not helpful! Talking doesn’t change anything. Please just don’t make me say stuff.” “Fine, but I’m holding you to that promise of turning in homework.  Good grief, if we’re going through the torture of getting you to finish the sheets, the least you can do is pull them out of the notebook and pass them in.” “Okay.”  That was 1997.  Every day brought a new issue.  Every day was problematic.  That was the year I tried to cancel Christmas.  After a long day at work, after negotiating soccer pickup and scout drop off, after putting some excuse for dinner on the table, getting the Christmas tree into the ancient, rusted, too small stand with the ridiculous three screws and having it all topple over onto two kids, spilling tree juice and pine needles onto the carpet, I was done.  Despite my meltdown, Christmas actually came to our house that year, but my rant has become part of Hollar family lore.  “Remember when Mom tried to stop the nativity of the Lord?”  “Heh, heh, heh,” the girl still says.

It was a sad, hard year for us, and it was the year the quality of my prayer life changed forever.  Up until that year, I prayed the way the ancient church instructed.  I ordered my prayers in the accepted hierarchy.  I began with adoration, praising God for his power and wisdom, benevolence and majesty.  I followed up with long lists of thanksgivings.  I recounted all the blessings I knew I had received from his gracious hands.  Prayers of confession came next.  All the places, or at least all the places I could recall where I had fallen short, fallen away, fallen into trouble, were named.  Claiming misdeeds, mean thoughts, attitudes and actions, apologizing and asking forgiveness with the desire to do better going forward was a standard part of my prayer life.  And then came the intercessions, all those requests for the needs of others.  Peace in the world, food for the hungry, honest leadership – safety for the poor – security for scared children.  I had a long list of intercessions, but until that year, my list of petitions was pretty anemic.

Until ’97, I didn’t pray much for myself.  Petitions are the prayers we pray for things we want or feel we need for ourselves, and up to that point, I didn’t want to bother God with a personal wish list.  I believed he had blessed me well.  He had given me a great start with a loving family that raised me, a good mind to problem solve, a good work ethic to sustain me and provide for basic needs.  The family had to that point enjoyed good health.  I figured God had bigger fish to fry than my piddly aggravations.  But life changed and suddenly my will and skills were insufficient.  The order and structures I created to insure a healthy, productive life crumbled.  My good intent, my due diligence counted for squat.  Every day there was more bad news and more things going wrong.  The harder I tried to get ahead of the negative curve, the further I fell behind.  The unexpected bill arrived, the kid got strep, the dog ran away, the project deadline got moved up.  All the responsibilities once shared were now on me and I felt I was drowning.  So, my petitions increased dramatically.

At the end of my competencies, at the end of my need to be self-sufficient, at the end of my pride, at the end of all other possible options, I prayed.  “Good Lord, help me.”  Seriously, I prayed for all kinds of small, personal favors.  That year, I drove oblivious to the gas tank.  And when I finally noticed the fuel light, I’d panic.  Oh, God, oh God, oh God, please just get me to the next station.  The furnace wouldn’t come on and I’d pray, oh God, oh God, oh God, please let it be a $3.99 filter and not the motor or the drum or anything over $3.99.  I’d hear a cough, “oh God, oh God, oh God, let it not be a cold, not today, there’s no one to stay home and take care of that.”  My life became centered on prayer and it was all about God hearing and answering my heartfelt need.  I took my place in a long tradition of faithful people.  When worn down and vulnerable, believers turn resolutely to God.  That’s the tipping point for skeptics as well.  There is real truth in the adage, “There are no atheists in foxholes.”  When danger beyond our control threatens, when calamity above our ability arrives, when all other answers prove inadequate, we turn to God.  From our place of frustration and fear, we cry out, Lord have mercy on me and deliver me.  Fix this problem.  Save me from my distress.  Whatever the presenting need, small or consequential, we hold it up to God for resolution.

From this place of exhaustion and vulnerability, our gospel passage begins.  Poor blind Bartimaeus is having a terrible year.  It’s a sad, hard year for him, but it’s not unlike all his other years.  Poor blind Bartimaeus has been condemned and cast aside.  In his time, his disability is understood as a judgment from God.  He has been made infirmed, therefore he must be a great sinner.  If he’s a great sinner, no one wants to associate with him.  No one wants to help him.  So, poor blind Bartimaeus sits by the side of the road and begs for coins.  He tries to look presentable and worthy.  He tries to come across as different from those other beggars, the ones who might well be sinners.  He tries to get help from his family.  He tries to get relief from the priests.  He washes in the holy pools.  He’s tried everything he can think of, everything anyone else suggests no matter how remote.  Yet here he sits, blind, poor, begging. 

Then one day he hears a crowd coming his way.  He overhears their conversation.  Jesus is approaching.  He’s heard stories, so he shouts out.  He makes a scene.  He draws attention to himself.  He refuses to be discrete.  He refuses to keep to his place.  He is too anxious to care about his pride or the comfort of others.  This is his chance.  This may be his only chance and with all that he is, he claims the opportunity. “Jesus, have mercy on me.”  “Jesus, help me.”  And Jesus hears.  He stands still.  He doesn’t move on.  He waits, he calls the pray-er to him.  Without help, with the assistance of one other human being, blind, broken Bartimaeus makes his way to the Lord.  And Jesus asks simply, directly, “What do you want me to do for you?”  And the blind man answers “Let me see again.”  Bartimaeus doesn’t hedge or elaborate.  He doesn’t fall back on beautiful, well-considered Anglican prayers.  He doesn’t outline a cogent argument about why he’s deserving.  He doesn’t barter or negotiate.  He asks straight up, give me what I need.  And Jesus answers the prayer. “Go, for your faith has made you well.”  God’s ultimate agent hears and delivers.  What was needed is given. 

Faith, the belief either out of desperation or from experience that turns us from reliance on our abilities to the power and steady presence of God is what saves us from all manner of distress.  Faith, the glimmer, the notion that something, something more power-filled, more knowledgeable, more loving, more compassionate, more gracious than we can fully conceive is alive and working in the world and is engaged in our well-being is the one thing, the only thing that saves us.  Faith is the casual agent to answered prayers. 

Blind Bartimaeus was made whole.  That sad, quiet Hollar girl laughs all the time now.  The boy somehow got through middle school and high school and college and today he’s a gainfully employed, tax paying, home owning, contributing member of society.  On the high feast days of family life, Thanksgiving and Mother’s Day, he may even share his feelings.  And every year I look forward to Christmas even with its aggravating tree and impossible stand.

Enduring faith, enduring faith brings answered prayer.  Answered prayer brings new life.  Dear ones, in all the hard years, in all the middling years, even in all the good years – call on that deep, hard won faith.

Amen.