So often,

when we encounter Christ,  

we find ourselves,

not in the obvious or easy places—

not in the privileged places with valet parking

and professional landscaping,

but in the brambly edges

and along the rocky paths.

 

So often,

when we encounter Christ,

we discover that someone has removed the training wheels

and left the safety latch undone.

And if that weren’t enough,

it seems like every time we encounter Christ,

we also encounter people who are,

well…

inconvenient.

 

You know the kind of people I am talking about…

Life is full of them.

Littered with them, really.

 

Oh, it’s not that we’re uncaring

or without compassion…

It’s just that the journey is so much easier

and quicker    

if we don’t have to stop for every beggar or loudmouth

who stands by the side of the road.

 

And it’s not just beggars, either.

Inconvenient people turn up just about everywhere.

They appear on the brambly edges

and along the rocky paths.

They interrupt,

distract the leader,

refuse to be silent,

and don’t seem to know

when they are in the way

or out of line.

At some point along the journey,

they removed the training wheels

and disconnected the safety latch.  

 

You’ve seen them.

 

They are the people gathered on the sidewalk

outside the abortion clinic every Friday afternoon,

praying for hearts to be transformed.    

(I would join them, but who has all that time?) 

 

They are the ones standing vigil in the darkness

beside a prison gate,

when everyone else has gone home.          

(I admire them, really, but what good does it do?)   

 

With Mary,

they are the ones who remind us  

that God casts down the mighty and exalts the humble—

That God sends the rich away

and fills the hungry with good things.

(It sounds noble, but come on! Does anyone think this is realistic?)

 

Inconvenient people

force us to confront our own brokenness. 

The point out injustice.

They name other people’s pain.  

They speak of truth.

 

Inconvenient people

stand beside the road,

and refuse to be silent.  

 

And so we rebuke them.

We look the other way.

We tell them to be quiet

and secretly wish they would disappear.  

After all, we have schedules to keep

and places to go.

 

But he kept calling out all the more,

“Son of David, have pity on me.”

 

In the end,

of all the people on the road from Jericho that day,  

Bartimaeus,

            the blind man—

                        the inconvenient man—

was the only one who could truly see.  

 

Despite his blindness,

(or perhaps because of it),  

Bartimaeus saw what others just couldn’t understand.  

He knew who Jesus was,

and he refused to be silent.

 

“Son of David, have pity on me.”

 

The question Jesus asked of Bartimaeus,

            “What do you want me to do for you?”

he also asks of us.

 

What DO we want the Son of David to do for us?

Heal us?

            Make us whole?

                        Give us courage?

Or would we honestly prefer that he simply keep walking

and leave us alone?

 

Despite our limitations,

despite our needs and fears,

despite our lack of faith

and the blindness that sometimes clouds our vision,  

He continues to call us.

 

Take courage.

Get up.

Go on your way.

 

Asking to be saved from our blindness  

means that we will remove the safety latch

and take off the training wheels.

Once we open our eyes,

there is no telling what we will see

or where we will go.

It may mean that we journey to the brambly edges

and along the rocky paths,

following the Master into places we never thought we could go.

It may mean that we will find the courage to take a stand,

            to interrupt,

                        to get in the way.

 

And like the disciples on the road from Jericho,

we may discover that we are blessed enough

to travel in the company of inconvenient people—

people who see the truth

and simply refuse to be silent.

 

© 2009 Susan Fleming McGurgan