Around this time of year, Kate breaks out a jacket. It’s not her winter jacket, it’s a special jacket. One she earned as a member of the Ohio University Marching 110. It’s Homecoming season, and we have only missed one since we graduated in 2011 when Sam was born. We thought that was a pretty good excuse for missing.

Each year we head back to Athens, Ohio, to the university that helped shape us. We head back to the familiar sights and sounds of Ohio University, Ohio’s first and finest. We have our rituals of where we eat, shop and hang out.

Then on Saturday morning, Kate marches with more than 400 other band alumni in the parade. We head to the game, where Kate plays at halftime and postgame. It’s an exhausting and amazing weekend.

They say you can’t go home again. It’s true. Time only moves in one direction. As much as I have wanted to, there’s no turning back time. When I’m on those Athens bricks, I sometimes feel like I can go right back to my old dorm rooms. But those haven’t been my home for more than a decade now. Sometimes my nostalgia prevents me from seeing my beloved university for what it is.

Like last weekend, Kate and I walked through East Green. It was just how we remembered it. The brick buildings. We pointed at our former room windows. Then we noticed the lobbies. We noticed they were updated and streamlined and it looked like the bridge of a spaceship. Once we noticed this, we got really excited. Once we saw, we couldn’t unsee. Yet it took us a while to notice the differences because our nostalgia prevented us.

I am senseless. I am blind to what is really happening. I don’t perceive things as the way they are, I perceive them as to how I remember them or wish them to be.

Yet God is always trying to widen my vision, and Homecoming is no exception.

Once, when we were heading into a pub, I overheard some current students say, “I hate Homecoming. All these old people are crowding the bar and it’s just gross. I wish they’d just go home.”

I was initially insulted, but then I remembered I made a similar complaint about the “old people” when I was a student. You know, old people who are in their upper-20s and 30s. I didn’t realize just as those students didn’t realize that as I am, so once were they. Alumni love their universities just as much if not more than the students do. They know what being a graduate means and what those college years meant.

Yet I can be senseless. I am blind to what is really happening. I don’t perceive things as the way they are, I perceive them as to how I remember them or wish them to be. Like the Disciples in today’s story. This is at the end of Mark, and the disciples have been around Jesus this whole time and they still don’t get it. After all the signs and miracles, after feeding the 4 and 5,000, after going where no good Jew would go and eating with all those sinners and saints and telling everyone that God loves them all… they still don’t get it.

They are going into Jericho and a blind beggar named Bartimaeus is sitting by the roadside. He must have asked who was passing by, and a disciple or a follower of Jesus said, “It’s Jesus of Nazareth.” Like, “Oh, it’s just Jesus.”

Yet Bartimaeus shouts out “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”

“Son of David” is a title. It’s a recognition of the Messiah, the heir to the Throne, the once-and-future king, the promised one of God who would herald a new age. Those closest to Jesus just say, “Jesus of Nazareth,” but they are the ones who don’t perceive, they don’t get it. Instead it’s the new guy, the blind beggar who truly gets who Jesus is.

We need those outside voices to help us get the bigger picture. Those voices remind us of our purpose and mission. Those voices are a nudge to understand who it is we follow and who it is we serve.

Like those young students going into the bar, tired of the “old people.” Yeah, yeah. I made the complaint to. I wasn’t seeing things as they were and I failed to see that those 4 years of college wouldn’t last forever. That one day, I’d be the annoying old person. I failed to see how connected I was to the alumni just as those students failed to see they were fellow Bobcats with me.

We often fail to see who it is we follow. We often don’t perceive the impact we’re making. This is true in our lives, at schools of all levels, and is especially true in church. We just show up here in this building. It’s just what we do. And we volunteer our time on this committee or that one, and we give food to this mission or that, and we give our money to the budget and we don’t perceive what impact we’re making. We don’t perceive things as they are, we perceive them as to how we remember them or wish them to be.

We forget that these walls were built by people long dead. This place was once a dream of folk who gathered to settle this land. Those who met in the courthouse which is now a pizza shop. There are plaques around here with names on them. In light of OU’s homecoming, I perceive them a little differently than I have before.

How the candlesticks in the chapel were given in 1938 in memory of Louisa Hemmeter. How the water fountain outside Fellowship Hall was given in honor of Alice McCarrier. How there’s a window just behind Fellowship Hall that bears the name Cecil Aylard. The names that hang for the Tom Evans award. The list of WWII Veterans in the new library that sits across from the list of those whose gifts made the new library possible.

The stewardship of those in the past have brought us here to this day. And your gift of your time, talent, and treasure will propel others to see their lives in a new way. Yet we often forget the tangible blessings we have been gifted with. How the sacrifice of others has led to this time, this place, this configuration of church. We sit in pews we didn’t make, under a roof maintained by our current pledges with lights powered by electricity and a boiler pumping out heat that our financial director Kelly Charnley is able to pay for.

It’s nothing earth shattering, yet in many ways it is. We don’t always see how lives have been changed. How hope is restored. How people are fed. How the naked are clothed and those with dirty clothes get their clothes cleaned. How a million acts of kindness were inspired by a worship service. We don’t see it because we can just be walking along, going along how we’ve always been going.

We need to welcome the Bartimaeuses in. They will see things more clearly and help us remember who it is we follow. We follow the Living Word. The Word that became flesh and dwelt among us. The Word who calls to us, who we in turn pray to. Who knows our every fault and weakness and struggle and still offers grace. The Living God who gifts us with life and all the sacramental moments. Who blesses us with our life and one another.

Last Friday, we met friends in the Cat’s Eye, a frequent haunt during my college days. WE were swapping stories and someone wanted to take a group photo, so we did. But this older man ran over and photo-bombed us. His smiling face was added to ours. I asked what year he graduated.

“Oh, before you were born!” was his reply. “I graduated in 1982!”

“Well, six days into 1982, I was born!” I said. “Thanks for making this place so great.”

He smiled and shook my hand and said, “Thanks for keeping the tradition going.”

I don’t know his name, what he majored in or how much he gives; only that he’s a Bobcat and I’m thankful for him. My name is added to his. I don’t know the stories of Louisa, Cecil, or Alice here, only that they were stewards of our church and we add our name to theirs not just when we pledge, but when we walk into this building. When we act as Christ did. When we attend a Bible Study and discuss and argue about our sacred stories.

We don’t often see the impact we make with our stewardship to places we give our time, talent and treasure to… But sometimes God widens our vision and we do… When we do it’s almost like a voice is saying, “Go; your faith has made you well.” Immediately they regained their sight, and followed along the way.