Jesus stood still and said, “Call him here.” And they called the blind man, saying to him, “Take heart; get up, he is calling you.” So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus.
Then Jesus said to him, “What do you want me to do for you?”
The blind man said to him, “My teacher, let me see again.”
Jesus said to him, “Go; your faith has made you well.” Immediately he regained his sight and followed him on the way [Mark 10:49-52].
In this Sunday’s Gospel reading [the Twenty-Third Sunday after Pentecost, RCL, Year B], Jesus is making his final journey to Jerusalem. On the outskirts of Jericho, where a large crowd follows him, a blind beggar named Bartimaeus sits by the roadside. When he hears that Jesus of Nazareth is passing by, Bartimaeus begins to shout, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” Many in the crowd try to silence him, but he cries out all the more loudly. It’s at this point that our reading begins; Jesus stops and calls for him.
Sometimes the same words, spoken by Jesus to different people, reveal profound truths about seeing and blindness, about hearing and understanding. Just verses earlier, James and John had approached Jesus with confidence, asking for seats of glory.
“What do you want me to do for you?” Jesus had asked them.
“Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory,” they had demanded.
Now, Jesus poses the very same question to blind Bartimaeus. The contrast in responses reveals much about who truly sees and who truly hears. I learned something about this kind of seeing and hearing many years ago, through an encounter that still moves me deeply today.
During my early days at Asbury UMC here in Durham, when I juggled a full-time position at Duke Law School with an unsalaried position as part-time associate pastor for that struggling congregation, Jane and I became close friends with a young couple who, along with the entire Asbury community, lost a beloved young daughter to brain cancer a bit more than 34 years ago. Some of you who read this were then intimately bound up within the life and death of that little saint, Jennifer Auman.
Jennifer spent a significant part of the last year of her five-year life in Duke University Medical Center. One Saturday morning, as I entered Jenn’s hospital room, I saw that Wally Ellis, the senior pastor, was already there. He and Jennifer had a particularly warm relationship.
By this point in the medical process, the combination of the cancer and the efforts to rid the child’s body of it had taken their toll. Still, Jennifer never complained, no matter how many times she was stuck, no matter how sick the prophylactic cocktail dripping into her arm made her, she sweetly went on. That morning, we made some idle talk for a minute or two and then Jennifer turned to Wally and excitedly said, “Wally, guess who came to see me early, early this morning?”
Wally said, “Who?”
“Jesus!”
I leaned over and whispered to Wally, “Do you think the strong cancer drugs are causing Jenn to hallucinate?”
Wally smiled and said, “Let’s ask her…. Jenn, honey, how do you know it was Jesus?”
Jennifer looked at Wally and, without hesitation, said, “Oh, silly—I can always tell by his voice.”
Like James and John, I had approached that moment in Jenn’s hospital room with professional certainty, armed with logic, rational explanations, and textbook understanding. But Jennifer, like Bartimaeus, recognized something that I couldn’t see. While I was busy analyzing the situation through my training and rational experience, she was simply responding to a voice she knew so well. It’s telling that in our Gospel reading, when the crowd tells Bartimaeus, “Take heart; get up, he is calling you,” there was no hesitation, no need for verification. Like Jennifer, Bartimaeus knew that voice.
Reading Mark’s narrative of the Jesus story just before this encounter, Jesus had told his disciples— for the third time—that he was going to suffer, die, and rise again. These men who had walked with him for three years, who had seen his miracles and heard his teaching, still couldn’t grasp the nature of his mission. James and John’s response was to ask for seats of glory. Yet here is Bartimaeus, a blind beggar on the margins of society, who somehow sees what they cannot. Without the benefit of those three years of teaching, without witnessing the miracles, without even physical sight, Bartimaeus recognizes both who Jesus is and how to respond to His presence.
When Jesus tells Bartimaeus to “go,” Jesus is offering more than healing; He’s offering freedom. Jesus’ healings come with no strings attached, no obligation. Bartimaeus is free to go his own way, to return to a life now transformed by the gift of sight. Instead, he chooses to follow Jesus toward Jerusalem. The one who first recognized Jesus by voice now chooses to keep that voice always within hearing.
Mark doesn’t tell us what happened to Bartimaeus after his encounter with Jesus. Did he witness the triumphal entry into Jerusalem, perhaps wondering at the shouts of “Hosanna!” from the same kinds of crowds who had tried, at least at first, to silence him? Did he watch as the enthusiasm of Palm Sunday turned to the hostility of Good Friday? Was he there when darkness fell at noon, when the only way to recognize Jesus would again be by listening for his voice? Did he stand at the cross? Did he run with the women from the empty tomb? We don’t know. We only know that his first act as a seeing man was to choose the way of Jesus over his own way.
Jennifer taught me something similar that morning in her hospital room. While I was caught up in analyzing her experience, measuring it against my modern suppositions and theological training, she was simply living in the presence of the One whose voice she knew. Like Bartimaeus, she understood something essential about recognition and response. “Oh, silly,” she said, “I can always tell by his voice.” Sometimes that’s all we really need to know.
As many times I heard and read this story, I never really thought about the question of “how could a blind man know about Jesus?” Did he have friends that told him? Did he receive Divine messages? Did he hear Jesus preach in some other village? He was once blind but, now, he sees! All along, it looks like Bartimaeus really was living in His presence.
Thanks for the comment, Bill. I share your “wonder.” I think part of the mystery is here Mark’s habit of leaving issues and concerns open. As you know, the original Mark manuscript contained no post-resurrection appearances. It was as if Mark’s thought was, “Jesus is risen. What are the implications?” I didn’t mention this in the meditation, but the fact that Bartimaeus is named might mean something. By that I mean something other than the redundancy of Mark’s description of him–“bar” means son, so he’s son of Timaeus. Look at the Mark text. He’s introduced as “Bartimaeus, son of Timaeus.” Back to my point: it may well have been that Bartimaeus became a prominent post-resurrection apostle/disciple. Mark’s audience might have known/probably did know him. Back to your thoughts. I think perhaps he received a Divine message revealing to him that the one who was passing by was the Messiah. Take care. See you next week.
Wow! Never knew that about our friend “Bart” that he could have been one of the disciples after Christ ascended into heaven. Maybe the same could be said be said of Barabas. He lived (physically). Christ died (physically). Possibly went on to be a disciple after Christ ascended into heaven. Thank you, Tom, for these insights!
Ah, Bill, some years back I experimented in some non-rhyming poetry. Two “poems,” “The Good Friday Tree” and “The Sunday Buffet” appeared in my 2018 book, QUESTIONS OF FAITH. The Good Friday Tree looks at the crucifixion from the viewpoint of the tree that was utilized to make our Lord’s Cross. Another somewhat similar piece remains unfinished. It offers the perspective of Barabbas, at how exhilarated he initially felt to have escaped “his own cross,” but how awful he later felt when he realized that the cost of his freedom was the death of the good man, Jesus of Nazareth. In a real sense, for all of humanity, our true name is Barabbas.