Shout Into the Darkness

Scripture: Mark 10:46-52


On the surface, it seems like a simple feel-good story. Bartimaeus is blind. He asks Jesus to restore his sight. Jesus does so. The headline reads: “Bartimaeus Healed!”

But when we look more closely we discover that this is actually a very complex story. We discover that it is a story dense with meaning and layered with subplots. We discover that it is a story overcast by shadows of human bias, selfishness, and cruelty. And we discover that it is a story about what faith looks like and what faith calls us to do.

I will candidly tell you that this is one of my favorite stories in the Bible. I will confess to you that “blind Bartimaeus,” as the poet Longfellow called him, is one of the figures in the history of our faith that I love the most. And, here, I hope to help you find in this story what I have found in it. To do that, I want to walk through the story with you, because, in my view, it deserves that sort of close attention.

The story begins by telling us that Jesus and his disciples came to Jericho. Of course, Jesus visited Jericho a number of times and interesting and important things always happened on those occasions. Jesus was baptized in the Jordan River near Jericho; he was tempted in the mountain range that adjoins Jericho; it was in Jericho that Zacchaeus climbed a tree to get a better look at Jesus; and Jesus set the parable of the Good Samaritan on the road between Jerusalem and Jericho. If the story takes place in the vicinity of Jericho, then something big is about to happen. And it does.

So we’re told that as Jesus and a “large crowd” were leaving Jericho they passed by a man named Bartimaeus, who was sitting on the side of the road. The text gives us several pieces of information about Bartimaeus. And that information helps us understand what comes next.

Of course, Mark tells us that he was blind. Apparently, he was not blind from birth because later in the text he asks Jesus to let him see "again." But clearly he had been blind long enough to find himself in desperate straits.

Mark also tells us that Bartimaeus was the son of Timaeus. Now, if you look Timaeus up in most biblical commentaries it will tell you this about him: he was the father of Bartimaeus. Of course, that doesn't help much since Bartimaeus literally means "son of Timaeus." But here's the point: Timaeus was nobody special, and neither was Bartimaeus. Bartimaeus did not come from a family of wealth and stature; he did not come from a family that had the resources to support someone who had become blind.

Perhaps this explains something else Mark tells us about Bartimaeus. He was a beggar. He did not have a way to sustain himself. So, every day, he had to suffer the shame and indignity of pleading with people to help him. And we can rest assured that these pleas were regularly met with ridicule and scorn and disdain.

Now, before we go any further, we should pause here to ask some pointed questions: What kind of society would allow this to happen? What kind of society would have so little regard for the health, the well-being, and the dignity of individual persons that it would fail someone like Bartimaeus? Is that kind of society very different from our kind? How many people like Bartimaeus do we pass on the streets that we travel? All questions worth considering.

Anyway, as Jesus and the crowd passed Bartimaeus he called out—indeed, the text tells us that he shouted out. He shouted: “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” He shouted into the darkness.

I think this is terribly important. We obviously don’t know much, if anything, about Jesus’s physical appearance. In one of his most famous sermons, Peter Marshall describes Jesus as striding up and down the streets of Jerusalem, his skin bronzed from walking in the sun, his arms thick and his big hands calloused from work in his father’s carpentry shop. I like the image, although I realize it has little foundation beyond the imagination of a great preacher.

Still, it seems to me likely that Jesus had a remarkable physical presence. It was the kind of presence that could make men drop what they were doing and walk away from their labors when he said nothing more than “Follow me.” It was the kind of presence that made people throw themselves at his feet just so they could touch the hem of his garment.

Perhaps there was something in his eyes. I think about those eyes, sometimes; do you? Imagine being the woman at the well who told Jesus that she had no husband. Imagine Jesus looking at you with those eyes—those eyes that could peer down into the depths of your very soul; those eyes that could see your every infidelity. And then imagine Jesus saying “woman, woman, you’ve had five husbands.”

But Bartimaeus knew nothing of this. He could not observe Jesus and make judgments based on what he saw. He could not peer into Jesus’s eyes and witness the divine spark. He could not look into Jesus’s face and find that it invited confession and offered consolation. He could not watch as the young and fearless prophet went about the business of changing the world.

No, Bartimaeus experienced Jesus as a voice coming from somewhere out in the darkness. That was all he had to go on. In this respect, it turns out that Bartimaeus’s experience of Jesus Christ may be a lot like yours and mine.

So, what did Bartimaeus do? Did he do what we do? Did he sit there and ponder his uncertainties? Did he wait for things to become plain and obvious? Did he pray for light—all the while taking comfort in the shadows?

No. Bartimaeus shouted into the darkness. He called out with as loud a voice as he could muster. He sucked in his breath and threw his whole full-throated voice into the night.

Imagine the courage this must have taken. A hundred times a day Bartimaeus lifted his soft beggar’s voice to ask for help. A hundred times a day Bartimaeus quietly pled for whatever food or drink or money a stranger could spare. And many days—perhaps most days—Bartimaeus got for his trouble a hundred silences, a hundred insults, perhaps a hundred beatings. Life had taught him to ask with fear and trepidation.

But not this time. This time, Bartimaeus did not whisper in shame and terror. He shouted in hope and expectation.

Some of the people around him didn’t approve. Mark tells us that “Many sternly ordered him to be quiet.” Why would anyone—let alone “many” people—tell poor Bartimaeus to stay put and shut up? Why would they begrudge him an encounter with Jesus? The text doesn’t tell us.

Maybe they did so out of snobbery and bias. After all, Bartimaeus was a second-generation nobody. He begged for a living. He occupied the lowest rung on the social ladder. Who was he to speak up?

Maybe they said this out of selfishness. They had pressing matters to discuss with this prophet. They had needs. And those matters and needs were more important because, well, they were theirs. Why should they give their time over to someone else—let alone that bum Bartimaeus?

Or maybe “many” people said this because one person said it. That is, of course, how cruelty works, how it spreads, and how it gets out of control. One person says something mean or belittling or spiteful and another person joins in and then another and another. No one stops to think. No one pauses to let their conscience intercede.

This can lead in directions people do not intend. It can lead to tragic consequences. Indeed, it could be argued that this is what led to the crucifixion of Jesus Christ.

In any event, many people told Bartimaeus to hold his peace. And he ignored them. In fact, he defied them. Mark tells us that in response to their “orders” he cried out “even more loudly.” So there he is: solitary; disrespected; impoverished; blind; vulnerable; defenseless; surrounded by hostility. And yet he musters the bravery to call out to Jesus, louder and louder and louder.
You really have to love the fight in this man.

Apparently, Jesus did. So he stopped and had someone tell Bartimaeus to come to him. And here Mark gives us a fascinating little detail: he tells us that Bartimaeus threw off his cloak and “sprang up” in response.

Maybe that detail doesn’t mean anything. But I’ll tell you what I think it means. I think it means that Bartimaeus—for all his hope and expectation—still harbored some reservations. Bartimaeus still entertained a little uncertainty. Bartimaeus still wondered whether this man—like the hundreds he encountered every day—would ignore him, turn away from him, and keep walking.

But when Bartimaeus realized that Jesus stood waiting for him his hope began to harden into faith. He leapt to his feet. He rushed to Jesus’s side. Bartimaeus, who had spent so many years pleading into the darkness for help, and who had who had good reasons to be skeptical, had found something in which he could truly believe—a savior who heard his cries.

Jesus asked him what he wanted; Bartimaeus said he wanted to see again; Jesus assured him that his faith had made him whole; and Bartimaeus regained his sight. This part of the story resembles many of the other healing stories. But there is a difference here. In my view, it is an important one.

You see, in the overwhelming majority of the healing stories told in the gospels, the story ends when the healing takes place. This holds true for Matthew, Chapter 8, when Jesus heals a man who suffers from leprosy and heals the servant of the centurion; Matthew, Chapter 12, when Jesus heals a man with a withered hand; Matthew, Chapter 17, when Jesus heals a boy who suffers from seizures; Mark, Chapter 7, when Jesus gives hearing and speech to a man who was deaf and mute; Luke, Chapter 13, when Jesus heals a woman who couldn’t straighten her spine; Luke, Chapter 14, when Jesus heals a man who has dropsy; Luke, Chapter 22, when Jesus heals the ear of the slave of the high priest that had been cut off by one of his own disciples; and John, Chapter 4, when Jesus heals a young man of a fever. In all these stories the healing occurs and nothing more is said about it.

This can prove extremely frustrating. For example, the last line in John’s telling of the raising of Lazarus is this: “Jesus said to them, ‘Unbind him, and let him go.’” Don’t you want to know more? Don’t you want to know what Lazarus did with the life he regained? The story doesn’t tell us.

A few stories do provide some additional details—and they’re delightful and leave us with some wonderful images. For example, in Matthew, Chapter 9, Jesus heals a paralytic, and in John, Chapter 5, Jesus heals a man who has been bed-ridden for thirty-eight years, and in both of these stories the end comes when the man picks up his bed and carries it away. Then there’s the story in Luke, Chapter 8, when Jesus heals a sick child. That story ends when the parents give the child something to eat. Some things never change.

The story of Bartimaeus, however, ends as very, very few others do. Bartimaeus asked for his sight. Jesus gave it to him. But once Bartimaeus received what he wanted from Jesus he did not pick up his cloak and go home. He did not wander off to take care of business. He did not head into town to celebrate. Instead, the story tells us, Bartimaeus followed Christ. That is how this story ends: “Immediately he regained his sight and followed him on the way.”

In my view, that is what makes this such a magnificent story—perhaps the best healing story of them all. All of the healing stories involve miraculous recoveries. All of the healing stories involve people of great faith. All of the healing stories provide examples of people asking something of Christ and receiving it. They are all beautiful and inspiring.

But this story has a twist—one that, like all good twists, comes right at the end. Because it turns out that while Bartimaeus asked for his sight he actually found something better. He found a divine presence behind the distant voice he had shouted toward in the darkness. He found a savior who would stand still amidst the din and clamor of life and hear his cry … and mine … and yours. He found something, many of us would say the only thing, that is finally worth following.

Ah, Amazing grace. How sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost but now am found. Was blind, but now I see.

Amen.

Healing in Three Voices

The last words someone speaks before they go to meet their maker can carry a great deal of significance. Sometimes those final words reflect the faith of the person who uttered them. The last words of John Paul II have a childlike simplicity: “Let me go to the father’s house.” Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s last words before his execution by the Nazis have a courageous, almost defiant quality: “This is the end, for me the beginning of life.” Henry Ward Beecher, the prominent clergyman who struggled with doubt throughout his life, expressed uncertainty even in his last breath: “Now,” he said, “comes the mystery.”

Of course, not all last words have such gravity to them. In his final moment, Groucho Marx is supposed to have said: “Die my dear? Why that’s the last thing I’ll do.” The wit and writer Oscar Wilde, passing away in a dingy Paris hotel room that offended his aesthetic sensibilities, left this world saying: “Either that wallpaper goes or I do.” And the story is told that Lady Astor, recovering briefly from unconsciousness and seeing her family gathered around her, asked “Am I dying or is this my birthday?”

Whether full of gravity or levity, we think of last words as having special meaning. Perhaps that is why the Mexican revolutionary Pancho Villa made this deathbed request of those gathered around him: “Tell them I said something.” In light of the fact that his last recorded words are “Tell them I said something” it appears they may have taken him a bit too literally.

So it’s not surprising that we attach particular importance to the last words of Jesus Christ – words spoken from the Cross itself. Matthew and Mark record those words as the cry “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthanai,” or “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Luke recounts them as “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.” And John captures them in the simple three-word phrase “It is finished.” This raises an interpretive problem because, in a strictly logical sense, only one of these things can be true. Only one of these statements can be the actual final words of Jesus Christ. He can’t have said all these things in his last breath. Or can He?

Years ago I read a book by a renowned biblical archeologist that helped me understand a fundamental truth about how people in the ancient Near East thought about matters – and particularly religious matters. This scholar pointed out that our thought processes are heavily, although unconsciously, influenced by Greek philosophy. So, for example, without even knowing it we follow Aristotle’s principles of logic whenever we think about something—even when that something is God.

When we talk and think about who God is and what God does we try to follow the same logic we follow elsewhere in life. As a result, when we reach a conclusion about God we necessarily exclude other, logically inconsistent, conclusions we might otherwise entertain. To put it bluntly, we allow logic to limit our holy imagination.

But the people of the ancient Near East didn’t think in these terms. They could imagine things about God that would appear to us internally inconsistent. They were not bound by the laws of Aristotelian logic.

Years ago, I witnessed a delightful contemporary example of non-Aristotelian thinking. An itinerant preacher came to the University of Michigan campus, perched himself on an outdoor concrete bench, and began sermonizing to the passing students. I disagreed with much of what he had to say, but he did have a wonderful moment. A skeptical undergraduate, no doubt thinking himself extraordinarily clever, called out this question: “Can God make a rock so heavy he cannot lift it?” Without missing a beat, the preacher responded: “God can make a rock so heavy He cannot lift it. And He can lift it if He wants to.”

As I say, the people of the ancient Near East – like this preacher – were not constrained by the limitations of formal logic. And I suspect God isn’t constrained by them, either. I assume that the God who created order also controls order. It therefore seems completely plausible to me that Jesus Christ, the perfect expression of God in this world, said more than one thing to us in his final words. I find nothing astonishing in this. I take it as just another example of how the theological takes off when the logical comes to the end of the runway.

Of course, a simpler – but no less compelling – explanation presents itself. It has nothing to do with logical possibility or theological plausibility, but everything to do with psychological reality. The psychological reality to which I refer is simple enough: we tend to hear whatever is most important to us. Perhaps, therefore, the people gathered at the foot of the Cross heard different things because they needed to hear different things. Perhaps the gospels record different final words because individual listeners experienced these various statements as if they were Christ’s final words.

The text provides some support for this explanation. After all, these words speak in three very different voices. We can understand how listeners with varying needs and perspectives could attach more significance to one of them than to the others.

These different voices do share a common context: all of them come at the ultimate moment of the Passion. All of them therefore relate to the magnificent reconciliation that occurred by God’s grace and through the death of Jesus Christ. As Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams puts it, Jesus’s death is “the gift that once and for all makes peace.” Or, to phrase matters a little differently, the death of Jesus is the gift that, once and for all, makes healing possible.

“Father, into your hands I commend my spirit” speaks in the voice of holy surrender. These words call us to give everything over to God – right down to our spirit, right down to our ineffable essence. When we surrender everything, when we place in God’s hands all that we have and all that we are, then healing can begin.

“It is finished” speaks in the voice of gracious duty. These words call us to find purpose in our lives, to pursue that mission with all our heart and mind and soul, and to complete the work God gives us to do. When we commit our efforts to what matters, when we live lives of love and forgiveness and praise and devotion, then healing can begin.

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” speaks in the voice of sacred suffering. These words remind us that even in our times of brokenness and questioning – especially in our times of brokenness and questioning – we must continue to reach toward God. When we turn to God at all times and in all things, even amid our confusion and desperation, then healing can begin.

More than two thousand years ago, on an obscure hill in an empire’s outpost, words fell from a Cross. Those words spoke in different voices – so they might offer hope and healing to each and all. Those voices echoed through time and resound to this very day, in this very place, in our very lives. As it is written: “Those who have ears to hear, let them hear.”

Amen.