by James Martin
“We . . . better,” said George.
Back in the car, Aziz said, “Was it not beautiful?”
We nodded between breaths.
After another half hour, we pulled into Jericho, located in the West Bank. Dating back to circa 8000 BC, it is the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world.
“This better be worth it,” said George.
AFTER REACHING THE ENTRANCE to the city, I realized how I had underestimated what it meant for Jesus and his disciples to travel. When the Gospel of Luke describes Jesus journeying from Galilee to Jerusalem and passing through Jericho, the text offers bland comments like, “As he approached Jericho,” or “He entered Jericho and was passing through it.” Not, “Jesus and his disciples walked in the blistering desert heat, over miles of dusty earth, without water. And James and John, the sons of Zebedee, almost fainted.” Then again, maybe they did travel at night, and maybe they were smart enough not to travel in the heat.
Jesus is passing through Jericho—in Judea—because he is on his way to Jerusalem. It is his last trip to Jerusalem. His ministry is now drawing to a close. The town is some twenty miles northeast of Jerusalem, in the Jordan Valley. In Jericho, en route to his crucifixion, he will meet two men. One is poor and one is rich; both seek a kind of healing from Jesus. Matthew, Mark, and Luke all recount the story of the poor, blind man called Bartimaeus, but only Luke tells us the story of the wealthy man, Zacchaeus. The two stories are bright ones, preceding the darkness that awaits Jesus.
Let’s begin with Bartimaeus, one of my favorite stories in the New Testament. It was also one of the first Gospel stories I had thought about deeply.
AS PART OF MY training as a Jesuit novice, I worked in a hospital for the seriously ill in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Many of the patients—with brain injuries, long-term illnesses, and serious disabilities—had been there for years. My job with the pastoral-care team, which I began only a few weeks after entering the Jesuit novitiate, was to help visit and counsel the patients. Much of the time was spent learning from the other experienced hospital chaplains. It was my first experience in real-life ministry, and I hadn’t a clue what to do.
The most enjoyable part of the week was a Bible study class. Every Friday the patients, most in wheelchairs, gathered in a small conference room to talk about a particular Scripture passage. It was the first time I had ever been to anything remotely like that—I had never studied the Bible before—and I found it riveting. One week a former Catholic sister, named Julie, with a wicked thick Boston accent, introduced the week’s reading. “Today weah going to read about Bah-timaeus,” she said. “From the Aramaic word Bah, meaning ‘son of,’ and Timaeus. Bah-timaeus.”
Julie asked a question: “What would it be like to be like Bartimaeus?” I couldn’t imagine what she meant. I’m not blind, I remember thinking. Then she started to “open up” the story. Within a few minutes I felt an almost electric shock of recognition.
Matthew and Mark say that Jesus met the blind man on his way out of Jericho. Well, not quite. Matthew has Jesus meet two blind men, who go unnamed; in Mark Jesus meets a blind man named Bartimaeus. Luke says he meets one man on the way in. Either way, all three Synoptics have Jesus encountering a blind man (or men) sitting by the side of the road, begging. Mark introduces him as “Bartimaeus, son of Timaeus,” a clue that Mark is explaining the original Aramaic name to his Greek-speaking audience.
Beggars were a common sight in Jesus’s day. What was uncommon was what Bartimaeus says. When he hears that Jesus of Nazareth is passing by, he cries out, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” Bartimaeus is not asking for money, but something deeper. The blind man also uses Jesus’s royal title, which means that he can fully see what few others do. Once again in Mark, the Messianic Secret of Jesus’s identity is known to those who “see” better than everyone else, including those who have been with Jesus all along.
Many in the crowd, however, tell the man to be quiet. For me, this part of the story represents all of those who try to keep us from changing, who with their hopelessness and despair and even contempt tell us not to try. It is also the voice of all those who seek to keep the “important people” from hearing the voice of the masses.
But Bartimaeus shouts out even louder (in Greek, pollō mallon, “much more”). “Son of David, have mercy on me!” You can feel his desperation, or perhaps his hope.
“Son of David” is a rare title, appearing in no other miracle story in Mark. (And remember there is no infancy narrative in Mark that identifies Jesus as part of David’s lineage.) But it makes sense that if the people of the day knew about Jesus’s miraculous deeds and heard stories of Jesus’s lineage, Bartimaeus would use this appellation. It’s also the first time in the Gospel of Mark that Jesus does not rebuke someone not possessed by a demon for revealing his identity.
Then Jesus stops, or in some translations, stands still (Greek: stas). He recognizes the poor man sitting by the road. Jesus pauses to notice.
Paula Fitzgerald, a campus minister at John Carroll University in Ohio and a friend from graduate theology studies, once told me how moving she finds the words “Jesus stood still.” The Christian life is often so busy, said Paula, with its emphasis on doing and acting, that it’s important to see Jesus being still. Jesus is not so busy that he cannot notice, or be attentive to, Bartimaeus, who has something important to say. Paula likened it to two friends walking side by side when one of them suddenly says something important. The listener may stop so that she can be more attentive. It’s important to be active, but sometimes it’s essential to be still.
Then Jesus says, “Call him here.” Now the same people who were shushing Bartimaeus say, “Take heart; get up, he is calling you.” There may be some intentional humor here in the portrayal of the fickle crowd: “Sit down!” “Stand up!” Perhaps they were responding to Jesus. His actions invite them to really see the man. Or perhaps they were protecting Jesus from being “disturbed.” But now, seeing that Jesus himself wants to see Bartimaeus, they change.
In response to Jesus’s call, Bartimaeus throws off his cloak, leaps up, and stands before Jesus. What confidence it must have taken for the blind man to do this! Bartimaeus may have stumbled as he walked to Jesus; perhaps one of the disciples took his hand and guided him.
Jesus asks him, “What do you want me to do for you?”
Bartimaeus says, “My teacher [Mark preserves the Aramaic Rabbouni], let me see again.”
Two millennia after the story, Bartimaeus’s enthusiasm still leaps off the page. The man shouts out Jesus’s royal title, when no one else seems to know. He refuses to let the crowd prevent him from getting close to Jesus. Impetuously, he throws off his cloak and jumps to his feet.
“Go,” says Jesus, “your faith has made you well.” Immediately his sight is restored and he follows Jesus on “the way.”
No physical touch is required for the healing; Jesus’s word is sufficient. Now healed, the man becomes a disciple and follows him on “the way,” an ancient way of talking about discipleship. The one who was sitting by the road now joins Jesus along the way. Bartimaeus’s immediate response is gratitude and the desire to follow.
Bartimaeus is often seen as a typical disciple of Jesus, or at least a follower—one called by Jesus who then follows him on “the way,” implying that Bartimaeus would now share in the itinerant life of Jesus and the Twelve. But Gerhard Lohfink reminds us that there were many ways of following Jesus and points to people like Martha and Mary (whom we will meet in the next chapter) who remained at home and most likely provided hospitality for Jesus. Lohfink calls these stay-at-home disciples “resident adherents.”4 Also important were “occasional helpers,” people such as Joseph of Arimathea, who crucially helps Jesus and his followers in the wake of the Crucifixion, by begging Pontius Pilate for the body.5 There are many ways of “following.”
Mark offers the story of Bartimaeus before the Crucifixion as if to illustrate the meaning of discipleship. The stor
y also follows two separate predictions of Jesus’s Passion. In Mark’s ninth chapter, Jesus predicts his death, but the disciples “did not understand what he was saying.” And immediately before meeting Bartimaeus, Jesus speaks of his coming suffering, and once again two of his disciples, James and John, miss the point. (They ask Jesus instead who is going to sit alongside him “in your glory.”) For Mark, discipleship means coming to see who Jesus is and learning how to follow him. The disciples are blind for the most part. The blind man, however, sees.6
It was also clearly a story of immense importance to the followers of Jesus, for Bartimaeus is the only direct recipient of a miracle—other than the apostles—to be named in any of the Synoptic Gospels.7 Bartimaeus believes in Jesus’s power, he refuses to let the crowd stifle his enthusiasm, and he professes Jesus as his teacher. “Get up!” Mark says to us, as a rallying cry. “He is calling you.”8 The story’s placement also underscores the idea that discipleship means following Jesus into places of suffering.
John Meier looks at a variety of elements of this compelling narrative—the preservation of Aramaic names and words (Bartimaeus and Rabbouni), the unique use of the man’s name, the unusual appellation “Son of David,” the tying of an individual to a specific site (Jericho) at a specific time of the year (before Passover) and a specific period in Jesus’s ministry (before Jerusalem)—and declares its presentation in Mark as one of the “strongest candidates for the report of a specific miracle going back to the historical Jesus.”9 It is not surprising, says Meier, given the dramatic miracle and the fact that Jesus met Bartimaeus on the way to Jerusalem in the presence of so many of his followers, that his disciples would have remembered the persistent and faith-filled man from Jericho.
THE STORY OF BARTIMAEUS is not just a story about something most of us will never experience—a miraculous healing—it is also a story about something common to our experience: desire and conversion.
Desire often gets a bad rap in religious circles because of two common misinterpretations. First, we think of desire only in terms of surface wants. (“I want a new car!”) Second, we think of it only as sexual desire or lust. (“I must have you!”) But without healthy desires we would cease to exist in any real way. We wouldn’t want to study or learn. We wouldn’t want to earn a living to support our families. We wouldn’t want to help lessen suffering. And without sexual desire, we wouldn’t even be here.
Jesus sees something liberating in identifying and naming our desires. Once we scrape off any surface selfishness, our deepest longings and holy desires are uncovered: the desire for friendship, the desire for love, the desire for meaningful work, and often the desire for healing. Ultimately, of course, our deepest longing is for God. And it is God who places these desires within us. This is one way God calls us to himself. We desire God because God desires us.
People often need to be encouraged to recognize these deep longings, which can help guide their lives, especially if they have been told to ignore or eradicate their desires. Once they do so, they discover a fundamental truth: desire is one of the engines of a person’s vocation. On the most basic level, two people are drawn together in marriage out of desire—physical, emotional, spiritual. Desire plays an important role in vocations in the working world. How else does the future scientist, for example, grasp her vocation to study biology other than by finding her high school biology classes interesting?
Notice that Jesus does not say, “Bartimaeus, just accept the way things are.” That’s what the crowd is saying: “Be quiet!” Jesus encourages him to name his desire. He asks him directly, “What do you want me to do for you?”
Bartimaeus’s encounter with Jesus also highlights the importance of being honest in our relationship with God. It would be difficult for the blind man not to ask Jesus to heal him from something that had troubled him all his life, especially if he knew Jesus’s reputation as a healer. In a similar way, when we stand before God in prayer, we should feel comfortable expressing our longings. If you say only what you think you “should” say in prayer, while denying your deep desires—if you obey the crowd’s order to “be quiet”—your relationship with God might grow cold. God invites us to be honest about what we desire, even though this can be a challenge when those desires are not fulfilled. But even in those difficult times God invites us to remain in the conversation. And this includes the transparent sharing of our deep desires. God craves our honesty.
Jesus says to Bartimaeus: “What do you want me to do for you?” But more: “What does your heart tell you? What are your desires? When you listen to your heart, what does it say?” Jesus listens to Bartimaeus, who listens to his heart.
Naming our desires is also a sign of humility. Bartimaeus knows that he cannot heal himself. Neither can we. We stand before God aware of our limitations. In the simplest analysis, we need help. Why not admit it?
Finally, we sometimes need to ignore the crowd, especially when they tell us to shut up. “Don’t desire something better for yourself,” they say to Bartimaeus and to us. “Give up those ridiculous hopes of change. Stop hoping for something new.” By contrast, Jesus doesn’t shout, “Be quiet!” Jesus’s voice is different than the crowd’s. Gently, he asks, “What do you want me to do for you?”
The encounter with Bartimaeus is also a story of conversion, characterized by the blind man’s casting off of his cloak. It was probably among his most valued possessions, an outer garment that could be used as a coat and, at night, as a blanket or even a bed. It would have been almost unthinkable for a poor man to throw aside his cloak. Thus his cloak is a beautiful symbol of conversion. “So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up (anapēdēsas) and came to Jesus,” says Mark. Like the nets that Peter must let go of, Bartimaeus leaves behind some of his past in order to see his future.
FINALLY, THIS IS A story about ministry. My friend Paula noted that the lessons of this Gospel passage extend beyond Jesus “standing still.” If you look at the narrative carefully, she suggested, Jesus’s distinctive form of ministry becomes clearer.
First, Jesus enters Jericho with “his disciples and a large crowd.”10 Ministry is relational and is often carried out in groups. Being a minister also involves the idea of a journey, whether that means journeying with an individual spiritually or traveling physically to a particular place to be with someone. Jesus is happy to minister with others, not just for others. He calls people together to minister together.
Second, Mark’s explicit naming of Bartimaeus shows the importance of knowing the person we’re trying to help. On the road outside of Jericho, Jesus does not minister to a “blind man,” a “beggar,” or a “poor man”—to a member of a faceless socioeconomic group or to an anonymous person with a generic illness, but to an individual with a name and a history: Bartimaeus, son of Timaeus. This was one of the most important lessons I learned in my first year as a Jesuit. In the hospital ministry as a novice, I had initially thought I would be working with “the sick.” That was true. But truer still was that I was working with individuals, people who had their own stories and dreams. I wasn’t working with “the sick” as much as I was working with Rita, Gene, and Frank.
The preservation of Bartimaeus’s name is a strong indication that after his healing Bartimaeus became a well-known individual in the early Christian community. It is a reminder of the importance of not simply meeting a person’s needs in ministry, but treating a person as an individual.
Third, Jesus asks Bartimaeus, “What do you want me to do for you?” Jesus, said Paula, does not presume to know what the blind man would ask of him. As a minister it is tempting to believe that you already know what the other person needs.
During my hospital chaplaincy in Boston, I met an elderly woman with a long-term illness, named Rita. In my eagerness to be a good hospital chaplain, I spoke with her only about the things I thought a chaplain should speak about: God, prayer, and suffering. But Rita wanted to talk only about her two brothers, who were both Jesuits. Every time she began to tal
k about them, I tried to steer her to more “important” topics. One day the director of pastoral care suggested that I talk to Rita about her interests, rather than mine. I did, and we eventually became friends. In time, we did end up speaking about God, prayer, and suffering. But first I needed to give Rita the dignity of listening to her. If Jesus is willing to let the other person take the initiative, so should we.
After Jesus heals Bartimaeus he says, “Go; your faith has made you well.” (In Mark and Luke the Greek is sesōken, saved you.) Ministry affirms people and then offers them the opportunity to grow and change. Ministry also offers them the opportunity to follow Jesus themselves and perform the works of charity. And that’s not limited to professional or organized ministry—we all have opportunities to minister to, or care for, one another.
It’s not clear how Bartimaeus followed Jesus, whether for a day or a lifetime. But the preservation of his story indicates that Bartimaeus became a faithful disciple in his own way.
SOMEONE ELSE WAS WAITING for Jesus in Jericho. As Luke tells it, after he heals the blind man, Jesus, accompanied by a great crowd, spies something strange. The chief tax collector in the town, a man named Zacchaeus, is perched high in a sycamore tree, straining to see Jesus.11 “He was trying to see who Jesus was, but on account of the crowd he could not, because he was short in stature,” says Luke.
For the people of Jericho, the sight of the diminutive tax collector sitting in the tree probably made them laugh derisively. Most people likely despised the chief tax collector, who worked for the Roman overlords. In Jesus’s time, Jericho was a wealthy town, ideally located for commerce in the Jordan Valley, and so it served as a major center for taxation for the Romans. Zacchaeus, as chief tax collector (having responsibility over other tax collectors), would have been an integral part of a corrupt system and thus seen as one of the “chief sinners” of the area. To be chief tax collector would have brought both wealth and contempt. Any laughter over his undignified behavior would have been magnified by the people’s detestation of him.