Imagine with me, a young girl working on an assignment in math class. Brows furrowed, heart thumping, she tries to work out the problem in her book. She anxiously taps the eraser of her pencil on her desk. She doesn’t want to admit to the teacher that she can’t figure out the answer. There seems to be some kind of system to these numbers. There seems to be something significant about the patterns, but she can’t quite grasp what it is. Erasing, re-erasing, scratching wildly with her pencil all over the paper, she finally makes the numbers work. “Oh, yes, now I SEE!” she thinks with relief. Her body relaxes and a smile spreads over her face. “Now I SEE.” The patterns make sense. The pieces fit into their fraction of the whole. “I see!” What a relief! What a marvel it is to see!
Seeing is so much more than merely the seeing that we do with our eyes, isn’t it? When we “see” something, we understand it. We grasp it. If only all of life were as easy to see as a math problem or a word puzzle! If only all frustrations could be reasoned out. If only all inconsistencies could be smoothed away with a well-placed answer. Sometimes we pretend that our own mental gymnastics or our own right actions can bring us the understanding that we seek. But blindness always lurks in the corners and beside the way.
I
imagine that many of us are worried today about our elections, about war and hatred all around the world. It’s hard to see the way forward. The world—other
people—our loved ones—those people we just don’t understand—they can’t always
be solved like a math problem, can they? Suffering never makes sense. Evil
certainly doesn’t make sense. How does life become a chaos, a problem with no
acceptable solution? “O God, why?” we shout in our hearts, over and over again.
When we can’t see the path ahead, we can’t help but call out in our blindness, “Jesus
have mercy,” even when others might tell us to hush and to calm down.
Mark’s story of Bartimaeus is about more than a blind beggar regaining his eyesight. Have you ever noticed that it’s rare in the Gospel stories for the people whom Jesus heals to have names? Usually, they’re just “a leper,” or a “lame man,” or “a bleeding woman.” But in today’s Gospel, the blind beggar has a name: “Bar-Timaeus,” which means “Son of Timaeus,” a fact that Mark wants to be sure that we notice, since he quite plainly and redundantly points it out. “Bar” is the Aramaic for “son of” and Timaeus is a Greek name. Why a name that combines two languages in this strange way? Timaeus isn’t just any old Greek name, either. Timaeus is the main dialogue partner in the Greek philosopher Plato’s famous work, The Timaeus, a work that was well known among the Hellenistic Jews of Mark’s time and place.
The Timaeus is
about the cosmos, about the mathematical beauty and wholeness of the universe—it’s
about the perfect pattern of all things. For Plato, sight is our most important
sense. Only sight allows us to grasp the beautiful truth of the cosmos, to comprehend
time and the seasons, to attain the heights of philosophy. In the Timaeus, Plato writes, “God
invented and gave us sight to the end that we might behold the courses of
intelligence in the heaven, and apply them to the courses of our own
intelligence which are akin to them, the unperturbed to the perturbed; and that
we, learning them and partaking of the natural truth of reason, might imitate
the absolutely unerring courses of God."[1]
For Plato’s Timaeus, wise humans can learn to imitate a perfect, clockwork universe. A person who is blind, a person without sight and reason, is thus bereft of wisdom, unimportant, cast aside in his imperfection. Mark’s naming of the healed beggar as Son of Timaeus could well be meant to jar the minds of his Greek-speaking Jewish readers. It could turn Plato’s perfect universe upside down. The suffering have no place in Plato’s harmonious system. But in Mark’s Gospel, the suffering are directly engaged.
In
Mark, Bartimaeus, the Son of Timaeus, sits beside the Way, a
beggar rejected by a society that won’t even abide his cries for help. But
Bartimaeus is courageous enough to risk the taunts and jeers of those who
exclude him. In complete humility, he cries out to a savior that he can’t see,
a savior who rips open Plato’s perfect cosmos and comes down to a beggar in his
small, sightless corner of the world. God comes down into our suffering world in
the form of Jesus: Jesus who dives down into our suffering with a love
that leads to his own crucifixion.[2]
“What do you want me to do for you?” Jesus asks Bartimaeus—using the exact same words that he offered James and John in last week’s Gospel. In that exchange, James and John are still trying to figure out how God works. They think that life has an answer that will lead them straight to a place at Jesus’ right hand in glory. Bartimaeus, though, asks only to see. His suffering has taught him that the way to eternal life lies on the way that Jesus is walking, on the perilous road to Jerusalem. He asks to see a road that the twelve disciples are still too blind to grasp.
As
soon as Jesus heals him and gives him sight, Bartimaeus takes off to follow
Jesus, on the Way—no longer beside it—on the way to Jerusalem,
on the way that leads to the Cross. Given sight, what Bartimaeus sees isn’t
Plato’s cosmic mystery. He doesn’t learn why he was born blind. He doesn’t find
out the answers to all of our curious questions about God and the universe. All
he sees … is Jesus. When the light enters his eyes, he looks straight into the
face of Jesus, crucified Son of David, living Son of God. Without missing a
beat, this unlikely Son of Timaeus sheds his beggar’s cloak and his old way of
life, and follows Jesus’ Way.
Jesus
is always taking our stories, our schemes and our plans, and turning them
inside out, isn’t he? Every time we think we have life
and the universe figured out, he turns our solid, rational answers into a
vulnerable, loving face. Every time we think that we’re peering into certainty,
Jesus presents a picture of mercy, instead.
Once, I was troubled by a recurring image that frustrated me to no end. I saw myself alone and unhappy in a desert, standing beside a winding path. I could see buildings and people on the left, and I could see life-giving water and green trees behind me. Ahead, I only saw the path, stretching into the horizon. But I couldn’t move forward or even step sideways onto the path, because on the right, I was blind. I couldn’t see anything to the right of the path, no matter how hard I stared. It was as blank as an empty page. Like the little girl trying to solve the math problem alone, I was distraught at my blindness. For the life of me, I couldn’t see “what was right” and it terrified me.
When
I told my spiritual director about this image, she suggested: “Maybe you’re
afraid to see? Maybe you don’t want to know what is right, because it’s
difficult.” Yes, she spoke the truth. After reading today’s Gospel, I think
that I could have stopped straining to make logical sense of that old dream. I
could have stopped trying to peer ahead into my story. Instead, if I
had quit trying to predict the future and cried out to Jesus, for all that I
was worth: “Lord, have mercy on me!” Jesus might have bestowed on me the
healing gift of his loving face, of his faithful presence.
Is there anything that you are afraid to see? If Jesus held
out his hands to you in your blind places and whispered, “What can I do for you?”
what would you say?
Attempt at Intergenerational Version for a Goodbye Service
Before
I was a priest, I was a teacher. I was even a substitute teacher sometimes. So
I know what kids think when they see a strange sub standing up in front of the classroom!
They miss the comforting presence of their regular teacher, and at the same
time, there’s that glee that they might just get a free day, a chance to mess
around or tune out! Right? Well, I am your sub for today, and I want to let our
young people know that I’m not standing here just to talk to the adults. I know
that you’re in a long church service and missing time with your friends, so I
thank you for giving this old sub a chance to share some thoughts with you
about the story of the blind man that we just heard.
We
all have a lot on our minds and hearts this morning, I imagine. Perhaps some of
you are really sad about Chris leaving town. Maybe you’re worried about what
youth group will be like without him, and with a new leader that you don’t know.
You’ve had lots of new leaders in the past few years, and comings and goings
are hard. Anticipation—waiting in the unknown-- is hard, even when it’s good
anticipation. I’m sure that Chris is excited about his upcoming wedding and new
home, but I imagine that he’s also wondering how all the new things will be. Many
of us here today are also full of worried anticipation about the election
coming up soon. We’re all overburdened with campaign ads, and we’re filled with
really scary news of war abroad and rumors of violence in our country. If you’re
like me, you’re got a dread in the pit of your stomach that your world is
spinning out of control.
Wouldn’t
it be great if we could see into the future? If we could always understand what
is happening in our lives and in the world? If we always knew what path was
right to take? If we could just see what lies ahead and prepare
ourselves?
We get an answer to our anxious anticipation in
today’s Gospel lesson, when Jesus heals a blind man named Bartimaeus. Bartimaeus
has lots of worries, too. He can’t see, so he can’t work. He can only sit by
the side of the road and wait. He can only wait for unseen people to drop a few
coins or a bit of food onto his spread-out cloak on the ground. I can’t imagine
what it’s like to be blind, but I do know what’s it’s like to sit alone, off to
the side of the group. I do know what it’s like for people to tell me to be
quiet, to turn their backs to my words. I do know what it’s like not to see the way
forward, not to understand, not to be able to say, “Oh, I SEE what’s going on.”
Even
though Bartimaeus can’t see with his eyes, his heart can feel and hope and
pray. When he hears the stories about Jesus, Bartimaeus’ heart tells him that
Jesus is special, that Jesus just might be able to help him. So when Jesus
comes down the road into his town, Bartimaeus starts hollering to get Jesus’
attention.
And Jesus listens to his
cries. Jesus doesn’t make fun of him like other people do. Jesus gets his friends
to invite Bartimaeus over to him. I can imagine Jesus reaching out and taking
Bartimaeus’ cold hands in his. “What do you want me to for you?” Jesus asks
kindly. “What do you want me to do for you?” Doesn’t it feel wonderful
when someone asks us this question? Then Jesus opens the blind man’s eyes to
sight, just like Bartimaeus so deeply desires.
I
think what’s important for us to notice is what Bartimaeus sees after he’s
healed. He doesn’t see into the past, into all the reasons why he had to be
blind in the first place. He doesn’t see into the future, reassured that now he’s
going to live happily-ever-after. He simply sees Jesus’ face, Jesus’ loving
presence with him; he feels his hands being held. He hears God’s healing
blessing right in that moment. Bartimaeus doesn’t take much time, either,
worrying about what he’ll do next. He doesn’t go back to his old life at all.
He immediately follows Jesus on the way to Jerusalem, on the rocky path of the Way
of Love.
Every
time we think we have life and the universe figured out, Jesus turns our solid,
rational answers into a vulnerable, loving face. Every time we look for
certainty, Jesus presents a picture of loving-kindness, instead.
When
we all lay our hands on Chris in a few minutes, when we all give him a
blessing, Jesus will be there among us, filling us each with his healing love. In
all of our worried anticipation today, listen for Jesus asking you, “What do
you want me to do for you?” What would you tell him?
[1] Quoted in Abhishek Solomon, “From Plato’s Timaeus to Mark’s Bar-Timaeus,” October 23, 2021, https://www.trinitymethodist.org.nz/post/from-plato-s-timaeus-to-mark-s-bar-timaeus.
[2]
Gordon Lathrop, Holy Ground: A Liturgical Cosmology (Minneapolis:
Augsburg Fortress Press, 2003), 33.
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