And taking the twelve, he said to them, “See, we are going up to Jerusalem, and everything that is written about the Son of Man by the prophets will be accomplished . . .” Luke 18:31-32
They are getting close to Jericho, as far south as their journey would take them. Jerusalem is close, just over the horizon. Anticipation glows like an ember in the pulsing, gripping moment before it bursts into flame. Then he says,
“Let me tell you one last time what will happen when we get there. The prophets wrote of it, Isaiah foretold it: the Son of Man will be delivered to Gentiles, mocked, scorned, slapped and spat upon. After whips have drained the vitality from him they will take his life, but not for good—on the third day he’ll rise to life again.”
The words fell like rocks, hard and smooth and impermeable. Their minds turned rocky, slow and dense.
They did not understand.
His words made no sense.
They could not see. Comprehension reached out, fingered the hard surface, fell away.
By morning it seemed like a bad dream, and the journey was back on course. When you live through many days that are governed by the same routine, your mind accepts it as habit, half-consciously expecting that all future days will continue like these. First sunrise, then breakfast, after which they gather their few possessions. Then on the road again, followed by the hangers-on and joined by the passers-by. By the time the walls of Jericho (fabled in song and story) rise before them, the usual “great crowd” has developed.
Meanwhile, outside the city another routine day is going on as usual—hot and crowded. And for Bartimaeus, dark. Always dark. The blind beggar had felt his way to this same spot outside the wall ever since he was a child. His parents used to bring him, but they are long gone. Most of his childhood friends, too; they’re either dead or living on outside his comprehension. His beggar friends come and go, because begging is a short-lived trade. As for a wife–who would have him? The only stable presence in his life is his alms box.
For him days pass like beads on a string, rounded and sullen and mostly alike–but this morning he feels a crackle in the air. It isn’t just the noise. Wedding crowds and funeral crowds and the occasional stoning crowd have their recognizable character, but this is different: a rush, as though the day were breaking loose from the frame it is stretched upon and curling toward the center. “What is it?” he asks the crowded air. “What’s going on?”
The voices come back, overstepping each other like excited children: “Jesus of Nazareth is passing by!”
Who hasn’t heard of Jesus of Nazareth? They say he’s Messiah, coming in a triumphant procession of healings and preachings and signs and wonders. Oh, the things they say! The news bubbles up in Bartimaeus like a fountain. His voice, so long wrung dry of things to say, breaks out feebly.
“Son of David! Son of David! Jesus, Son of David, wait!”
Where does that come from? They say he’s Messiah, the great King, the restoration of the glorious throne of Israel, heir to the giant-slayer, the sweet singer, the man after God’s own heart—“Son of David, stop!”
Hush, they’re saying. You’re making a scene. People are staring at you.
That doesn’t matter. He’s been crowded into silence all his life by the fault of not seeing. He is a turd in the road, a blot on the landscape, an occasion for charity from more fortunate men. But now everything inside of him gathers itself up, hopelessly, desperately—he is Bartimaeus, son of Timaeus, standing now on unsteady feet, his voice ringing out, “Have mercy on me!”
The tumult collapses from those words like scaffolding. In the sudden quiet, voices that had previously hushed him now come back, passed hand over hand from the center of the crowd. He’s calling for you. Get up. Come forward.
He takes one uncertain step, then a
nother and another, belatedly realizing he’s left his stick behind. And his alms-box. Step after step, hands outstretched and fingers spread, he feels the crow both pulling back from and directing him, with a nudge here, a touch of the shoulder there. Until he finally comes to the glowing, living center.
“What do you want me to do for you?” says the center.
“Lord–” For there is no other way to address him—“I want to see.”
“Then see,” says he. No touch, no breath, just words. As simple as, Let there be light. This is what it takes to see: his words. And his open, empty eyes flood with light.
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