Wasn’t it Kenny Rogers, bless his heart, who sang about someone believing in him?  Then there’s that even older song about the paper moon: “It’s a Barnum and Bailey world / Just as phony as it can be / But it wouldn’t be make-believe / If you believed in me.”  Trust, confidence, faith.  In a world of shifting, temporary images and deepfakes—cheap fakes?—who could possibly ask us to take anything as durable, lasting, and true?  Wouldn’t we be fools to do so?  Whenever something is being sold to us as genuine, we should be even more dubious.  Everything changes and there’s nothing new under the sun.  The only constant is change, right?  Until we consider God, until we hear Him, receive Him, trust Him.

Trusting God—that’s not a simple matter.  To trust God, you have to know God, and to know God you have to know some things about Him: know that those things are accurate and true.  To trust God, you have to know Him accurately and truly even when life isn’t going so well, even in the hard times, the times that test the soul.  To know Him accurately and truly, we must learn that all our trust is in Him even in those times when life is going along without many big bumps or bad bruises.  When pain comes along, we fall to our knees, for a while, anyway; when all is going well, we congratulate ourselves.

Jesus is passing through Jericho.  He is on his way elsewhere.  Let’s live likewise.  I am very much acquainted with the attractions of getting settled in and comfortable, and Christians need to remember that we are on our way elsewhere.  Jesus knows what will happen in Jerusalem.  He’s been trying to tell his followers, but they haven’t wanted to listen when he speaks about that.  We all have those things we love to hear Jesus talk about, and we all have those things Jesus talks about that we’d rather not hear.

Luke tells us about Zacchaeus in the sycamore tree there in Jericho, but it’s Mark, following Peter’s memories of events, who focuses on the blind man.  He isn’t the first blind man Jesus encounters—hardly that!  Neither is Bartimaeus the last blind man Jesus will encounter on earth.

Jesus is leaving Jericho, on his way to Jerusalem.  Everyone knows that means something, though they aren’t entirely sure just what it means, and none of them except for Jesus know all that it means.  This is important, momentous, practically holy.  There’s a crowd, which might lead us to expect the noise of a crowd—talking, coughing, laughter—but there’s a hush, here.  Jesus is now on his way to Jerusalem, and this means something.

Jesus is leaving Jericho; he won’t be coming back, until he comes again.  This is the last time many will see Jesus, until they see him again.  And what of those who can’t see, don’t see, won’t see?  The reason we’re told the name of the blind man begging by the side of the road is that he’s the one who cried out for Jesus.  I would think the beggars by the side of the road, if they were crying out about anything, would be crying out for alms: anything helps, God bless.

I don’t believe for a moment that Bartimaeus was the only blind beggar there beside the road.  He was the one who cried out to Jesus.  “When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to shout, ‘Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!’” (10:47).  We’re not told that anyone told him it was Jesus.  He heard; he overheard.  You see, no one was talking to him.  Indeed, no one even really saw him.  He was the blind man, and all who passed by were blind to him.  Just another beggar by the side of the road.  Beloved, that’s where Jesus finds all of us.

Something made Bartimaeus cry out.  What?  Had he heard of Jesus of Nazareth before?  Had people been talking about him even long before this day?  Someone had been excited about Jesus, excited enough to tell people about him and the wonderful things he was saying and doing.  Glory, hallelujah!  Let’s go and do likewise.

Not all who heard listened, or remembered, but Bartimaeus did.  Jesus—oh, there’s something about that name!  When Bartimaeus knew it was Jesus, that Jesus was there, so near—and passing through, about to go—Bartimaeus realized this was it: his chance, his last, best chance, and he cried out for mercy.

Son of David—that’s the Messiah, the ever-blessed King, the Savior.  No, Bartimaeus didn’t know all that meant, but he knew at least this much: the power of God was with Jesus, the power for change, for healing.  Bartimaeus knew he was blind, and he just knew Jesus could do something about that.  It’s one thing to know you’re blind, and quite another to know what blindness is.  I mean, if you’ve always been blind and never known what it is to have sight, in what sense do you really know what blindness is, or means?

What about all those who are blind and don’t know it, don’t know what it means because they’ve never known differently?  What would cause them to cry out for Jesus?  A person cries out to Jesus when that person believes Jesus really might be able to do something, which means that person has at least the rudiments of trust in Jesus, which means faith.

It’s one thing to have faith, another to rely upon it.  I can stand up here, Sunday after Sunday, and have faith, but that doesn’t mean that, day by day, it’s faith I’m relying upon, anymore than it means it’s God I’m relying on.  I rely upon myself, or others (my network), or our elected officials.  I rely upon my wealth, or my education, skills, and earning potential; I rely upon my wisdom and good judgment, my ability to see a lucrative opportunity and my ability to make the most of it.  I rely upon my people skills, or my charm, youth, and beauty—ha ha, I know.

Bartimaeus knew he was blind.  He didn’t want to be blind.  He wanted to see.  Open my eyes that I may see!  He knew he was blind, but that didn’t necessarily mean Bartimaeus also believed something could be done about it.  You know, there are just those things in life about which nothing can be done: the hopeless things, the hopeless people.  We’ve just got to resign ourselves, make our adjustments—and I don’t say there is no wisdom at all in that, but it might not be the fullness of the wisdom of flourishing faith.

The blind, first, must come to realize their blindness, that there is something different, desirable, called sight.  Oh, I can tell someone that he or she is blind, only to have that person tell me to mind my own business, but not so politely.  The blind one must somehow come to the belief that something can be done about this blindness, that sight is possible.  Not only possible, but desirable—the blind one must come to the point of desiring sight, of realizing that life is not really life and love not really love without this sight that is missing: that fullness of life and love have been impossible because of the blindness in which the blind person has been living for so long—a lifetime!  Maybe even some of you had been groping around, wanting something else, something more, better, deeper, purer.

Then, the blind person must find the one who can give sight.  That’s not so easy!  Try walking around with your eyes closed for a few minutes—even in a very familiar space, and just find out what happens.  No, if you’re blind, it’s easiest, best?, just to stay in one place, stuck, still.  Nothing so pathetic, nothing so tragic, as a blind person searching for something.  Consider, then, the blindness of the heart.

Bartimaeus had been sitting there beside the road, out of traffic but not out of sight or out of earshot, for a long long time.  He had grown old there, lean and weak.  He had learned hopelessness there, in all its darkness, yet there was also something that somehow had kept that total darkness from totally darkening Bartimaeus’ heart.

Then, one day, just a day like all the others that had gone by, he hears that Jesus is walking past—right in front of his eyes!—but of course, he doesn’t see.  He doesn’t have to.  He doesn’t have to see Jesus to hear about Jesus.  He doesn’t have to see Jesus to cry out to Jesus—there’s the miracle, the grace, and the glory.  There’s God.

Jesus is passing through, and he won’t be coming back—until he does.  Today is the day and now is the time.  Bartimaeus, if you don’t cry out now, you’ll never have another chance—God gave you your voice for this very hour.  And Bartimaeus uses it, oh, he uses it!

The mood, though, was holy hush: Jesus was on his way to Jerusalem.  This was important.  Everyone felt it.  Then, this, this cracked, gravelly voice form somewhere off to the side, like out of left field: “Mercy!  Mercy!  Jesus, Son of David, have mercy!”  Over and over.  For heaven’s sake, what was all that racket!?  Why doesn’t he be quiet?  Oh, won’t someone go shut him up?!  He’s ruining the mood!  And they did tell him to be quiet, maybe even be quiet or else, “but he shouted all the more, ‘Son of David, have mercy on me!’” (10:48).  No, he wasn’t going to be silent.  He couldn’t: this was his one best chance, his last chance, and he knew he couldn’t lose it or he’d lose everything.  He understood it now, without even knowing how he understood it.

Darkness of despair had shrouded his entire life—hello darkness, my old friend.  He wasn’t afraid of the light; he only wanted to know what light was.  He hoped it would be better, better than what he had known up until then.  He was ready for something better.  He wanted something better.

And what of Jesus, on his way to Jerusalem, already, spiritually, starting to feel the darkness, the weight of all that was to come, all that was to be laid upon him.  Can you imagine—all that would be laid upon him, and all that would be taken away?  If ever there were a time when I would want to be alone with my thoughts, not disturbed, not bothered . . . but, thank God, Jesus isn’t like me.  Jesus stops.  He stops for the one, the least important, lowest, most forgotten one: “Jesus stopped and said, ‘Call him’” (10:49).  It’s like when Jesus told his disciples to feed the multitudes with what they had: Jesus himself could have called Bartimaeus over, but he doesn’t do it that way.  He says to those with him, his followers, You call him.  Have we?  Are we?  Do we?

It sort of stuns me that those with Jesus turn almost on the same breath from telling Bartimaeus to shut up and go away to saying, “Cheer up! On your feet! He’s calling you” (10:49).  What really amazes me, though, is what Mark tells us next: Bartimaeus “jumped to his feet and came to Jesus” (10:50).  The blind man came to Jesus.  Bartimaeus heard.  Bartimaeus cried out.  Bartimaeus came to Jesus.  He did and he didn’t.  A blind man can’t come to Jesus, but God can get a blind man to Jesus.  That’s called grace.  That’s called salvation.  Jesus will guide the blind to himself, if only the blind will hear and cry out for him.

When Jesus asks what Bartimaeus wants Jesus to do for him, the blind man’s answer is quick, definite, and beautiful: “Rabbi, I want to see” (10:51).  The especially lovely part is the Greek word Mark uses for seeing.  Oh, yes, the word means see, regaining sight, but its most basic meaning is to look up, to lift the eyes.  Lord Jesus, let me lift up my eyes again.  Life can weigh us down, turn our eyes downward, inward, and life can sort of get a headlock on us, to hold our vision down until our eyes become all too used to, all too familiar with the rough sorrows down here.  We can get to seeing our way around well enough, but we don’t lift our eyes anymore: we don’t read the Bible, don’t pray much, don’t go to church anymore, we don’t think of God—oh, we have faith, along with the other old, canned goods and dead, corroded batteries there at the back of the pantry . . . emergency supplies?

Hearing Bartimaeus’ request, Jesus answers: “‘Go [. . .] your faith has healed you.’  Immediately he received his sight and followed Jesus along the road” (10:52).  Amen and amen.  Faith heals.  Faith is for healing, and God made us for healing.  He also made us for following, and we can get so misdirected about that.  Jesus is our sure guide.  Only consider this: Bartimaeus, we’re told, at once “followed Jesus along the road”—hallelujah, amen!—only, where is Jesus going, and what’s going to happen there?