Mark 10.46-52: Jesus cures Bartimaeus.

They went to Jericho. As Jesus was leaving Jericho with his students and a sizable crowd, Bartimaeus (Aramaic for “the son of Timaeus”), a blind beggar, was sitting by the road. Hearing “It’s Jesus the Nazarene,” he began to shout, and was saying, “Son of David! Jesus! Have mercy on me!” Many were rebuking him so he’d be silent, yet he called all the more: “Son of David! Have mercy on me!”

Standing still, Jesus said, “Call him.” They called the blind man, telling him, “Cheer up; get up; he’s calling you.” Throwing off his coat, he jumped up and went to Jesus. In reply, Jesus said, “What do you want me to do to you?”

The blind man told him, “Rabbi, I want to see.” Jesus told him, “Go. Your faith has saved you.” Immediately he could see. And he followed Jesus on the road.

—Mark 10.46-52 KWL

Attitudes towards the needy.

In John’s gospel, Jesus’s students once pointed out a blind man and asked Jesus about him.

Walking past, Jesus saw a person, blind since birth, and his students questioned him, saying, “Rabbi, who sinned so he’d be born blind?—this man or his parents?” Jesus answered,

“Neither this man nor his parents.

Instead it’s so God’s work could be demonstrated on him.”

—John 9.1-2 KWL

This comment reflected the usual attitude people had—and still have—about the needy: It’s probably because of you.

While we might claim we know better—because we know Jesus’s teaching that the needy exist so God can reveal his good works through them, namely by helping them, and being the light of the world to them—most of the time we don’t act it. We’ve adopted our culture’s attitude of social Darwinism: “If you’re a capable enough individual, you’ll pull yourself out of the muck by your own bootstraps. If you’re not… well, sucks to be you, but this is just how nature thins the herd.” But while pure Darwinism simply recognizes some creatures are less capable, and passes no moral judgment on them for it, social Darwinism isn’t so kind: It blames the needy for their own need: “If you’d just work harder, or work smarter, you wouldn’t be in this mess. But you won’t. So it’s on you. You’re lazy. You’re selfish. You want me to do your work for you. You’re a sinner.”

And both Jews in Jesus’s day, and Christians in ours, regularly adopt this attitude about the needy. We justify it with a bit of bad theology: We know God is almighty, mix that up with our ideas about how God is sovereign, and figure since God is in charge of everything, he’s likewise in charge of whether people are needy or not. And if they’re needy, and their problems aren’t immediately fixed, it means God wants them to suffer. And since he’d never ever let righteous people suffer—Job’s a rare exception, and Christian persecution in our homeland is rare instead of usual—they must therefore deserve their suffering, to some degree. So let’s take a few steps back from the needy, ’cause God’s working on them. Let God sort them out.

But how are God’s works to be revealed through the needy? Simple: God’s people have to do them. Why does it seem so much more complicated? Because God’s people suck. We lack faith and compassion, and don’t do them.

So when Bartimaeus started shouting towards Jesus, the crowd showed him no compassion, and showed Jesus no faith. Their response wasn’t, “Hey! Jesus! Blind guy! You cure blind guys, right? Cure this guy!” Nor was their response to try to cure him themselves, even though Jesus had supernaturally empowered his apostles to do such things. Instead, it was “Don’t bother the Master.”

The usual attitude of anyone towards beggars—both then and now—is to look past them. Pretend they’re not there. Pretend you’re too busy to give alms. Put the headphones of your iPod into your ears, even though your iPod isn’t even turned on, so it’s obvious you’re too distracted to hear them ask for spare change. And to make yourself feel better about your apathy, cultivate antagonism: “These beggars probably make more money an hour than someone working minimum wage. They’ll spend it all on drink. They’re too well-groomed to be really needy; it’s a scam. They could make money in any other way than one which puts me out. Why don’t they go to social services? Why don’t they go to the homeless shelter? Why don’t they get a job?” And so on. But in order to dodge the loathing and the self-loathing, more of us simply treat them as if they’re items in the background. And it freaks us out when the background starts to speak up.

Jesus sees nobody as background. If you want something, he’s willing to listen. Often, he’s also willing to act.

“Son of David.”

Some of the reason people might have told Bartimaeus to shut up was because he called Jesus “Son of David.” Twice. The term hasn’t come up before in Mark, and no, it has nothing to do with Jesus’s ancestry. “Son of David” means Messiah. It’s the way Jews referred to Messiah without saying the politically-loaded word “Messiah.”

You see, Messiah (and Christ) means “anointed one,” which refers to the ceremony when they were declared king: A horn of oil, about a liter of it, was poured over the king’s head. And so Messiah became another one of the king’s titles. It means king. As does “Son of David”—because David’s descendants were likewise kings.

In a kingdom with a ruling king, calling yourself king is treason. In Judah, the ruling king was the emperor of Rome, and you really didn’t want to commit treason against the Romans. They had a bad habit of crucifying traitors. In general, you wanted to avoid all the Messiah-talk so you could stay alive. And likely some of Jesus’s followers figured, “He’s gonna give us away!” So they tried to shush Bartimaeus, lest some loyalist overhear him, and tell the Romans a rebel group was headed for the capital.

These are the politics we Christians miss, ’cause we don’t think of Messiah as a political title, but a spiritual one. We think we can divorce the two ideas: Jesus is master of our heart, but as far as how we behave in our daily life—what we do, how we act, where we spend our money—well, that’s another deal altogether. Jesus is master of our feelings, but not our behavior.

But we were never meant to do that. Messiah means king of all—both our feelings and our behavior. Every time we call Jesus by that title—every time we call him Christ or Messiah—we’re calling him our king. And either we mean it, or we’re paying him lip service. Every time we call him Lord, it should mean we’re taking a risk: We follow him instead of following what others expect us to. Every time we call him King, we’re declaring our allegiance to him, more so than our country, our government, our lives, everything.

Bartimaeus chose to be radical, and call Jesus “Messiah” when others wouldn’t. He chose to trust Jesus’s rule when others wanted to hide it a little longer. He figured it would get Jesus’s attention, and he was absolutely right. He demonstrated faith. So Jesus cured him. And Bartimaeus didn’t just go back to his life before: He followed his King.