He sat on a stool in front of his low mud brick house in the cool air of early morning. Chickens chattered as they scratched in the dust of a neighbor’s yard, having been summoned before dawn by the flock’s loud and insistent rooster. A young goat bleated. Down the road he heard the voice of a sheep herder readying his flock for the morning trip to pastures in the western hills rimming the mighty peak of the Quarantania.
He felt rather than saw the sun rise above the distant mountains beyond the Jordan River, and lifted sightless eyes toward the east. In the vast groves of date palms covering the Jericho Plain, clusters of young dates would be appearing. A murmur of voices reached him on the morning breeze as workers began the day’s tasks. The breeze also brought the scent of balsam gardens wafting across the city from the district of wealthy landowners and balm merchants, their homes surrounded by lush, tropical vegetation.
His mind was alive with questions that had kept him awake night after night. Was it true? It had to be. There were too many witnesses. Was he divine? If the miracles were true, surely he was divine. Who was being healed? Anyone who asked? It seemed so. Each night he tossed restlessly on his straw bed in the darkness. What bothered him most was a small, very small flame of hope that began to flicker deep within his weary self. Hope? He had scoffed at himself there in the dark. And yet the tiny flame had refused to be extinguished. He was not scoffing this morning. Instead he wondered, Why not me?
He had, in the past three years, heard rumors about the young miracle-working rabbi from Galilee. In the many lonely hours of his existence he had pondered the works and words of Jesus of Nazareth discussed among neighbors and shopkeepers. Conversations of travelers passing through were frequently about healings and deliverances. The descriptions of miracles were stunning. When, for the first time, he heard of blind eyes being opened, it had shaken him badly. Blind eyes healed?
From what Bartimaeus could glean from snatches of conversation. it seemed the healer was still in Galilee. Morning after morning as he sat on his stool he mulled over the what he was hearing. Day after day, sitting by the side of the road waiting for the occasional feel of coins in his soiled palm, his thoughts were never far from the rabbi.
Huge crowds were now descending from the north for Passover, traveling the Roman road that led through Jericho and on to Jerusalem. This annual pilgrimage was a boon for him personally. Sitting near the gate leading out of Jericho, he found the pilgrims heading out of his city to be more generous with their alms. So, Bartimaeus tolerated the choking dust created by thousands of feet, bags swinging out and bruising him or knocking him over, children poking and taunting—all of this with no ability to shield himself or get out of the way. It was his life. Bartimaeus, the blind son of a blind father.
Now, one thought intruded upon all others: Would Jesus pass through Jericho on his way to Jerusalem? If so, no one or nothing would prevent him from making contact.
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Here we are, in a season that encourages those of us who follow Christ to ponder what is on the horizon: five weeks to Resurrection Sunday. Lent is not, of course, a universal practice of Christians. Its forms and formalities do not pair well with the cultures of many Christian churches. However, the fundamental reason for its existence is for believers to set aside the forty days prior to Easter to meditate on the Lord’s death, burial, and resurrection. This may be designed any way we desire. We can “give up” something during this time, the very desire for whatever that may be acting as a reminder of the Lord’s sacrifice. Lenten offerings are common—above and beyond our regular tithes and offerings.
But most important, in my opinion, is that time we set aside to ponder the mysteries of God’s power and his great love for us—the love that drove him to die, and the power that raised him from that death. We spend weeks—sometimes months—preparing for the Christmas season. But—and we know this—without Easter, Christmas is just a big, spendy holiday.
Prior to Resurrection Sunday, my focus will now be on a few of Jesus’ last contacts before his death. His actions and his demeanor range from the tenderest compassion to the hottest righteous anger. Here, passing through the wealthy and beautiful district of Jericho, he proves again just how attentive he is to the cry of mankind, and how willing he is to heal.
Next week: Lent Three: Have Mercy, O Lord, Have Mercy