Dust in the Eyes

There could not be greater contrast between the visions of God that we encounter this week. On the one hand we have Job, despising himself and repenting in dust and ashes after being beaten down by seventy verses extolling God’s power. On the other hand there is blind Bartimaeus, whose encounter with God in Jesus Christ could not have been more welcoming and healing. Two very different encounters with the living God – some would say illustrating the differences between the God of the Old and the God of the New Testaments. Yet God is one, and I won’t follow Marcion with that easy explanation of the difference.

Last week I wrote about the astonishing anthropomorphism of the thirty-eighth chapter of Job. That and the following chapter reveal that the author also knew a lot about the natural world, more than most people do today. The author wrote out of joy but also awe, an awe we have largely lost through the ability to give rational explanations for so many natural phenomena. (Perhaps that is why more astronomers than biologists believe in God: the universe is still awesome.) Awe naturally leads to respect, a respect akin to fear. So the writer of the letter to the Hebrews says that “it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.” Job would agree. For all of his bluster, he cowers before the presence of God.

Bartimaeus, on the other hand, shows no fear. There’s no bluster, either. Instead he importunes Jesus, ignoring the crowd that tries to shut him up. “Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me!” he shouts. It’s not clear if he’s annoying because he’s so loud and insistent, or because he’s not politically correct in his indirect reference to Jesus as the Messiah. Being a beggar, he probably looks bad and smells worse. Yet he stops Jesus in his tracks.

Then comes my favorite part of the story. Jesus says to him, “What do you want me to do for you?” What’s the matter, can’t Jesus see that he’s blind? Is he wearing sunglasses? Did his seeing-eye dog stay behind? Or did Jesus not assume that he knew what was best for the man? I love this part, because Jesus makes him articulate his own need. How many times have we assumed that we know what is best for someone else? How many times have we acted on that, and then become annoyed when it turned out that the person didn’t want that at all?

“My teacher, let me see again,” he says. And Jesus replies, “Go; your faith has made you well.” The commentaries will tell you that this healing of blindness bookmarks a similar healing in chapter eight, and in between is a lot of blindness on the part of the disciples. But today it simply strikes me that Jesus is so willing to stop, to listen, to heal. He doesn’t make Bartimaeus repent in dust and ashes. On the other hand, the blind beggar isn’t posturing the way Job was, insisting on his own self-righteousness.

Rather than two faces of God, or two Gods, these passages show us two ways of approaching God. With one we can expect to be overwhelmed and put in our place. In the other we can expect to have God stop and listen. The latter way also shows us how to live with one another: to ask questions, listen carefully to the answers, and then decide what to do. What is most remarkable is that however we approach God, healing occurs. Both Job and Bartimaeus were relieved of their misery. That’s why both stories reveal the same God. It is our healing, our wholeness, that God always desires. And God will work with us to accomplish that, no matter what our approach.

Pentecost 21: Job 42:1-6, 10-17; Psalm 34:1-8(19-22); Hebrews 7:23-28; Mark 10:46-52.