Eliana: Mother of Bartimaeus
Faith of Our Mothers 23
By Elizabeth Lee (in the voice of Eliana)
Let me introduce myself, I am Eliana. I am a proud woman from Jericho in Palestine. A thriving town some 125 stadia or 25km from Jerusalem not far from the River Jordan. Now you may not have heard of me, for like most women, I am not only unnamed but also unseen in the Gospels. My name Eliana means “my God has answered me.”
I am sure you know my husband, Timaeus and my son, Barty, or as he is more widely spoken of, Bartimaeus, son of Timaeus. My husband’s name, Timaeus, means honour, so yes, Barty is son of Timaeus, but in my eyes he is son of honour. Not that you would know, the way he has been treated over the years. You may be familiar with the account in Mark’s Gospel, as it has been told and retold for the past 2000 years, but there is much more to the story. And as Barty’s mum, I should know.
There was so much rejoicing when our son was born. We named him Bartimaeus. A much longed for child. He was such a contented baby, surrounded by so much love. Over the years he grew in wisdom and in favour with all who knew him. Yes, he lived up to his name, the son of honour. That was until that fateful day.
Now I won’t go into that story now. It is quite gruesome and does not need a public airing at this time, but let’s get one thing straight, it was not sin that caused Barty’s blindness. At least it was not sin on his part, despite such rumours lingering.
Barty has for many years now spread his cloak out on the side of the road, in the hope that some of the well-to-do traders, political elites and pilgrims passing by, would throw a few shekels his way. I would bring him some food and sit with him for a while each morning, talking about our lives and the struggles we have living in a town where each day we are pushed to the margins, excluded because of our infirmities, our differences and the shame we feel. Over all these years I have never been able to share this with anyone besides Barty, not Timaeus nor the women who gather at the well each morning or anyone else. There is a deep grief that rests in the hollow of my heart. My son, who had such a bright future ahead of him, struck blind in an instant. The guilt I feel as his mother, that I was unable to protect him from such a trauma. The shame I feel as I see him begging by the road. The heartache I feel as I witness the abuse hurled at him. Today, we mostly keep silence. It is hard, sitting here, alongside my son, watching as we are either ignored, heckled or ridiculed, for Barty’s misfortune is still seen by many as the result of his, presumed and gossiped about, sinful behaviour and elicits no sympathy from those who pass by. Did they not remember that the Law required that the blind received special care? What will become of him when I die? I constantly worry for him and his future, crying out to God to answer my prayers that he may find welcome somewhere.
But my own silent weeping was interrupted by an increasing buzz in the air. A crowd began to build. Barty was curious as to what was going on. I told him that I had heard that a man named Jesus had stayed in town overnight and that there was now a throng of people following him as he began to make his way to Jerusalem, along with so many others in these days before the great festival of Passover. Barty lamented that he would never be able to make that pilgrimage, given the shame he feels being a blind beggar. He, along with so many others, was excluded from the festivals, not by the Law but by prejudice. Poor Barty, he still had a sense that his blindness is a result of something wrong he had done. No matter how hard I have tried, I cannot convince him otherwise.
As the crowd approached, Barty had a sense that Jesus was near. He began to get excited, to call out, “Descendent of David, Jesus, have compassion for me!” O how those words pieced my heart. That was what I had wanted for my son all these years. For everyone who passed him by to have compassion for him. Not pity, not mercy, but compassion: to feel with him in his suffering. I also wanted Barty to have compassion for himself.
But as he cried out the crowd tried to silence him, telling him to be quiet. That only made him shout louder. And I began to shout with him. “Let him speak” was my cry. “Let him be heard!” Alas, our words were falling on deaf ears. Then suddenly the atmosphere changed. Jesus had stopped. Jesus had heard. Jesus had noticed this voice calling from the roadside. And Jesus said, “Call him.” I was curious. Jesus did not come over to where we were sitting, nor did he call out to Barty directly, rather he spoke to the crowd, telling them to call Barty. Wow! Can you imagine that! These people who one moment were berating and scolding Barty, now were encouraging and reassuring him and inviting him to approach Jesus. Mind you, Barty needed no encouragement. Much to my astonishment he threw to the side his begging cloak, leapt up and headed for Jesus.
As he approached, Jesus said to him, “What do you want?” I was astounded! To this day, no one had asked my son that question. Everyone had either assumed they knew what Barty wanted, dropping a few coins or some leftover food onto his begging cloak, or else disregarded him altogether. But now Jesus actually asked, “What do you want?” Jesus wanted to hear from Barty about his deepest desires. I held my breath, wondering what Barty would say. His reply, “I want to see again!” As simple as that. And for the first time in decades Barty could see. Tears welled up in my eyes. It was a miracle. In fact, multiple miracles all at once: Barty could see, Barty had been heard and the crowd both saw and heard my son who had suffered for so many years. For me the biggest miracle of that day was that the crowd had a change of heart. They finally heard, saw and responded with compassion to the cry of the poor. And true to my name, God has answered me.
So let’s pray:
God who hears each silenced cry And opens eyes that cannot see, Help us to hear and see and treasure All who live beyond the reach of our compassion. Teach us to see honour where we now see shame, To see beauty where we now see brokenness, To see frustrated striving where we now see failure and To see a friend where we now see only our own fear. To you who died in shameful, broken, fearful failure, We cry, “We want to see again!” Amen.
Elizabeth Lee has a passion for fostering human connection through deep listening and for being a listening presence among the fringes. Liz lives in Bidjigal Land in South East Sydney. She is a PhD candidate through Pilgrim College at the University of Divinity. In recent times, Liz has had the privilege of offering pastoral care among those living with homelessness. Prior to that she had years of life-giving ministry as a Prison Chaplain. Liz originally trained as a Food Technologist and has had a very varied career as a research scientist, museum curator, health promotion, community development worker and teacher of science and religious education. Liz holds a Masters of Arts (Theology) as well a Bachelor of Science, Graduate Diploma in Education and a Masters of Education. She is married with 3 adult children and 4 grandchildren.
This reflection was first performed at Pitt St Uniting in 2021.
Thank you Elizabeth! May we all see again!