Jesus (41 page)

Herod (whose appellation “the Great” is not used by everyone) also expanded the Second Temple in Jerusalem; the stones of the Western Wall, seen by pilgrims today, mark his construction. Indeed, whatever his many sins, Herod was a great builder. Among his largest projects was the city of Caesarea Maritima, on the Mediterranean coast; Herod was the first to use underwater cement to construct a breakwater, which created an immense harbor. (His son Herod Antipas, who succeeded him, was the Herod who questioned Jesus before his execution.)

Even with all that history, I hadn't planned to see Herodium. But when we reached the top of the citadel, I was glad we did. From the rim of the mountain one could peer down into the ruins, which looked suitably Roman (Herod, although Jewish, was a client king controlled by Rome). A courtyard, a cistern, and various baths, including a
caldarium
, a “hot room,” all could be discerned in the colossal stones.

“Oh, good,” said George, “just what we need today. A hot room.”

After walking through the huge, empty underground cisterns and running into a group of boisterous Norwegian students, we set out for Jericho, which, I suspected from scanning the desolate landscape, was nowhere near where we were.

“On the way to Jericho,” said Aziz, back in the comfort of our air-conditioned car, “we shall visit St. George's Monastery.” I flipped through the guidebook.

“What's that?” whispered George.

“It is very beautiful. You will see!” said Aziz. “People come from everywhere to see it. There are still monks there.”

As we drove across the chalky landscape, I opened my guidebook to the description of the Monastery of St. George of Koziba: “Clinging to the steep cliff of the Wadi Qilt above a small garden with olive trees and cypresses, this perfect example of a
MONASTERY IN THE JUDAEAN DESERT
has always been famous for its hospitality, which, from the C6 [sixth century], has also been extended to women.”
³

“Anything named St. George can't be that bad,” said George. “What else does it say?”

Interesting legends attach to the locale. It was the place where Elijah stayed on his way to Sinai (the place, not the monastery obviously) and was tended to by ravens. It was the place where St. Joachim, the father of Mary, was supposed to have wept over his wife's barrenness. (I didn't need Jerome Murphy-O'Connor to pronounce on that legend.)

Then an alarming warning: “Hikers (who do not suffer from vertigo) can reach the monastery by a good path which follows an Herodian aqueduct.” Vertigo? Also: “It is not advisable to leave cars unattended.” Two things I wasn't excited about: vertigo and danger.

Aziz cheerfully remarked, “It is located in the Valley of the Shadow of Death!”

George laughed. “Oh, then I
definitely
want to go.”

Later research would reveal that the location was indeed the traditional Valley of the Shadow of Death mentioned in Psalm 23. I looked out the window at the punishing landscape and could see why. I wondered how anyone in Jesus's day (or ours) could even think about traversing this terrain.

Aziz pulled off the road and parked on a small rise. We emerged, once again into the stunning heat. Climbing to the edge of a rocky lookout, we met three Bedouin men, who stood beside their mangy camel. George and I peered across a deep, dry ravine and saw a minuscule cluster of sand-colored buildings with bright-blue roofs on the opposite side.

“There,” said Aziz, “St. George!”

The Bedouin men asked if we wanted to hire the camel for transport. We declined, foolishly.

We clambered down the steep rocky path and began our walk into the Wadi Qilt. Our very long, very hot walk. A camel laden with tourists passed us, its bells jingling. A man wearing shorts and climbing the other way, uphill, passed us wordlessly, panting loudly. After a few minutes of walking, George and I were bathed in sweat and took long drinks from our rapidly dwindling water bottles. The walls of the ravine were incised with small crosses.

After half an hour, we reached a ramshackle bridge that crossed the ravine. Above us, clinging to the hill like a swallow's nest was St. George of Koziba Monastery, its sandy towers topped with powder-blue domes, in the Greek style. The monastery was destroyed in the seventh century by Persians, restored in the twelfth century by Crusaders, and gradually fell into ruin. The current structure was restored in the late nineteenth century.

After the punishing walk, I expected a hidden gem, an architectural jewel, a gorgeous monastery that would be an aesthetic reward for our pilgrimage. The Greek Orthodox church in Capernaum was such a place: a small space crammed with mosaics, bursting with color and light. But St. George's monastery is a modest one, its chapel small and its artwork simple. After praying in the chapel for a few minutes, peering at some icons and lighting a few candles, we departed.

The trek back was even more grueling, as it was almost all uphill; we stopped several times just to catch our breath. It was the hottest I've ever been in my entire life, and that includes two years in East Africa. At one point I thought George was going to have a heart attack. At another point that I would faint. Between concerns about heart attacks and fainting, I thought of Jesus in the desert, and also how difficult it must have been for him and the disciples to walk from town to town. But later, when we recounted our overheated tale back at the PBI, someone pointed out that Jesus and the disciples probably traveled at night.

At one point George turned around, his face streaming with sweat. “Death . . . march,” he said between breaths.

I wondered aloud if we would go straight to heaven if we died on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land.

“We . . .
better
,” said George.

Back in the car, Aziz said, “Was it not beautiful?”

We nodded between breaths.

After another half hour, we pulled into Jericho, located in the West Bank. Dating back to circa 8000
BC
, it is the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world.

“This better be worth it,” said George.

A
FTER REACHING THE ENTRANCE
to the city, I realized how I had underestimated what it meant for Jesus and his disciples to travel. When the Gospel of Luke describes Jesus journeying from Galilee to Jerusalem and passing through Jericho, the text offers bland comments like, “As he approached Jericho,” or “He entered Jericho and was passing through it.” Not, “Jesus and his disciples walked in the blistering desert heat, over miles of dusty earth, without water. And James and John, the sons of Zebedee, almost fainted.” Then again, maybe they did travel at night, and maybe they were smart enough not to travel in the heat.

Jesus is passing through Jericho—in Judea—because he is on his way to Jerusalem. It is his last trip to Jerusalem. His ministry is now drawing to a close. The town is some twenty miles northeast of Jerusalem, in the Jordan Valley. In Jericho, en route to his crucifixion, he will meet two men. One is poor and one is rich; both seek a kind of healing from Jesus. Matthew, Mark, and Luke all recount the story of the poor, blind man called Bartimaeus, but only Luke tells us the story of the wealthy man, Zacchaeus. The two stories are bright ones, preceding the darkness that awaits Jesus.

Let's begin with Bartimaeus, one of my favorite stories in the New Testament. It was also one of the first Gospel stories I had thought about deeply.

A
S PART OF MY
training as a Jesuit novice, I worked in a hospital for the seriously ill in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Many of the patients—with brain injuries, long-term illnesses, and serious disabilities—had been there for years. My job with the pastoral-care team, which I began only a few weeks after entering the Jesuit novitiate, was to help visit and counsel the patients. Much of the time was spent learning from the other experienced hospital chaplains. It was my first experience in real-life ministry, and I hadn't a clue what to do.

The most enjoyable part of the week was a Bible study class. Every Friday the patients, most in wheelchairs, gathered in a small conference room to talk about a particular Scripture passage. It was the first time I had ever been to anything remotely like that—I had never studied the Bible before—and I found it riveting. One week a former Catholic sister, named Julie, with a wicked thick Boston accent, introduced the week's reading. “Today weah going to read about
Bah
-timaeus,” she said. “From the Aramaic word
Bah
, meaning ‘son of,' and
Timaeus. Bah
-timaeus.”

Julie asked a question: “What would it be like to be like Bartimaeus?” I couldn't imagine what she meant. I'm not blind, I remember thinking. Then she started to “open up” the story. Within a few minutes I felt an almost electric shock of recognition.

Matthew and Mark say that Jesus met the blind man on his way out of Jericho. Well, not quite. Matthew has Jesus meet
two
blind men, who go unnamed; in Mark Jesus meets a blind man named Bartimaeus. Luke says he meets
one
man on the way
in
. Either way, all three Synoptics have Jesus encountering a blind man (or men) sitting by the side of the road, begging. Mark introduces him as “Bartimaeus, son of Timaeus,” a clue that Mark is explaining the original Aramaic name to his Greek-speaking audience.

Beggars were a common sight in Jesus's day. What was uncommon was what Bartimaeus says. When he hears that Jesus of Nazareth is passing by, he cries out, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” Bartimaeus is not asking for money, but something deeper. The blind man also uses Jesus's royal title, which means that he can fully see what few others do. Once again in Mark, the Messianic Secret of Jesus's identity is known to those who “see” better than everyone else, including those who have been with Jesus all along.

Many in the crowd, however, tell the man to be quiet. For me, this part of the story represents all of those who try to keep us from changing, who with their hopelessness and despair and even contempt tell us not to try. It is also the voice of all those who seek to keep the “important people” from hearing the voice of the masses.

But Bartimaeus shouts out even louder (in Greek,
pollō mallon
, “much more”). “Son of David, have mercy on me!” You can feel his desperation, or perhaps his hope.

“Son of David” is a rare title, appearing in no other miracle story in Mark. (And remember there is no infancy narrative in Mark that identifies Jesus as part of David's lineage.) But it makes sense that if the people of the day knew about Jesus's miraculous deeds and heard stories of Jesus's lineage, Bartimaeus would use this appellation. It's also the first time in the Gospel of Mark that Jesus does not rebuke someone not possessed by a demon for revealing his identity.

Then Jesus stops, or in some translations, stands still (Greek:
stas
). He recognizes the poor man sitting by the road. Jesus pauses to notice.

Paula Fitzgerald, a campus minister at John Carroll University in Ohio and a friend from graduate theology studies, once told me how moving she finds the words “Jesus stood still.” The Christian life is often so busy, said Paula, with its emphasis on doing and acting, that it's important to see Jesus being still. Jesus is not so busy that he cannot notice, or be attentive to, Bartimaeus, who has something important to say. Paula likened it to two friends walking side by side when one of them suddenly says something important. The listener may stop so that she can be more attentive. It's important to be active, but sometimes it's essential to be still.

Then Jesus says, “Call him here.” Now the same people who were shushing Bartimaeus say, “Take heart; get up, he is calling you.” There may be some intentional humor here in the portrayal of the fickle crowd: “Sit down!” “Stand up!” Perhaps they were responding to Jesus. His actions invite them to really
see
the man. Or perhaps they were protecting Jesus from being “disturbed.” But now, seeing that Jesus himself wants to see Bartimaeus, they change.

In response to Jesus's call, Bartimaeus throws off his cloak, leaps up, and stands before Jesus. What confidence it must have taken for the blind man to do this! Bartimaeus may have stumbled as he walked to Jesus; perhaps one of the disciples took his hand and guided him.

Jesus asks him, “What do you want me to do for you?”

Bartimaeus says, “My teacher [Mark preserves the Aramaic
Rabbouni
], let me see again.”

Two millennia after the story, Bartimaeus's enthusiasm still leaps off the page. The man shouts out Jesus's royal title, when no one else seems to know. He refuses to let the crowd prevent him from getting close to Jesus. Impetuously, he throws off his cloak and jumps to his feet.

“Go,” says Jesus, “your faith has made you well.” Immediately his sight is restored and he follows Jesus on “the way.”

No physical touch is required for the healing; Jesus's word is sufficient. Now healed, the man becomes a disciple and follows him on “the way,” an ancient way of talking about discipleship. The one who was sitting by the road now joins Jesus along the way. Bartimaeus's immediate response is gratitude and the desire to follow.

Bartimaeus is often seen as a typical disciple of Jesus, or at least a follower—one called by Jesus who then follows him on “the way,” implying that Bartimaeus would now share in the itinerant life of Jesus and the Twelve. But Gerhard Lohfink reminds us that there were many ways of following Jesus and points to people like Martha and Mary (whom we will meet in the next chapter) who remained at home and most likely provided hospitality for Jesus. Lohfink calls these stay-at-home disciples “resident adherents.”
⁴
Also important were “occasional helpers,” people such as Joseph of Arimathea, who crucially helps Jesus and his followers in the wake of the Crucifixion, by begging Pontius Pilate for the body.
⁵
There are many ways of “following.”