Thomas Kleinert
I Watched It All On My Radio is a song co-written by Don Schlitz and Lionel Cartwright. I didn’t hear it when it was released in 1990; I heard Don sing it one night, downstairs in Fellowship Hall, about the boy who hid a six transistor under his pillow.
When the lights went out and no one could see
Over the airwaves, the world came to me.
It’s a lovely song about the magic of radio, about a boy who went through the stations at night ‘til he found a game, about the sluggers hitting homers and the pitchers throwing smoke:
At the crack of the bat, I knew how far it’d go
And I watched it all on my radio
I loved that song the moment I first heard it: I could see the boy sitting up under the covers of his bed, with the world coming to him so vividly, he watched ballgames and Opry shows from his seat on the very front row.[1]
All the Light We Cannot See isn’t a song; it’ a story about a French girl, Marie-Laure, and a German boy, Werner, whose paths converge during the Second World War in Saint Malo on the coast of Normandie. It’s a story about a cursed diamond, about children growing up during the years of Nazi rule, about fear, and bombs, and kindness, and it’s about the radio and its use as both an instrument of oppression and liberation. When the author, Anthony Doerr was asked what the title, All the Light We Cannot See meant, he said
It’s a reference first and foremost to all the light we literally cannot see: that is, the wavelengths of the electromagnetic spectrum that are beyond the ability of human eyes to detect (radio waves, of course, being the most relevant). It’s also a metaphorical suggestion that there are countless invisible stories still buried within the Second World War — that stories of ordinary children, for example, are a kind of light we do not typically see. Ultimately, the title is intended as a suggestion that we spend too much time focused on only a small slice of the spectrum of possibility.[2]
I watched tv as a kid, but I wouldn’t say I grew up with it. I grew up with radio, and I loved it, still do. And I know I’m biased, but some things are better seen on the radio than on any kind of screen. Hearing the story, say of Moses on Mount Sinai, stirs the imagination and allows you to build a world around the words. But once you’ve seen Charlton Heston with the tablets, it’s hard to see anything else when the story is told; it’s like your imagination has been colonized. I’m glad I haven’t seen Bartimaeus, the movie.
Seeing and not seeing, visibility and invisibility are important themes in the Gospel of Mark. Jesus steps on the scene, declaring, “the time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.”[3] He calls disciples, he heals, he teaches, and he feeds people with his words and with bread. The disciples see it all unfold, they watch, they participate, but they are slow to grasp what they are observing. “Do you have eyes, and fail to see?” Jesus says to them at one point; you can hear the frustration in his voice.[4]
The journey continues. Jesus turns south, following the old road that leads to Jerusalem. In Bethsaida, people bring a blind man to him and beg him to touch him. Mark writes, “Jesus laid his hands on his eyes … and his sight was restored, and he saw everything clearly.”[5] The disciples are slow to understand who Jesus is, and what discipleship is about, and I wonder why Jesus can’t just lay his hands on them, or on us, for that matter, until we see “everything clearly.”
Instead, he continues to Jerusalem and we follow on the way. And he continues to teach about the power of faith and the demands of discipleship; he talks to us about serving one another and being attentive to little ones – but much of the time we find ourselves slipping and stumbling, hardly what we’d call “following.” Remember last week? “What is it you want me to do for you?” Jesus asked James and John, and they responded, “Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.”[6] Jesus speaks of servanthood and loving self-denial, but we dream of greatness, power and privilege.
Now the journey takes us to Jericho, down in the Jordan valley. This is the last stop for travelers and pilgrims on the way to Jerusalem. From here on, it’s uphill all the way. And there, sitting by the roadside, is Bartimaeus, calling out to passersby to have mercy and toss him a coin or two. It’s a pretty good spot, especially before Passover when many pilgrims come to Jerusalem for the holidays. One day around Passover can make up for weeks when most people simply ignore him, when travelers, farmers, and merchants come and go, too busy to pay attention to a beggar.
Every day, he sits by the roadside just outside the city gate, clutching his cloak. By day, he spreads it out in his lap to catch the coins that people toss his way and by night that same cloak is his bed and blanket.
When Bartimaeus hears that Jesus of Nazareth is in the crowd coming up the road, he starts shouting, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” Many in the crowd, including some of us who should know better, tell him to hush and be quiet: Jesus is on his way to Jerusalem, he’s an important man on such an important mission, and he mustn’t be distracted. Children and beggars need to stay quiet and invisible. But Bartimaeus cries out even more loudly, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”
You know, nobody has called him that yet, Son of David. It’s a royal title charged with expectation. It appears the blind man can see and name what no one else so far could, except for Peter who called Jesus Messiah, and he didn’t know what he was saying.[7]
Jesus stops and says, “Call him here.” You know he could have just walked over to the side of the road, but he wants us to be involved in this moment, he wants us to be participants, not merely onlookers. Some of us turn to Bartimaeus and call him, saying, “Take heart; get up, he is calling you.” You notice, don’t you, when they say ‘take heart; get up’ they sound almost like Jesus himself. There’s kindness in their voices, compassion and encouragement, and not a trace of condescension.
And now watch this scene very closely: This blind man who has already shown that he sees more clearly than many of us who have 20/20 vision, this blind man, throwing off his cloak, jumps up and comes to Jesus. You see that cloak? It’s about the same color as the dirt by the side of the road, isn’t it? You notice the patches, and the holes? You wonder why Mark would tell us that detail, don’t you? Why draw our attention to Bartimaeus throwing off his cloak?
When Jesus called Peter, James and John, they left their nets. They were fishermen. When Jesus called Levi, he left his toll station. He was a tax collector. When Jesus called the rich man who had kept every commandment since his youth, the man walked away grieving. The fisherman has nets. The farmer has a plow. The carpenter has an ax and chisel. The rich man has a good-size house, closets full of clothes for all seasons and occasions, a bed with a soft mattress and silky covers. The beggar has his cloak. This old cloak is all he has – it’s his coat, his coin catcher, his shelter, his bed. Bartimaeus does what the rich man found himself unable to do. He throws off what has defined him up to this moment of calling. He sheds his comfort and security, he drops what he owns, he leaves everything and comes to Jesus. And Jesus asks him, “What do you want me to do for you?” — which is exactly the same question he asked James and John. And Bartimaeus asks for his vision to be restored. Bartimaeus wants to see not just a small slice, but the full spectrum of possibility of life. He wants to see the full spectrum of spiritual, social, and material realities made possible when God reigns. That’s why he insisted loudly, against all who wished to silence him, and persistently, against all who wished he’d just stop: he insisted that this fullness of vision, this full depth of life is what Jesus came to open for us. All the light we cannot see.
Sometimes I hear the story of Bartimaeus and it calls me not to close my eyes to the ones sitting by the side of the road, the ones outside the city gates, marginalized, overlooked, rendered invisible. The story calls me to see them, and to turn to them and say, “Take heart; get up; he’s calling you; he’s calling us.”
And sometimes I hear the story of Bartimaeus and it invites me to see myself sitting by the side of the road, clutching my cloak, a blind beggar holding on to his familiar life with all the strength left in him, whispering, “Lord, have mercy.” And Bartimaeus says to me, “Take heart; get up; he hears our cries for mercy; he’s calling you; he’s calling us.”
“What do you want me to do for you?” Jesus asks.
“I want to see all that you want to show me, all of it. I want to see this wounded world through your eyes, and I want to be part of healing it. I want to be with you on the way. I want to see you.”
[1] https://open.spotify.com/track/0grUMpXBnOHYnXem4NlcX8?si=b5c744100ace4e28
[2] https://www.anthonydoerr.com/all-the-light-we-cannot-see
[3] Mark 1:14f
[4] Mark 8:18
[5] Mark 8:25
[6] Mark 10:36
[7] Mark 8:29