Names matter. What we call ourselves – and the words we use to identify things help us navigate the world around us. And as someone who has trouble with names – at least in putting them with your faces – I am painfully aware of how using a name (or not) can influence relationships and conversations, and…well, just about everything.

What we don’t always realize is how names – in many culture – help define the people who carry them. Bartimaeus is one shining example.

In Mark’s gospel, there are a good many individuals who pass through the story anonymously. So when someone is named in this gospel, there is a reason. But first, recognize that this is also an example of two cultures colliding.

Written in Greek, the blind beggar is identified as ‘Bartimaeus, son of Timaeus’ – well and good. But in the language of the land, Bartimaeus is literally understood as ‘son of (bar) Timaeus. The blind man may have had his own name, but the habit in Jewish (and other middle eastern) culture is to identify the children (male children especially) as son of so-and-so. So is Timaeus the important name here?

In my usual search through the biblical background, I find that the word Timaeus is, in Greek, always and only a person’s name. But in the spirit of ‘everything means something,’ one source suggests that the name means “highly prized.” That’s quite lovely – and I think each of us may have gone through a stage of wanting to know what our name means (or where it came from) but the Greek references are, in this case, overly optimistic.

Because Timaeus is the Greek approximation of a Hebrew word – [taw-may]: an adjective which means unclean, polluted, infamous or defiled. And now, I’ve got questions.

This blind man – son of unclean – waits on Jesus, cries out in hope and faith, and is healed – not by Jesus’ touch, but by his clear belief that, upon asking, something wonderful will happen.

This is a story about faith – but not faith as we generally understand it. We usually think of faith as something that comes after a fashion (we teach folks to be faithful – we study the faith to enrich our faith.) Faith for us can be tested, proven, lost and found. But this poor, unfortunate soul – with only a tenuous connection to the community (due to his inherent uncleanness) has within his faith that changes things.

His name – son of unclean – suggests an inheritance of misery. How can he have any faith worth the name? And in his persistence, in his challenge at the side of the road, Jesus recognizes a saving faith that results in restored sight and a desire to join the crowd on their journey to Jerusalem.

His name, while important, does not tell the whole story of his identity. We hear a lot about identity these days, don’t we. Country of origin – preferred pronouns – gender fluidity – the idea of identity is everywhere now…and so it was then. Your culture – your language – your heritage – your origins – these things matter in Jesus’ day. And in this moment, Jesus breaks down one of the big barriers to inclusion: he engages with a man who is unclean in both name and occupation. He opens the door to faithfulness in those who lived outside the circle of faith. A revolutionary thing. A very important ‘Jesus moment.’ The beginnings of a new approach to the public expression of faith and a wider engagement with the glorious mystery of God.

We live in that ongoing, unfolding tradition of engagement. The Christian movement has grown from these explorations of the stories of Jesus. And the church has redefined itself along the way.

Just as ‘Timaeus’ became a name that stood for something treasured or ‘highly prized,’ the Christian church has meant different things in different times.

It was first a ‘faithful reaction’ to the death and resurrection of Jesus. It became the faith of an empire – one that claimed to rule the world. It was divided by language and then by the understanding of how to be faithful (the Roman Church and the Eastern Church soon stood separately) and then the Roman church was challenged.

Faithful folks from within, and curious folks from the fringe of the church, began to ask questions. Like Bartimaeus, some of them posed questions – or hurled accusations – at the leaders and teachers, hoping to have their faith rewarded with a better understanding of God – a more direct experience of the Holy. The barriers were language and powerful people who, convinced it was in the best interest of the institution, kept the mysteries of God closely guarded. The small voices of protest became louder and more insistent. Ultimately, a new tradition emerged – our tradition. The Protestant church.

What’s in a name? the root of our tradition is ‘protest.’ We grew from challenge and (let’s be honest) conflict. Our heritage is full of stories of those who dared to stretch the boundaries of the faith – dared to say “Yes” when the institution had said “No.”