Bringing in the sheaves --some thoughts on the exile of a bad muffin

 I’ve been thinking about the psalm this week.

 

“Although they go forth weeping, carrying the seed to be sown,

They shall come back rejoicing, carrying their sheaves.”

(Psalm 126)

 

For me, so often, the psalm is like a brief interlude in the middle of Mass. As if the readings (Old Testament, Epistle, Gospel) were what really mattered. Too often, as the psalm is being sung, I either get caught up in the melody or so focused on remembering the refrain that I forget what the to listen to the words. But, this week, I have found myself drawn not to the gospel or the reading from Jeremiah as much as to that beautiful ending of the psalm –even just that final wonderful old familiar, yet strange word: sheaves. Which is a not part of our normal suburban vocabulary. And yet most of us probably know wat it is anyway: a gathering of wheat or grain stems bound together.

 

So many of us probably hear the word and think of someone (usually a preacher or a woman in a bonnet) singing the old hymn,  Bringing in the sheaves.

 

And caught by that single word, I began looking again at the readings for this Sunday, especially  rereading the psalm.  The psalm itself is about returning from exile; it is a psalm extolling the great thing God has done for Israel. But what I found most interesting, most curious, and most ponderable is that sorrowful image of the exile itself, that image of a sower weeping as he goes forth carrying seed to be sown.  And I have been meditating on that image most this week.  And even wondering how it might speak to the other readings.

 

There is an explicit connection to the reading from Jeremiah 31 which speaks of Israel’s return from exile, and even echoes the psalms image of departing in tears.  And a clear metaphorical connection to the Gospel of Mark with its’ story of Bartimeus the blind man crying out for help. Bartimeus is exiled from the world of the seeing by his lack of eyesight.  And when he is healed by Jesus, he follows Him—rejoicing as he walks literally in the presence of God.

 

And then there is that middle reading from the letter to the Hebrews (5:1-6). It tells of a different kind of exile—the exile of being a high priest. The author reminds us that “No one takes this honor upon himself, but only when called by God…” (cf. 5:4), so, in a sense, the high priest is set apart, exiled by the will of God. And yet, this is not a geographical exile, but a spiritual one. The high priest remains in the presence of the community, but is spiritually set apart to offer sacrifice for sins (both theirs and his own).   

 

And all of it calls me back to that image of the mournful sower and his seeds.  And I keep asking myself: why? Why that image? And what about those seeds? 

 

Historically there are tales of enslaved peoples actually carrying seeds with them into exile, as a source of food, or livelihood (woven into their hair or the clothes they wore). But, even that historical fact is ripe for metaphor: though they were dragged from their homes and their lives, a piece of it still came with them; wherever they were taken, they carried a piece of their homeland, and their way of life with them. 

 

But still… that image of the sower and those seeds. It haunts me.  And I keep asking myself why.

 

And I think part of it is this: To be exiled is to be sent somewhere unfamiliar, unknown—not our home, our safe place. To be sent into exile is to become vulnerable, dependent on the grace of God and the kindness of strangers. In exile, I must always ask for help, for permission, for assistance, for mercy. In exile we become kind of like the blind Bartimaeus: vulnerable to the thoughtless or cruel, and dependent on the kind. We become—in a sense—like one of those seeds. Cared for, we could take root and grow, possibly even thrive, but mistreated or cast aside we could just shrivel up, or be ground down and trampled to dust.  But, what does that mean to us today? What might it mean for our daily life?

 

Let me tell a brief story from my week. I have been baking a lot of muffins lately. And some come out perfect and moist and delicious, and others not quite so well; they are dense or not sweet enough, too dry… Well, last week I baked a batch of orange cranberry pecan muffins that just didn’t seem quite up to snuff. They were fine, but disappointing after the previous batch, which a friend referred to as “Herman’s magic muffins.”  And then I baked another… and again—not as good. No magic! In fact, their texture and the blandness of their taste left me feeling kind of depressed. I thought I had done everything the same, thought I had done it all right, but they just weren’t as good. Maybe those magic muffins were just an accident.  And the reality was these: too bland and a little dense, kind of like me.

 

Anyway, I tried again but went back to my basic raisin walnut recipe and those were a little better.  So I bagged a few up to take with me to work (as breakfast for the week) and discovered that I still had some failed cranberry orange muffins leftover in the faculty kitchen.  Why did the sight of those muffins make me so sad? Somehow they seemed a sign of my own frailty, my own failure. I started to throw them away, but realized how wasteful that would be –so I set them out on a plate for others.  Not a selfless act as much as one of desperation—I would say. I needed to be set free from the failure of those muffins! They haunted me—like missing a last second field goal or striking out with bases loaded in the final inning of the world series.

 

Let me remind you—these were not poisoned or tainted in any way, except by my own knowledge that they could have been better! So I put them out for anyone to take, and went off to open the library. Less than an hour later one of our theology teachers came in the library—a man who is fastidious in fashion and food, famous for his own cajun cooking—and as he was passing by he asked me:  Those muffins in the kitchen. Did you bake those?

And I confessed that I did, awaiting what I expected would be a sarcastic comment about nutmeg or molasses or something, but instead he thanked me for them, saying he hadn’t had time for breakfast, adding: Those are delicious.

 

I think that moment was a kind of annunciation moment for me. I had been feeling downhearted, not simply because of the muffins—but because they had become a kind of metaphor for my failure in so many other ways. Failure as a husband, as a father, as a son, as a brother and as a friend.  Failure as a poet, and failure as a person; I was feeling exiled and helpless. Blind to my own worth and perhaps even to my own sin.  And suddenly a figure stands before me announcing that what I thought was my failure, was instead food for his journey. And, that he found it “delicious.”

 

You see—like the Bible so memorably says: The muffin the baker rejected has become the theology teacher’s breakfast!

 

 What I thought was my failure, my worthless offering, a sign of my own fading value, was like a seed that fell to the ground—unnoticed. And yet, unless a seed fall to the earth and die, it remains alone, but if it dies—it will bear much fruit. 

 

Israel, dragged into exile bore the seeds –but not in their hair, not sewn into the garments the exiled people wore –No. In their flesh. They were the seeds. Chosen by God. Scattered and sown in exile, and as they returned they came bearing fruit, bearing the sheaves of God’s blessing.

 

But, we still have that final question: how on earth can we see exile as a kind of blessing? 

 

First, we have to stop thinking of a blessing as something that makes life easier, or more comfortable. What if we started thinking of a blessing as a chance to serve God? As a chance to bear witness to God’s presence, perhaps even allowing ourselves the vulnerability of becoming like Bartimaeus, who –in his exile—is a seed of grace.  The blind Bartimaeus is an opportunity for others, for those who encounter him to serve God, but even more to encounter Him… because as Jesus warns us:

“Whatever you did for the least of these, that you did unto Me.”

 

Feed the hungry, visit the prisoner, clothe the naked, help the sick… The people, the individuals, are the seed. The blessing of exile is found in that seed—not in their suffering, but in the chance that suffering gives to others –to us—to offer help, compassion, love. It isn’t that the cruelties of exile, homelessness, prison, illness, poverty are goods, or even blessings in themselves, but that they are perhaps the soil in which the seed is planted.   

 

And of course most of us will never suffer the kind of exile the psalmist spoke of. And if we are lucky, most of us will never experience the exile of blindness, like Bartimaeus. Our exiles (at least for most of us here in the US) will look more like loneliness, feeling unwanted or unneeded, or a failure, losing our place in a friend group or losing a job, or even losing our favorite pew at church…

 

Like me, your exile may not involve a great deal of discomfort, like me it could even be self-inflicted… in fact it may be as simple as having a bad day, or a bad week, or baking a bad muffin.  But whatever it is, trust that God is nearby—in fact He is right there with you, waiting to use it as an opportunity to reveal the blessing of His love.

Listening and asking them questions... thoughts on the presence of God

 

“Where are you?”

--Genesis 3: 9

 

In the readings for Mass today we heard that profoundly important story of Adam and Eve and the Fall (Genesis 3: 9-15).  The reading begins just after the eating of the forbidden fruit.  God comes into the garden and calls out to Adam, who is hiding from Him.  There is so much that can be said about this simple and relatively brief story, so much truth to be discovered, so much insight into the psychology of sin, of shame, of scapegoating.  Adam hides because he is naked, because he is vulnerable to the view of another—because he is self-conscious and doesn’t want anyone to notice some aspect of his nature, his being (his sin).  When questioned, he tries to obfuscate: tries to deflect attention on himself by shifting it to God’s sudden appearance. “I heard you walking in the garden and hid because I was naked.” As if he has not always been naked, as if that is not the way he has always appeared before God.  Then when questioned further, he shifts the blame to Eve.  But it’s not only her fault; God is still to blame.  “The woman YOU put here with me...” (3:12) is the real problem! And then Eve, who was just thrown under the bus, turns and blames the serpent. It’s not my fault, it was that damned serpent! “The snake tempted me...” (3:14).  Ask yourself, isn’t that still the way sin works? We get tempted, we do something we’re ashamed of, and as soon as someone finds us out we start looking for someone, or something else to blame.  It’s not my fault. It’s the media, it’s the economy, it’s society, my parents, my husband, my wife... My fault (or sin) is never truly mine, but can always be explained away as the result of someone else’s choices or behavior.     

Anytime we are tempted to think of how backwards and unenlightened people used to be, how primitive they were; how they wouldn’t understand the complexities of life today, wouldn’t grasp the psychological or emotional or social ramifications of a particular action or choice---just pause and reread the first few chapters of Genesis.  It’s all there.  Modern psychology and morality have nothing to teach the ancient writers of the Hebrew Bible.

 

But there is one small aspect of this story that I want to ponder for a moment today: the way that God talks with Adam and Eve. It’s a series of questions. The first thing God does is look for Adam. Talk about a theologically profound image. Adam and Eve have disobeyed God’s command and fallen into sin, and instead of abandoning them, or smiting them, God goes looking for them.  Ponder that for a week or two.  But what caught my eye this morning was the questioning.  “Where are you?” God calls out, but why? God is omniscient and knows exactly where every hair on Adam’s head is at every moment, why does He need to ask? He doesn’t... And that, to my ear, is a clue to the reader. God doesn’t need to ask Adam where he is. God doesn’t need to ask who gave the fruit to Adam? God doesn’t even need to ask why Eve ate from the forbidden tree. God knows. So, why does God ask?  Because it is in the very nature of God to invite us into relationship. To ask us questions, and to listen to our answers.  God asks not for His benefit, but for ours. So that we can reveal ourselves to Him. So that we might freely open ourselves entirely to Him, to His love, and to His mercy.

 

Listening to this story today, I suddenly found myself thinking of another image of God asking questions and listening.  It is from the story of Jesus as a child getting lost in Jerusalem. When Mary and Joseph finally find Him, He is sitting among the elders in the temple, “Listening to them and asking questions...” (Luke 2:46).

 

This is how God reaches out to people. He asks questions, and He listens.

 

How much better would the world be today if we all acted the same?  If, instead of trying to blame someone, or shame someone, what if we acted a little more like Jesus? Instead of casting blame or shame, what if we—instead—each began asking more questions and listening to the answers?  

 

We may not agree with what we hear, but we may find that a door has been opened—both in us and in the person we listen to. And we may find that opening that door changes more than opinions, it changes the world.  Because that’s how God works.

 

What do you think?

Mornings on the Porch... God--sanctuary or stumbling block or both?

 

Mornings on the porch

 

“He will be a sanctuary,
a stumbling block...
a snare and a trap...
over which many will stumble
and be broken...”

--Isaiah 8:14-15

 

This is a fascinating image from early in Isaiah, and it seems oddly discordant. In context, it is part of the prophet’s marching orders—his message for Israel and the people of Jerusalem. But what does it mean? How can the same God be both a sanctuary and a stumbling block? A place of safety and a snare –a trap? And why?

 I’m wondering if this message has something to say to us of God’s love and our free will. Perhaps even something about how we might experience a blessing as a stumbling block...  For instance, this morning I woke early—before the sun—and after feeding the cats and setting out my leftover coffee from the night before, I went out to meet the sunrise. I had a wonderful breezy walk around the park, greeted a few neighbors, petted a couple of dogs, but the drifting clouds and the gray sky kept the sunrise hidden. Oh well... At home, I warmed up my coffee and went out on the porch with my record player and put on Ernest Tubb’s Greatest Hits. Listening to his plaintive voice promising to “get along somehow...” I thought about writing a poem or maybe I should be reading my morning Bible chapters or... and then I noticed all the leaves under my chair and around my feet and remembered my promise to my wife the night before that I would sweep the porch in the morning.

 But what about my coffee? I just warmed it up... And what about that poem... If I don't write it, who will? Or all that reading I was wanting to do?  I could always sweep the porch afterwards; after I write or read or drink or make a fresh pot of coffee and a batch of muffins and turn the record over and listen to the other side and... And besides that, there will always be more leaves; didn’t the weather man say it’s supposed to be windy all weekend?  So many “good” reasons to put off that sweeping--at least for a while-- to wait until later...  But... I promised.

And so, instead, I found the broom and got to work—going at it with as much care and skill as a 65 year old poet/librarian can muster. As I worked I found two reactions tussling inside of me.  One was a faint sense of embitterment –fear really—that I was wasting valuable time. I should be doing something important, like writing! Or meditating! Or reading the Bible. Anything but sullenly sweeping up leaves that would only be blown back before lunch!

 But another voice inside me said: You promised. Keep your word. Sweep the porch and listen to the sound of the broom on the concrete and the cries of the birds and the singing of the Texas Troubadours. Let that be your meditation. Let that be your comfort and let it become your poem and your prayer...  Rest in it; in the work and in the peace that comes from doing it. Of being true to yourself and to the one you love. Rest in the grace that flows from serving another, the grace of God’s self-giving love. The love that flows through even the simplest work when done for the sake of another, flows not just out of us, but through us and flows from the original source (and sanctuary) of all Love...

When love calls us, it can be a sanctuary and a comfort, but it can also feel like a snare or a trap. The call of love to die to self, to give up your own plans for the sake of another doesn't change, but how we encounter it... That is up to us.  It’s a choice we all must make. 

To paraphrase Joshua 24... As for me and my porch, I know which one we will choose.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The fourth week of Lent--it's not too late to go to confession

 

“In those days, there was no king in Israel,

and everyone did what was right in his own eyes.”

--Judges 17:6

 

There are two excuses I hear Catholics use when it comes time to go to confession. First is the excuse that they cannot think of what to confess, as far as they can tell they haven’t committed any real sins; i.e. Nothing to see here, so what’s the point? This excuse implies either a willful blindness or a saint-like innocence.  Second is the somewhat more reasonable excuse: What’s the point? I’m just going to sin again.  I will go confess, get absolved, have a good day or two, then fall right back into my old habits. Again, what’s the point?

 

If you are like me and you find yourself falling into both of these camps, spend a little time this Lent reading the Book of Judges.  It is a book of sin and failing, a book of broken promises and wasted opportunities.  It is a book of God’s mercy and man’s repeated efforts to turn (even flee) from it. It is a disheartening book in many ways, but reading it in the midst of Lent it seems a bitter reminder that no matter how hard we try, we cannot escape the power of sin, the weakness of the flesh; that regardless of our efforts, and despite our best intentions, we will stumble and fall again, and again.

 

This is a truth sadly confirmed in my own life; blessed by the grace of God with friends, family, work that I love, a roof over my head, food on the table, a bed to sleep in, I still find myself envying others, still find my eye wandering, appraising, objectifying others—not only lusting in my heart, but envying their gifts, coveting their achievements, bearing false witness against them (at least in my imagination), desiring not only their homes and their lives but even their asses!! In general,  making of my own desires a false god and making of my own stomach an altar for his offerings... And sadly, this is on a good day!

 

Before lunch...

 

But the Book of Judges bears witness to the truth that this is part of the human condition. In Judges we get the story of how God’s chosen people kept straying from God’s will and losing the Promised Land. No matter how many times God rescued them, forgave them, brought them back... they kept turning away from the grace of God’s love and toward the desires of their hearts. We are a people born into a sinful world, and shaped by that world, even the best of us may find ourselves falling into the habit (the excuse) of “doing what is right in his own eyes.”

 

And that is the barrier behind that first excuse: nothing to confess. Many of us may feel we truly have nothing to confess, nothing to ask forgiveness for, because we were always only doing what seemed right at the time, at least in our eyes.  How often every day do we justify and rationalize our choices, for some of us we turn our every desire into a “need,” and our every need into a right. Until we find that we are owed everything we want. As a teenager, I stole a pair of sneakers from a store I worked at. I justified it by telling myself I wasn’t being paid enough. I wasn’t receiving a fair wage! They owed it to me. I convinced myself that stealing those shoes wasn’t a sin, it was my right.  I walked in those shoes for weeks thinking I had nothing to confess.  Because, in my eyes, I had only done what was right.  But clearly—I was wrong, and luckily when I bragged about it to a friend, he set me straight.

 

The other excuse, that going to confession could be pointless because regardless of my intentions ----I’m just going to sin again; that is the truth lurking beneath every chapter of Judges. No matter what God does for them, no matter how often God rescues them, the Israelites stumble into sin again and again.  They set up altars to false gods, they make alliances with pagan kings, they glorify themselves instead of God, celebrating their own power and cleverness and courage until something happens and they realize how helpless they are and once again cry out to God for mercy and help—for a savior.

 

They repent, they get saved, then—after a while—they fall back into their old ways, old habits, their sin.  For me, it is a quite familiar pattern, one I know all too well. And yes, there is some value in facing up to the truth of our story, patterns of behavior that seem to guide us through life—as if a kind of auto-pilot.  Yes, we should be honest about our habits and our weaknesses.  But we mustn’t let ourselves be discouraged. Though we stumble—again and again—we must never fall into despair. 

 

For me, going to confession, isn’t a quick-fix solution to a lifetime of bad habits and half-hearted struggles with sin; it is more like the forming of a new habit.  A habit that will—I hope—one day replace the old ones. A habit of contemplating my choices, my patterns of behavior not with judgment and finger waving, but with honesty and compassion.  Am I addicted to certain pleasures? Have I been self-centered or prideful? Mean-spirited or cold-hearted? How can I change those patterns? Well, the first thing I need to do, the first step in any twelve-step program, is admitting that I need help. And for me, that is what confession is—a chance to come before God and admit that I need help.  That the same sins of lust and avarice and envy and pride that I struggled with in college are still with me.  That fear of want still drives me to dreams of gluttony and greed... And those fears too often drive my every decision.  Bless me Father, for I have sinned... Hello, my name is Herman and I am a sinner...

 

One last word here: the other day, sitting in mass, I looked up for the first time and noticed that the pew we were in was right next to the sixth Station of the Cross: Jesus falls a second time.  Looking at that image, I realized something I had never noticed before: that He fell a second time.  Think of that:  Jesus on His way to the cross, stumbled and fell a second time.  That means He had already fallen once before.  And that He fell again.  And, He got back up again.  He took up His cross and continued on the way to Calvary.  And, I realized something else, that He would fall again. Tradition has it that Jesus fell three times on the way to His death.  Sitting there at the edge of the pew, looking up at that image, I had a kind of epiphany.  Jesus fell a second time. He had already fallen once before and He knew He would fall again.  But He still got back up, took up His cross and, even knowing how it would end, He kept going.

 

The next time you are thinking –what’s the point of going to confession? I’m just going to make the same mistakes, I’m just going to fall again.  Think about that image of Christ, falling under the weight of our sin, a second time... Meditate on that image, and ask yourself if it isn’t time to get back up and try again. 

 

Because we do have a King, a King who took the form of a slave and died on a cross--for us.  Confession is a way of asking myself: What do my choices look like through His eyes?