Pay attention--a brief meditation on the readings for 33rd Sunday in Ordinary Time

 

“Learn a lesson from the fig tree…”

--Mark 13:24-32

 

The Lesson of the Fig Tree: thirty-third Sunday in ordinary Times

 

For the past few weeks I have noticed a theme in the readings at mass: the importance of paying attention. It seems to me that regardless of whatever else is going on, Jesus keeps reminding His disciples (and us) to open our eyes—to see!

 

In today’s readings, both the Gospel and the passage from Daniel (12:1-3) speak of fearful signs and earth-shaking events that sound a lot like the end of the world.  The reading from Hebrews (10:11-14, 18) alludes to a final judgement, and the Psalm (16) offers a kind of road map for how to traverse troubling times: Keep your eye on the Lord.

 

But notice that instead of telling His followers to run for cover or to buy generators and stock up on canned goods and self-composting toilets, Jesus offers a very different kind of advice: pay attention. Last week Jesus sat down in the temple area and watched the people, then drew the disciples attention to the action of one particular poor widow. This week’s call to attention takes more of an arboreal approach.

 

“Learn a lesson from the fig tree.

When its branch becomes tender and sprouts leaves,

you know that summer is near. In the same way,

when you see these things happening,

know that he is near, at the gates.”

 

The “He” Jesus speaks of is the Son of Man, a term that would have had messianic and apocalyptic associations for the people of Israel. Daniel uses it to refer to a heavenly figure, perhaps the archangel Michael, who will come and set Israel free from the Babylonian captivity, but when Jesus uses it, He seems to refer to Himself.  But, it is interesting to me that the lesson Jesus gives us here isn’t about how to recognize the actual “Son of Man” (whoever he is), but instead how to recognize that he is near. Already at the gate, even…  The lesson is about noticing things that we might not think matter—like the gift of the poor widow.  As Jesus tells the disciples, her tithe of two or three pennies is worth more than all the money and jewels (or large checks and endowments) the wealthy place in the weekly collection basket.

 

What I hear in this reading is less a warning about bad things that might be coming, and more a reminder to always Pay attention!

 

Watch, listen, learn—God is with you already, nearby, at your side, in fact! Look at the trees, look at the stars, look at the wonder of nature. See it. Feel it. Know it.

 

I am with you always, even unto the end of the earth.

The widow’s mite and the gift of sitting still—A meditation for the 32nd week of Ordinary Time

 

“[Jesus] sat down opposite the treasury and observed

how the crowd put money into the treasury. Many

rich people put in large sums. A poor widow also came

and put in two small coins worth a few cents.

Calling His disciples to Himself, He said to them…”

--Mark 12:41-44

 

This Sunday at mass, I imagine many of us will hear a homily about the gift of a poor woman.  And clearly that is at the heart of the readings this Sunday. The gospel story of the widow whose almost meaningless gift is in fact the greatest—because she gave all that she had.  The Old Testament reading from 1 Kings 17 is about a poor widow dying of hunger, who gives the prophet Elijah the last of her food.  And then the psalm (146) reminds us of God’s generosity –especially to the poor:the hungry, the widow, the orphan, the captive and the stranger, and the reading from Hebrews (9:24-28) reminds us of the completeness of Christ’s gift, holding nothing back, a gift that costs everything and yet was given freely for our salvation. So, without a doubt, anyone focused on the gift of the widow and her mite will be in good company, in fact –as we can read—that is exactly what Jesus focused on.

 

But, going out on a limb here, this week my attention was caught by a different element. Earlier in the week I wrote about the image of God presented in the psalm—an image of tender care and compassion for the lowly and the oppressed. But now I’d like to focus on another image in the Gospel.  Instead of the widow and her coin,  I’ve been pondering what Jesus is doing. And wondering what lesson we might find in that.

 

And so I turn back to those words and ask: what exactly does He do?

 

Not very much. He just sits, and observes. Not exactly the plot of a Bruce Willis movie, I know; but stick with me.   Jesus takes a seat opposite the treasury, and watches as people walk past dropping their gifts (their tithes) into the box. Some rich people give great amounts of money, others not quite as much—and then He sees this one widow who gives only a couple of small coins—worth only a few cents.  And this catches His eye. 

 

And then, what does He do?  He calls the disciples to come hear what He has seen. He sits and He observes, and then He shares.  Let us think about that image, those two actions, for a moment.

 

The image of Jesus sitting down and observing the activity in the temple area may seem like a pointless detail. But, I was struck by it—in part because it reminds me of reading, of study, even daydreaming.  To sit and watch, feels like a very passive thing for Jesus to do, and passivity is not a posture our world tends to regard very highly.  We are a world that honors the doing, more than the observing. We are a world that much more readily honors Martha over Mary.

 

But, for some reason, this week I find something quite compelling in His action (or lack of action), I see an image of contemplation.  When we sit down, settle ourselves for a moment, we make room for something else, even someone else. When we sit down and observe, we begin to notice things, we may even begin to pay attention. In a sense, we allow ourselves to receive whatever gift the world, the universe, God, wants to reveal to us. To sit and observe may look like wasted time, but… in this Gospel it sure seems like Holy work.

 

Now let us look back at the story again. What does Jesus do next?  He calls his disciples and tells them what He has seen.  He sits and observes and then He shares. Observes and bears witness... 

 

He isn’t making up a story, or telling a parable, Jesus is simply telling the apostles what He actually saw, in the real world, right there in front of all their eyes. The disciples may have seen the very same thing, but Jesus draws their attention to what it means—to Him.  He tells them what He saw: the humble act of a passing stranger, and what it means to Him.  

 

What lesson am I drawing from this? To me, the posture of sitting and observing is a lesson about allowing ourselves to receive.  To receive a gift, we have to allow it to be given.  We have to open our hands, our eyes, our ears, and our hearts and accept it—whatever it is.  To sit and observe the world, the people around us, the neighbor jogging past on the street, the clouds drifting in the sky, a blue jay hopping on a branch, is to contemplate the gift of God’s creation. To receive –in some sense—a revelation. When we sit and observe, we allow God to feed us, to feed our spirit, our soul, even our imagination.  And that is a blessing.

 

But what is the natural reaction to receiving a gift?  We want to tell someone about it. We want to share. In a sense, we want to give it away.

 

This image of Christ reminds us to pay attention. Which may seem like such a small thing, but… as Jesus so often points out, sometimes the smallest gifts (even something worth only a few cents—like a mustard seed…) are worth more the most.

 

One last thought:  one of the problems we keep hearing about in our world today is loneliness, and anonymity.  So many people today feel unseen, unheard, unnoticed. They hunger for someone to notice them, for someone to just take a moment and pay attention.  The tiny gift of stopping whatever we are up to and paying attention to even just one person, is worth more than we can imagine.  To let someone know they are seen, noticed, is to let them know that they matter.  Their gift matters.

 

Sometimes the gift we give, is to simply sit and receive.

 

As Jesus reminds us, that humble gift that seems like “nothing” may be the greatest gift we have to give.

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.

The Parable of the Actual: some thoughts on Mark 4 and hearing God's voice in daily life

“Take the fig tree as a parable…”

--Mark 13:28

 

This invitation to “Take the fig tree as a parable…” has planted a seed in my imagination.  What I hear in this verse is Jesus telling His disciples (even today) to look at the world, at the actual and see with new eyes a parable,  a lesson, a glimpse of God’s glory revealed.  And with this in mind, I find myself contemplating the rest of Mark’s gospel through this lens—the actual.

 

First, what is a parable?  A parable is a figurative saying that draws attention to similarities between two things, often quite distinctly different things. There is often a paradox about this comparison that strikes the reader as impossible or not right.  For instance: How could the Kingdom of God be like a mustard seed? Or why would a shepherd leave 99 sheep alone and at risk while going off to search for a single stray?  It doesn’t make sense at first—but then when we let it sink into our prayer, to our soul, to our heart… it begins to reveal a kind of truth we might never have imagined.

 

Let me apply this for a moment to scripture itself: chapter 4 of Mark’s Gospel.  The main body of this chapter involves a series of parables and sayings about the Kingdom of God, interrupted by a lesson about the meaning of the parable of the Sower.  And so, one might say that this chapter seems to be a chapter about parables. Parables for Dummies, so to speak.

 

But it is also interesting to note that this chapter is framed by boats. The chapter begins with Jesus getting into a boat in order to teach the crowd that has gathered.  And ends with the famous scene of Jesus asleep in the boat during a storm.  A chapter about parables ends with a story that feels a little bit like a parable: the disciples frightened by a storm at sea, and their teacher sleeping through it. When they wake Him, Jesus commands the storm to be still, but to the disciples He only says: Do you still have no faith?  (cf. 4:40) Clearly there is a lesson to this little story about a stormy night on the water.  And it seems to have nothing to do with meteorology. 

 

But, maybe it has something to do with boats.  Jesus gets into a boat in order to teach the crowd on the shore.  And then like a farmer scattering seeds, He scatters a few lessons about; tells a story, draws a couple of comparisons between a mustard seed and the Kingdom of God, the mystery of God’s kingdom and the mystery of a sprouting seed, and then He starts emphasizing the need to see, and to hear, to look and to listen, to place your lamp on a lampstand instead of hiding it under a bed.

 

Basically, He seems to be saying: pay attention. 

 

Then, the chapter ends with that brief but very famous scene with the storm at sea; as if that storm and that boat and that sleeping Jesus were the final lesson—a kind of pop quiz, if you will.  Remember—He got into the boat so that He could teach.  And here He is in the boat—still teaching. 

In the story, it seems like the disciples have not yet learned their lesson. Jesus basically dope slaps them with his question about their lack of faith.  But—what about us?  Have we learned anything? 

 

What was the lesson? I think it has something to do with opening our eyes to the mystery of God’s presence all around us.  His grace in the storm and the struggle as well as in the tender moments of healing and joy.

 

When I feel blessed, it is easy to feel like I am in the presence of God. That I am loved. But, when I feel lonely, unwanted or unnoticed, and everything seems to be going wrong—a perfect storm of mistakes and insecurities and fear and anxiety rises up around me; in a moment like that, it is pretty hard to feel God’s love. But, I think Jesus is saying: Look. Listen. Pay attention.  Open your eyes and you will see… open your ears and you will hear—I am there. With you. Always.

 

But, how do we see God’s presence in our daily life? Through the lessons of the parables.  We have to learn how to read our daily life like it was a parable. The parable of the actual. This isn’t just about fig trees and scattered seeds.  It’s also about jammed staplers and flat tires and neighbor’s dogs that bark all night.  I hear God telling me to open my eyes and see, open my ears and listen. The neighbor with the barking dog, might need a friend. The flat tire might be God’s way of asking me to stop rushing about, stop being so independent, and to let other see me struggle, so that they will have the opportunity to stop their rushing about and offer help to an old man who doesn’t even know how to use a crowbar.  As for the jammed stapler—well, sometimes I can take these things too far.

 Take the fig tree as a parable.  Look at the real world, what is actually happening around you.  Is it possible that that is where God is revealing Himself to you? Are you the neighbor who hears the ambulance or fire truck siren and steps outside to see if someone needs help? Or are you the neighbor who notices when a sprinkler is left on and shuts it off to save someone's water bill?  Are you the one who puts bird seed out every morning for the blue jays or are you the one who carries peanuts in your pocket for the squirrels at the park? Do you notice the new people in your life? Do you notice the sadness in the eyes of a stranger? Or the smile on the face of the elderly couple who sit on their porch holding hands every morning? Look at the leaves. Look at the clouds. Look at the brown summer grass. Listen to breeze. Listen to the birds. Listen to your wife (or husband) even when they are telling you the same story for the 31st time.  Look. Listen. And really hear, really see what is really right there before you. The face of God come to meet you on your journey.

Anyway, I am trying to read my life as a kind of parable, the parable of the barking dog, the parable of the one-eyed squirrel, the parable of the lonely husband… whatever is happening, I am trying to focus less on my own reaction, and more on the actual events. And what they might tell me about God’s Kingdom.    

 

Where is God revealing Himself in your life? In a sink of dishes? In a bowl of ice cream? In a cat curled in your lap? In an uncomfortable conversation with your boss. Or in a happy hour beer with a friend. Somewhere in your day, God is calling you: Come, my beloved; come and sit with me… For myself, my hope is that I will stop looking for some mystical sign and just open my eyes to the mystery and the grace all around me.  Even in the moldy head of Romaine that I forgot in the back of the refrigerator.  I pray that for you, too.

 

Lord, open my eyes to Your Word

That I can read it more clearly;

Open my ears to Your Word,

That I can hear Your message more fully;

And open my heart to Your Word

That I will be filled with the Love

That is always found there.