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.

Make a straight path--some thoughts on Hebrews 12 (21st Sunday in Ordinary Time)

“So strengthen your drooping hands and your weak
knees. Make straight paths for your feet, that

what is lame may not be disjointed but healed.”

--Hebrews 12:12-13

 

The voice of one crying in the wilderness: make straight the way…  When I hear this phrase, I always think of John the Baptist and the baptism of our Lord (cf. Mk 1:3; MT 3:3, etc).  I always imagine a bony finger pointing toward the desert, or a raging fist shaking against the horizon, and a prophetic cry to clear the way—God is coming!   For me, this image usually comes with locust and honey and a scraggly beard.  But today as I was studying the mass readings for this Sunday (21^st Sunday in Ordinary Time), I suddenly heard something new in the text.  I didn’t hear a warning, or a challenge, I heard a kind of invitation, and a curious note of compassion; concern for the traveler.  And that opened my eyes and my ears to see and hear this image in a new way. A way touched by concern not just for the honor and glory of God, but also for those who struggle with their faith journey, for those who may stumble along the way.

 

Before I go any further, let me say a word about the Letter to the Hebrews.  First, we do not know who the author was, though some have speculated it was written by Paul or one of his followers.  Second, though it is often called the Letter to the Hebrews, scholars now refer to it not as a letter, but as a sermon.  And last, it is one of the most influential “letters” of the New Testament, a powerful influence on both Christian theology and the liturgy of the church.  This is the book that develops the theology of Jesus as high priest, and employs the visionary image of the community of believers as a “cloud of witnesses.” If you have never read it, I highly recommend you set aside a little time and read it through.  It can easily be read in one sitting—probably less than an hour.  You will find it an inspiring book, reverberating in your soul long after you finish; perhaps the rest of your life.

 

I don’t have anything profound to say about this verse, only that I was deeply touched by the way it brought together the prophetic call to make a straight way with the detail of an injury.  It humanized the call for me, and made it personal.  That concern for weak knees and drooping hands, speaks to my heart.  I often feel exhausted in both my faith life and my family life (forget about work).  And so, that call to renew my strength and to be careful and avoid turning a minor injury into something worse, made me stop and think.  This verse, this prophetic cry, it has a real life application.  When we are feeling overwhelmed, weak, exhausted, we need to be careful, to give ourself grace, and let our strength be renewed, so that we can continue our journey.  What I hear in this is good coaching. It is a word of encouragement wrapped around some good advice:  You can do this.  It isn’t going to be easy, but you got this.  Be careful. Pickup your feet, and take it slow and steady. Walk a straight path and you won’t get lost, and it will be easier on your knees. Don’t overdue it or start walking just any which way. That’s how you got hurt in the first place and that’s how you make things worse: you’ll end up disjointed.

 

Yes. But I also hear the coach telling me—this isn’t just about you!  Make a straight path.  Others will follow. You don’t want to lead them into the ditch or out into the wilderness. Just walk the straight path; and know that with every step you take will make it that much easier for the person behind you. That straight path in the wilderness that Isaiah and John the Baptist proclaimed, was a prophecy of the coming of the messiah.  But in the light of Jesus’s life and sacrifice, it becomes a prophetic call to live that path, to become that path of kindness and compassion, to live a life of hope and peace and simplicity and love for your neighbor—even the ones you don’t know or notice. What I am hearing is this: the straight path isn’t a geographic or geometric line, it is a line that runs straight through every human heart. Walk that line. Walk that path with care not just for yourself and your reputation, but with concern and compassion for those that walk with you and those who will come after you.  Make straight the path not just for the sake of your own weak and crackly knees, but for the sake of those who will come later, with their own infirmities and injuries, souls who may find themselves struggling in ways I could never imagine.

 

What I hear most decidedly is a call to clear away every obstacle you can, that those who follow will find a path clear and straight and smooth and paved with love.

Consider the stubborness of Pharaoh

“Pharaoh sent urgently for Moses and Aaron and said:

I have sinned against the Lord your God and against you.

Now forgive my sin, I implore you, just this once, and entreat

The Lord your God to turn this deadly thing away from me.

When Moses left Pharaoh’s presence he prayed to the Lord,

 and the Lord changed the wind into a west wind, very strong,

which carried the locusts away and swept them into the Sea

of Reeds. There was not one locust left in the whole of Egypt.

But the Lord made Pharaoh stubborn, and he did not

let the Israelites go…”  --Exodus 10: 16-20

Boy this Bible reading is kind of tough stuff. I am working my way through Exodus now and coming to the very familiar story of Moses and Pharaoh, I was quite surprised to bump into this verse –a phrase repeated a few times in this story.  What does it mean?  Why would God make Pharaoh “stubborn?”  If, as we are told, God is love –how does making Pharaoh stubborn reveal God’s love?  It is easy to see how it plays out for the Hebrews who receive their freedom and 40 years of wandering.  But consider the stubborn Pharaoh (and all of Egypt); what does he receive? Boils, frogs, locust and the death of his first-born son.  Why does God make the Pharaoh stubborn?

If we assume that God doesn’t literally make Pharaoh stubborn, then we are still left with the question: Why is it in the story? Repeatedly? Starting with God’s assurance to Moses:

“I myself shall make Pharaoh stubborn…” (cf. 7:3)

Even if we assume this is just a story that is trying to explain how the Hebrew people came out of Egypt, we still have to wonder why the ancient author would have chosen to tell it in this way? What is the author telling us about God? And, what is the spiritual or moral lesson that is being imparted?  If Pharaoh is simply an allegorical figure (a symbol of enslavement to sin –for example), we still are left with the fact that God seems to willfully stop Pharaoh from changing his ways.  What does that mean?

To my 21^st century mind, it seems unfair of God to make Pharaoh stubborn. It seems unloving. And so, we might ask, what did it say to the ancient reader? Was there a lesson in Pharaoh’s stubbornness that transcended narrative logic? Or was it a lesson about God’s authority? Was it an assertion that God can make someone do something against their own best interest? Or was it a lesson about how God’s ways are not man’s ways?

I don’t know. But it is perplexing and seems to hold a paradox of some kind at its core. 

If we assume that Holy Scripture is Holy and truly the Word of God then the issue becomes even more complex.  Why would God say such things about Himself?  What is He trying to teach us about Himself and His ways…? And –of course—we may have to ask ourselves whether questions of fairness are meaningful when it comes to God.   And His ways.