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.

Denying yourself and taking up your cross: The 22nd Sunday in Ordinary Times

 

 

“…but whoever wishes to save his life, will lose it…”

--Matthew 16: 21-27

 

The readings for this Sunday are in such strange and perfect harmony that I—for one—feel grateful to whomever it was that arranged the schedule of readings so many years ago.  I believe the plan for mass readings and the revision of lectionary happened quite a long time ago—perhaps the 1970s—but please correct me, or inform me if you know the who and the when of it. But, thank you to whomever did this, and set in motion today’s cycle of readings. They sowed the seed, never knowing what soil would receive it.

 

What caught my attention in these readings was the theme of giving your life to God. And I think the most efficient way for me to address this theme is backwards: starting with the final reading—the Gospel, because I believe that the key to the series is found in the Gospel and that the other 2 readings (and the psalm) are –in some sense—clarifying texts.  One might consider these other 2 readings as forming a pair of lenses through which we more clearly glimpse the truth of the teaching in the Gospel—despite the fact that if our ophthalmologist were to hand us our new glasses with 2 such lenses we might find ourselves mistaking display cases for patients, and bathroom doors for exits, as we stumbled about trying to find our balance.  Hence, even trying on such lenses we must be cautious how we see and how we go.

 

The Gospel for today is Matthew 16: 21-27, and in it we have 2 important lessons. First, Peter’s clumsy attempt to either comfort or correct Our Lord. Immediately after Jesus hints at the fate awaiting Him in Jerusalem, Peter takes Him aside and seems to be trying to place a hand over His mouth, “God forbid, Lord! No such thing will ever happen to you.” (cf. MT 16: 22) To which Jesus responds, “Get behind me, Satan. You are an obstacle to me. You are not thinking as God does, but as human beings do.”

 

And breaking this down, we may find ourselves somewhat sympathetic to Peter’s position. Just a few verses before he was named top dog disciple.  He was renamed “the Rock” upon which Jesus would build His church (cf. Mt. 16:18).  And here –again, just a couple of verses later—he is being referred to as “Satan.” What could this mean? Well, I wonder if it has something to do with the detail of “taking Him aside”? Drawing Jesus to the side and trying to do a little damage control, Peter becomes a tempter. Regardless of any good intentions, Peter is tempting Jesus to soften or even veer away from the difficulties of doing God’s work. And by drawing Jesus aside, he is creating a situation of further temptation—a moment of secrecy, wherein temptation might grow (like mold growing in a dark corner of a damp closet).  This is a vision of how Satan works. Satan draws us into secrecy and hidden opportunities to turn away from the life that God has given us. To soften our commitments or renounce our decisions. Think of the alcoholic or the pornography addict, the gambler or the drug addict. How often does a moment of solitude become a moment of temptation? Or—more likely-- how often does temptation itself lead them to seek a moment of solitude wherein they might surrender to whatever demons is driving their desires.

But Peter is not dispensed with.  He remains the key disciples, despite what has just transpired. In fact, his failing here, prompts one of the most important teachings in all the gospel:

 

Then Jesus said to his disciples,

"Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself,

take up his cross, and follow me.

For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it,

but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it. (Mt. 16: 24-25)

 

In other words, thinking like human beings means playing it safe: clinging to security, valuing comfort, earthly success, pleasures, or even just security (cf. Peter’s aside).  But thinking like God means giving ourselves completely, holding nothing back —regardless of what comes next.

 

That seems pretty clear, but then we remember our glasses and try them on, blinking and squinting through first one lens and then the other. Squinting through lens #2—Paul’s letter to the Romans—we see something interesting taking shape.  It looks like prayer, and yet it isn’t simply someone kneeling in a pew. It’s a figure working at a job, or taking time to help a neighbor, or perhaps turning off the TV, putting down their phone, or shutting off their opera records and getting up to empty the dishwasher. Perhaps even folding the laundry and putting it away. An amorous husband, putting aside his own desires to rub his wife’s feet and sing her a lullaby:

“Goodnight, Irene, goodnight, Irene… I’ll see you in my dreams…”

Through this lens we see that denying ourselves and taking up our cross, isn’t just a “spiritual practice” or a form of self-sacrifice, it becomes our worship—our prayer even.  And this reminds us that our prayer isn’t meant to be just words whispered over a meal or at bedtime, not just ritual for ritual’s sake—not even just a way of forming mental habits, but our prayer is a practice that –in fullness—should change our way of life. See through this lens, I realize: our prayer is our life, and our life is our true prayer.

Okay, so far so good.  But then we have that other lens; what I am calling lens #1. This lens is the reading from Jeremiah. In this bitter, tirade against God, we see the lesson of Christ as if through a prism (to use an ophthalmological image)—the prism of Jeremiah’s experience; his life lived for God.  And what we see is a kind of frightening clarity to the outlines of such a vague and sweetly sounding life.

“You duped me Oh, Lord, and I let myself be duped…
All the day I am an object of laughter, everyone mocks me...”

 

The prophet has denied himself, his own plans, his own choices, his own life and he has taken up his cross, his mission, the mission of proclaiming God’s message to Israel.  And, even though this was a mission from God, given by God to Jeremiah, it has been an utter failure; nothing good has come of it, only derision and reproach. And rejection by God’s people and their leaders. Things are so bad, that Jeremiah considers giving up, turning away, abandoning his mission (and perhaps God as well).   

 

“Even when I say to myself, I will not mention Him;

I will speak in His name no more,

then it becomes like fire burning in my heart,

imprisoned in my bones;

I grow weary holding it in;

I cannot endure it…” (cf. Jeremiah 20:8-9)

 

 One lesson we can pretty clearly derive through this lens is this: Giving your life to God does not assure you of comfort, security, honor or praise. In fact, as Jesus reminds us again and again in the Gospels: it often leads straight toward Calvary and the cross.

 

Which leads me to my last thought:

Today at mass, listening to the readings, I looked up at the wall and saw that I was sitting right under the image of Station VII: Jesus falls a second time. And for some reason, I kept gazing at that image even thought the mass went on—the 1^st reading, the psalm, the 2^nd reading; I stood up as everyone else did for the gospel, but I was still gazing at that image above me: Jesus falling a second time. And I realized: that is the entire message summed up in one image, right there!  Jesus falls a second time.  He is denying Himself and has literally taken up His cross, and the path he trods isn’t easy. He stumbles once and is ridiculed and abused, but He doesn’t give up. He rises, takes up His cross and continues the journey, knowing that He will stumble again (even a third time), but every time He gets back up and takes up the cross again. Never quitting, never turning away from the call to deny Himself, take up His cross and follow God’s call, to walk ever more closely with God. His will to serve His Father, our will to be like Him, to follow Him –that is the worship Paul is describing; that is the way to fulfillment, to becoming like our Lord, our God. When we are hungering for our addictions, we are seeking momentary pleasure or respite; it is ephemeral and passes away. It is, in the end, a moment’s satisfaction that leaves us even hungrier; as if we had drunk saltwater in an effort to slake our thirst. As if sin stirred in our souls an appetite for hunger itself.  And no matter how often we feel sated by a moment’s pleasure, the desperate need returns, the satisfaction fades, the pleasure disappears, that life is like foam from a wave, melting in the sand; there for a moment, then gone. No matter how desperately we try, it is a life we cannot cling to, because it is already lost even before it is gone.

 

Like the psalmist says: my flesh pines, my soul thirsts… for God, for you Oh Lord, my God whom I seek. (cf. Psalm 63).

 

Our flesh, our soul, our very being thirsts for God and only one thing will satisfy that longing. Let go of your safety net, your ego, your broken dreams; lay down the life you hoped for, the life you planned, the life that society keeps telling you will bring honor and success and power, and look around you for the cross that is waiting just for you.  It is there, waiting for you to take it up and find –for the first time, perhaps—you are finally alive.  Yes, you will stumble. Yes, you will fall. Like Peter, like Jeremiah, like Jesus Himself… But that’s okay. Get just get back up and remember one thing: Don’t be afraid. This is what it means to truly be alive! You, me, all of us… Quite literally, we were made for this.

 

 

 

Grasping for things we do not understand; walking in ways we do not know--thoughts on the Wrath of God

“And scarce do we guess the things on earth,

and what is within our grasp we find

with difficulty; but when things are in Heaven

who can search them out?”
–Wisdom 9:13-18

 

Something that I often struggle with is the idea of the “wrath of God.”  And as I read through the book of Jeremiah, it is a phrase that comes up quite a bit. I guess that is true of most of the prophets.  Even the tender-hearted Isaiah, with his beloved “suffering servant” imagery, gets worked up with the wrath of God more than a few times.  The imagery, the language, the concept even of the “wrath of God” is frightening.  The idea of an all-powerful being enraged at something we have done, is pretty fearful.  And yet, I keep going back to the ultimate truth about God, that God is Love.  And knowing that, makes me wonder… Just what exactly is “the wrath of God?”  As the book of Wisdom reminds us, we can barely understand what is within our grasp, but things of Heaven –like the wrath of God—who can search them out?

 

But we can ponder; what makes sense? What could it all mean? As I pray and contemplate over this troubling image, it occurs to me that the wrath of God may not be some divine emotional state, or state of mind, but could be a poetic way of describing something quite different.  What if this language was the human author’s attempt to understand something that was witnessed, an attempt to make sense of it after the fact?  The facts were that Israel kept straying from God, the poor were abused, widows and orphans neglected, foreign gods were honored, priests were corrupt, and the king even worse; then suddenly there were the Babylonians knocking at the gate, slaughtering people, dragging others away into captivity.  If you are supposed to be God’s chosen beloved people, how do you make sense of that? 

 

What happened?  Why didn’t God protect His people, His beloved Jerusalem?

 

Trying to make sense of it, perhaps the easiest explanation is: God is made at us! His wrath has descended upon us like a hurricane! And that must be what it felt like.

 

But the thing that is interesting to me is how often God sends a warning, sends a message to Israel to turn back. To change directions.  The prophets are the best example of that.  They are sent to call God’s people back to the right path.  To change their ways, and act with justice and mercy.  And –it seems to me—that every time the wrath of God comes, it is because God’s people “have refused to listen” (cf. Jer.29:19).  It is the result of the people’s actions, their choices. Their own stubbornness of heart.

 

And so, perhaps God’s wrath (or anger) is not an emotion that overcomes God, the way we might think of a human emotion; something that flashes up suddenly out of rage or frustration.  I wonder if a better way to think of it is as a way of understanding what happens when we turn away from God, from God’s love. Like walking out of the sunlight and into a dark cave. As we walk into the cave, at first there is some light, and we can see the path, the walls, shadows, the edges of rocks. But the further we go into it, the darker it gets. The more confusing it gets. The blinder we become to what is around us… until it is pitch black and we cannot see our way. We cannot find the walls without banging into them.  Outside the cave someone stands calling to us: Don’t go in. Turn around. You’ll get lost.  That is the voice of the prophets.  The darkness within the cave is what we call the wrath of God—but it isn’t a positive thing, an action of God, it is the absence of God. It is what happens to us, in us, when we turn away from God.  I guess what I am saying is, in a sense, that sin is its own punishment. 

Another aspect that we can't forget is: the story of Job.  To Job's friends it looked like Job was suffering from the wrath of God. Retribution or punishment for some sin or some failing.  But, in actuality Job was being invited into a deeper relationship with God.  What seemed like "wrath" was --in some sense-- an invitation.  Gird up your loins, know me better man... to paraphrase the author of Job and the ghost of Christmas present...  I read scripture through the lens of love, always looking for the love of God and how it is being revealed.  That is my lens, and maybe it is a cloudy one.  But it is mine. In case you couldn't tell.

But these are just thoughts about something that truly is too big for me, beyond my grasp. Someone who has a lot more grasp of the Hebrew language and the history of OT scripture is the prophet like scholar Abraham J. Heschel (1907-1972).  His book, The Prophets is an inspiring and thought-provoking study of the OT prophets, that explores such questions as the pathos and the wrath of God and what it means to be a prophet.  (His take on the wrath of God is different from mine, and probably more on target... But, I had to try.)  I highly recommend his book; it is filled with wisdom, insight and an intense sense of the urgency of seeing and bearing witness to the truth.

 

    Lord, open my eyes to Your Word

    that I might read it more clearly;

    Open my ears to Your Word

    that I will hear You more completely,

    and open my heart to Your Word

    that I will be filled with the Love

    that is always found there.

    Amen