Reading the boring bits--some thoughts on all those cubits, the new temple, and the love of God (in the final chapters of Ezekiel)

 “The Lord is there…”  --Ezekiel 48:35

 I just finished reading Ezekiel and was wondering a bit about all those cubits and all those details about walls and widths and columns and chambers and gates, that whole new temple thing that seem to take up so much of the final chapters of this strange book.  Starting in chapter 40 and through the end of chapter 42 we get all these measurements.  This wall or this gate or this alter is so many cubits by so many cubits, etc etc.  It begins to feel like an architectural plan more than a prophetic book.  Even St. Jerome was troubled by the strangeness of this section.  He hoped readers would not find them “frivolous” but admitted that they made him feel like he was knocking on a locked door[1].  So many specific measurements, it begins to feel overwhelming.  I am certain many readers are tempted to simply skip ahead—to the good stuff!  Why not?  This temple (as described) was never built, and according to many commentators, never intended to be built. It was symbolic; representing to the reader an ideal or a vision of God’s eternal temple. Something like that.  And so, once we get the idea—it’s big and its stately and it’s glorious—why bother with the minor details: like how many inner and outer rooms and how many steps and how many columns, etc. etc?  What’s the point? Because there doesn’t really seem to be one…

 

But, I have to ask the same question—only with a little less exasperation in my voice: What’s the point?   Because I am certain, in God’s word, there always is one.

 

And here is what I would propose: Consider the sparrows.  Are not five of them sold for two pennies and yet not one is forgotten before God. (cf. Luke 12:6 & Matthew 10:29-31). Jesus reminds His disciples again and again that the little things (and the little ones) matter; assuring them that every hair on their head is numbered by God.  In other words: details matter. 

 

But why?

 

I’ve been thinking about that.  I wonder if it has something to do with love? When I first fell in love with my wife, everything she did fascinated me, every opinion she had, every whim, every idea, every song she sang or book she read, every flavor she liked… I wanted to know. I wanted to know whether she liked mustard or ketchup on a hot dog, wanted to know which Beatle she liked better: John or Paul, popcorn with butter or without, The Post or The Chronicle… I hungered to know everything about her. And every little detail mattered. Everything she shared with me—including her preference for ketchup on a hot dog (eek)-- was just one more reason to love her.  And I remembered them.  Because I was in love, every detail mattered.

 

I wonder if –in some way—God isn’t reminding us of that here in this lengthy list of seemingly meaningless measurements and boundaries. Is God reminding us that everything matters. Everything we do, everything we think, all of it matters. Because we matter. Because God loves us, not just collectively, but each and every single one of us individually. He loves us so much that He knows the number of hairs on each and every one of our heads. And, even knows the number that fell out on the bathroom floor this morning.

 

One more thing to note.  The book of Ezekiel ends with these words:

 

“The name of the city in future must be: The Lord is there.”

 

The Lord is there…  In the new Holy City, this symbolic city that Ezekiel describes. The Lord is there.  This city where every detail matters, where every small act is intentional. Where even the measurement of a wall or the height of a step, matters. Everything matters. Because everything and everyone is important—is loved.  The Lord is there—in that place of love.

 

What if we lived that way? What if we rose from bed every morning certain that everything we were going to do that day mattered, not matter how large or small the thing was. Everything from making the coffee to answering the phone, from saying hi to a neighbor, to waving at the UPS guy.  From going for a walk to picking up the trash by the curb.  All of it, each act, each humble little deed of kindness or compassion, done with love and humility… everything matters.  What if we lived with that much love?  What kind of witness would we be for the world?

 

I think if we lived like that, people might look at us and say:  The Lord is there.

 

I guess what I am saying is this: when you are listening to God, pay attention and don’t skip over the boring parts, even in life. Because quite often that is exactly where God is waiting to meet you…

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[1] The Jerome Biblical Commentary 21:84 (Ezekiel 40: 5; p. 363); Prentice Hall, New Jersey, 1968.

Presence and silence—the witness of Job’s friends

 

 

“The friend who holds your hand and says

the wrong thing is made of dearer stuff than

the one who stays away.”

--Barbara Kingsolver

 

“They sat there on the ground beside him

for seven days and seven nights. To Job

they spoke never a word, for they saw

how much he was suffering.” –Job 2:13

 

I’ve been thinking about the importance of presence lately, of just showing up. Just being there.  The willingness to step up to the plate, whether you are a 300 hitter or a .177 hitter, whether you have already struck out the last three times up, or you hit a homerun and 2 doubles; the willingness to go back out there and step into the batter’s box and face whatever the pitcher has in store for you.  There is a kind of courage and hope in just showing up. In that willingness to risk going from hero to heal in just the swing of a bat. Think about it: bases loaded one out, Jose Altuve comes to bat and –sometimes even the greats strike out, or worse--hit into a double play.  But, one of the things that makes them great is their willingness to take the risk, their willingness to just show up.

 

The friend that Barbara Kingsolver describes in the above quotation is like the utility player who shows up every day ready to play.  He knows most nights he won’t even get off the bench, but every once in a while there is that moment when he’s called. And no matter where the coach sends him, he says yes.  Will he make a few errors? Of course. Will he strike out or foul out or bunt into a double play? Yes. It’s gonna happen.  But, he is willing to be that person who says yes, and puts himself out there. If baseball is any reflection of reality, then possibly even ¾ of the time he will “say the wrong thing,” or get an out (in baseball speak). But, every night he will be there. Ready to go. Willing to take the risk, ready to hold somebody’s hand…so to speak.

 

As I read Barbara Kingsolver’s words, I think the point she is making is that it is really about presence.  Being present. Showing up.  The power of someone sitting beside us, silently holding our hand, is immeasurable.  It witnesses to us that we are not alone. In our hour of need, we are not abandoned. And that witness reminds us of something else: that we matter. We matter enough that someone made an effort to come and see us, to come and sit with us; enough that they are willing to give us this portion of their life, this 15 minutes, this half hour or more. They give it to us because they want us to know—we matter.

 

So—just showing up, very important. Heroic even.  But there is something else I want to say about the friend who shows up.  As we cared for my mother-in-law, there were days and days when all we had on our minds was medicine schedules and meal plans: what will fix for lunch or dinner. When is it time for the next dose of morphine or the next dose of anti-nausea meds. What snack should we fix and have ready before hand.   Even simply sitting with her as she napped, everything felt fraught with anxiety and worry. It was exhausting. And when a friend would call or stop by to check on us, there would be the immediate temptation to say: We are fine. Thanks for calling.  Talk to you later.  A temptation to wave away the distraction so we could return to what? Our stress and our anxious  waiting?    That was a habit that it was easy to fall into.   But with time, and the persistence of our friends, something I learned was the healing power of distraction.  A chance to sit with a friend and grieve is invaluable. But, we shouldn’t neglect the importance of a chance to talk about something other than medication schedules and hospice care, a chance to remember that there is more to life than bed sores and bedside toilets. That friend who refuses to leave us to our own devices, that friend who keeps us on the phone or sits with us –even in silence—is often the friend who draws us out of our darkness into the sunlight where we find ourselves laughing about something ridiculous or simply basking in the beauty of a breeze drifting through the leaves. For me, there were friends who showed up and let me moan and unload my struggles, but then stuck around for one more pot of coffee and some silliness that left me smiling and unexpectedly renewed.

 

Laughter, conversation, and company renew us for the work at hand, but it also reminds us there is still a world outside of our suffering, a world beyond the shadows of our sorrow.  

 

That being said, let me turn for a moment to the famous friends of Job.  These guys are famous not for their wisdom or consolation, but for the wrongness of their advice.  In fact, they are the poster boys for bad bedside manner, most famous for blaming the victim.  And yet… they showed up.  They even sat down with Job for 7 days and 7 nights in silence, out of respect for his sorrow.  They were models of presence. Of showing up.  If Kingsolver is right, and I suspect she is, then I wonder how Job felt about these friends afterwards?  Did he resent them for their poor theology? Or did he hold them as dear, because when even his wife was telling him to “Curse God and die…” these guys showed up. And they stayed.  Letting Job know, he mattered.  And that even in his hour of need, he wasn’t alone. I am rereading the Book of Job, and I find something has changed in my view about these friends of his.  Despite the wrongness of their words, I am starting to think: at least they showed up.