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.

The wise & the foolish (and the lamp of grace)

“…the wise ones replied: No, for there may

not be enough for us and you. Go 

instead...and buy some for yourselves.”

 –Matthew 25: 1-13

The “no” of the wise virgins has always troubled me.  There are (of course) allegorical readings to justify the seeming coldness of their response, to make theological sense out of its apparent heartlessness, but despite all that, it still feels painfully discomforting. In the end, we are still left asking: why?  Why can’t they share their stinking oil? And even more importantly, why would Jesus present us with such an uncomfortable vision of the Kingdom of Heaven? 

A standard way of looking at this parable is this:

 God is the bridegroom and we don’t know when He will come, and like the wise bridesmaids, we are called to be ready when He comes. The oil is read as some element of that preparation: grace, good works, love, faith, etc. The wise virgins have stored up enough of this element, while the foolish have not. And then when the Bridegroom (God) comes those who are prepared enter into the feast (the Kingdom of Heaven?) while those who were not, are left behind, knocking at the door but unrecognized by the Bridegroom.   

                And yet, even in such a reading, that image of the oil that cannot be shared is woefully troubling.  Why can’t the oil be shared?  Why doesn’t the story involve a miraculous abundance of oil? Something like a Hanukah miracle or the story of the widow and Elijah (cf. 1 Kings 17:12-16).  I want to hear that God’s grace is overflowing and inexhaustible. Like the loaves and the fishes.  A kind of multiplication of the oil miracle would have made this a parable of God’s generosity, His overflowing grace that inspires and overflows into acts of grace and faith in all whom it touches.  It overflows from my lamp to yours. And if I give you some, I won’t have to worry “that there may not be enough” for me, because in the economy of grace, there is always enough –pressed down, shaken together and running over (cf. Luke 6:38). But that isn’t the vision Jesus gives us here.  Why?

                One answer could be that the lesson He offers here isn’t about grace or faith, it’s about commitment and preparedness.  And though I can accept that, it feels insufficient to address the discomfort of the wise virgin’s “no.”  Why, then, would Jesus include this detail?  In the end I am still troubled by why the Lord chose to depict the Kingdom of Heaven in this way.  So, what if we try that famous “four-fold” method (literal, allegorical, moral, anagogical), and see where that gets us.

                First, the literal level: based on the story, and on the little historical research I have done, it is highly unlikely that the virgins would have been able to share their oil. The need of the bridesmaid to make sure she had enough oil for what might amount to a long walk with lengthy stops to greet neighbors, receive greetings, and pick-up tacos at the Jack-in-the-Box, would have required that these lamp-carrying virgins come prepared. One scholar pointed out that bringing a lamp without oil would be like us bringing a flashlight with no batteries.

                But allegorically and morally, I still want to ponder: can we share “our” grace?  Can we share with another person the grace we have received?  Or, can a person touched by grace simply light her own lamp and let it shine for all to see?  Is that do-able? Is it grace-ful? And anagogically I wonder: what does this mean about the efficacy of grace.

                Pondering this passage, I am struck by the existential question at the core of it: the foolish virgins ask the wise to share their oil (their grace, their faith, their love, etc) and the wise say they can’t (or won’t).  Which is the most puzzling thing about this story told by a man who could literally turn a handful of fish and a small basket of bread into more than enough food for over 5000 men (not counting women and children).  Why isn’t the point of this story something about the wonders of sharing? Why is it instead a story about not having enough to share?  For me, that question seems to knock at the door that Jesus opens here.  And yet, stepping inside, I must say, I don’t know where it leads. 

Some might say my confusion comes from paying too much attention to a small (unimportant) detail. The story is really just about being ready. Don’t get so distracted by the oil!  But, isn’t this Jesus guy the same guy who said: His Father knows when a sparrow falls to the ground; and even the very hairs of your head are numbered. Clearly, the God He preaches cares about even the littlest details.

 So –what does this little detail mean?  Is it something about our individual existential problem: As Delmore Schwartz wrote: no one can take your bath for you. In other words: perhaps no one can fill my lamp for me.  And that could be the anagogical lesson addressed in this seemingly eschatologically aimed story. Both existentially and eschatologically we have to have our own faith? When I stand before God to be judged, to be recognized as one of His children, God won’t be asking me who my parents were or what schools I attended or how often I went to mass.  Perhaps the eschatological reading of this parable has something to do with how God knows we are His –does our lamp burn? Does it shine its light so that He can see our face and know we are His?  

And yet, why can’t the virgins share their oil? Is it because, I can’t burn your oil in my lamp? I have to have my own. Not because you don’t want to share with me, but because your oil won’t light my lamp. Because your grace won’t illuminate my faith. And your faith won’t shine in my soul.  I have to have my own.  Is that weirdly existential lesson part of the beautiful paradoxical perplexity of this quite troubling parable?   Maybe.

But something else I’ve been wondering lately is this: maybe sometimes the point of the parable isn’t to offer us an easy (or hard) answer. Maybe sometimes the point of the parable is to offer us a question. Something to get us thinking… Food for prayer and contemplation.

God Bless you. If you read this, I am heartily grateful, and know that I pray the Lord’s grace fill your jar and light your lamp.

               

More than many sparrows: a lesson in humor and humility

“…do not be afraid.  You are worth more than many sparrows.”
--Matthew 10:31

How reassuring it is to know that we are worth more than many sparrows. Sparrows, two of which could be purchased for a small coin (a penny); and yet Jesus assures us that we are worth more than many of these and so we don’t need to be afraid.  Is that an example of divine humor? Heavenly irony?  Or was that meant to be seriously reassuring to the apostles.  One has to wonder.

                What I hear in these words is, first: a comic reassurance, and second: a lesson in humility.  Hearing this, can’t you imagine Jesus nodding His head reassuringly, the turn of a sly grin curling the edges of His lips?  “You are worth more than many sparrows…” Yes, we are important to God, and yes God knows every hair on your head; and so, by golly, when things get rough, whether my world seems to be falling apart, or all my magnificent plans and efforts are crashing down around me, I just need to remember: Don’t be afraid. You’re worth more than many sparrows!!  

Of course, that begs the question: Oh, yeah!  How many? At 2 for a penny, we’d have to get up to fifty-one sparrows just to be worth more than a quarter! A hundred-and-one, to be worth more than a half dollar.  You can’t even ride Metro for a half dollar any more.  How is that for a lesson in humility?

Of course, I’m being silly here.  I think it would take at least 250 sparrows just to get from my house to I-10.  And if I needed a transfer –say to get downtown-- that would be another 200 sparrows.  Minimum. And that doesn’t cover return fare.  Plus, at this point, (450 sparrows; questions of aerodynamics arise…) with a harness and some twine you might be able to… never mind. 

Thinking about this passage, and the idea that Jesus might be employing a little humor, I began to realize another lesson we learn from Dante’s Divine Comedy.  The utter absence of humor among the damned.  It isn’t that the souls in Dante’s Hell have no time for humor, but that they make no place for it. The souls in The Inferno take their sin very seriously.  Dante never talks about this; he simply shows it.  As we read the poem and meet the different souls in Hell, what we meet are souls who have lost the ability to laugh at anything.  This is a situation I find myself in on occasion. I am dead set on some plan, some activity or some respite that I am claiming for my own. It is something I deserve. Or it is –for instance, becoming a deacon—my right. My vocation. God’s will for me! I want it and I deserve it.  When I am in that mindset, there is little chance of me laughing at anything that goes even slightly amiss. You might not hear me yell or see me punch the wall, but if my plans go awry, inside I will begin to stew and seethe. And I will be unable to laugh –not just at the situation, but at anything. I will refuse to.  And you know, having been in that situation before, I can tell you –it is Hell.  I grow hard and bitter inside and lose my way.  Because –and I think this is key—I am not important enough!  I want to be not just more important than… anything… at times like that, I want to be MOST important.  And that is exactly what we see lived out in Dante’s Hell.  The souls are all stuck wanting to be MOST important. And none of them can let go of their sin (their ego) long enough to laugh at themselves and their situation.  Sadly I have found myself living that Hell, too many times.  In fact, just now.  I am trying to write this. I want to write this. But, I am the only one awake and our two new kittens are begging for food. So, I stop and give them food. As I am setting it out for them our older cat comes looking for food, too. So, I put food out for him. Thinking, I will get right back to my writing.  But then I notice the kittens have knocked a tote bag on the flood and so I stoop to pick it up. Still thinking I am going right back to writing. But… as I pick it up I discover something is on the bag. One of these critters has peed on the bag and now cat pee is spilling everywhere.  And when I try to pour it into the trash the trash is overflowing and the pee spills down the side of the kitchen trash bin and now it is spread across the floor and over the side of the bin and maybe on the refrigerator and the tile floor to the washing machine and… and instead of getting bck to writing I am mopping the floor with paper towels and Windex.  And when my wonderful kind and always sweet daughter asks me what happened, instead of laughing at it all, I snap and murmur something bitter about cats and pee and tote bags and trash cans and laundry and...  So, yes! For me, this isn’t always easy.  Even when I am meditating on the Heavenly qualities of humility and humor, I can so quickly stumble and slip in the cat pee of my pridefulness, my need to feel MOST IMPORTANT.  And I think that is a very real kind of Hell.   

Clearly, this is a lesson Jesus is still trying to teach me: learn to laugh at yourself. A little humor and humility will go a long way in bringing about the Kingdom of God.  P.S. And –when you do the laundry, make sure to balance your load. Uh, oh. Time to check on that loud knocking coming from the washroom.