if i could I would break into flower
if i could i would no longer be barren
Prayer: Lord, may the words of my lips and the meditations of all our hearts bear the fruit of your kingdom, be it a hundred, sixty or thirty-fold. Amen.
Shall we have a story?
I know I’m dying. Well, I’m getting older, at least. My feet are more coarse, yet these dirt paths give me more trouble… My sisters and brothers, though, they support me. And I think I’m okay with dying.
Well, who can ever say they are okay with their own death?
Still, though, sometimes a peace settles over me. And in those moments, I at least feel okay with the idea that I will die.
And in those moments of peace that surpass my understanding or need, I think back over my life…
And, it is funny what comes to you; what memories are clear and vivid and what memories just fall away.
I remember that day on the beach. I was much younger then, full of getup and ambition; a new tax-collector.
My sister dragged me there. There was some new rabbi she was talking on and on about. This was usual of Joanna, she was always follow some miracle worker or another. That sort of thing had never been for me.
Not only was Joanna always following one or another of these rabbis; she was always too worried about me.
We were always so different, Joanna and I. I still think of her, I think of her often.
Walking to the beach she told me about this Jesus. I didn’t have to listen to her for long to get the picture. Jesus was another Judean talking about God’s reign, and some people thought he might be the messiah.
A fine way to get crucified, I thought.
Still, you know how it is. Joanna was my sister. I loved her, and so I went.
She loved me, and so she dragged me along. She wasn’t foolish, though. She knew we were different, too.
She knew I was hanging out with a much different crowd. Although family meant everything, we might as well have been part of different families. Hanging out with those Romans and other collectors, even that early on it was becoming clear Joanna and I couldn’t have really stayed family.
I remember Joanna, and if I saw her after the day on that beach, it wasn’t much after that, that my path took me far from her. Yes, I remember her, how tenderhearted she always was. And I remember myself in those days, nearly another man. Lured by mammon, I must admit…
Well, why she dragged me to that beach, or why I went, I’ll never know. It was no surprise that the story of that foolish day laborer working hard for some other owner didn’t stir my heart.
After all, my father worked by the sweat of his brow every day of his life for some other Roman who owned our family land because he couldn’t pay back that loan.
When I was only a boy I had already decided I wouldn’t work on that farm and make another man rich. Sure being a tax-collector meant working for the Romans, but at least I’d finally be part of the taking from, rather than losing. Sure it meant falling out of the community I was raised in, but I guess that didn’t matter to me then.
No that story of Jesus’ didn’t stir my heart.
Still, though, isn’t it funny how I remember that day so clearly?
And I can remember all those lures of wealth. All the good people I cheated denarii from. It was almost as if I was actually part of another family. Eventually I realized I would never see Joanna again. We grew apart, needless to say. Part of different families in the end, I guess.
And I remember that day when I realized those Romans, those other collectors, had never consider me family either. I don’t care to talk about what happened, let’s just say I remember that too. Those men I lived with weren’t my family, and my own kin wasn’t either.
On top of all that, I could hardly go back to my community, with all the people there I took denarii that wasn’t mine from. Those people I drove into poverty charging them more and more on their loans, just so I could put more denarii in my purse.
Well, when you have no family denarii can’t really comfort you. When you’re alone, you’re alone. I was an orphan.
I guess I got to thinking then. Got this feeling I could use one of those rabbis my sister was always talking about.
I don’t remember being told that Jesus had been crucified. I do, though, remembering thinking how typical it was of my life. Not only was the only rabbi I could think of another terrorist of Rome, but I was too late to start following him anyway.
It felt characteristic; just another day late to finally try to do the right thing. Sad story of the orphan I was.
Well, even though Antioch is a big city, word still got around about me asking for Jesus. I guess I had become a little infamous…
I remember that day in the marketplace. A man I’d never seen, Jude invited me to an early morning gathering of people coming together to sing hymns and worship that Jesus. Well, a mystery cult didn’t sound like much fun to me, but I was alone, where else did I have to go?
I heard they all brought food. I remember waking up early, before everyone went to work. I remember the sunrise that seventh day of the week, the gold of the sun falling over the city. I remember walking to the edge of town, the streets didn’t bother my feet back then. I can still even remember the weight of the bread I had brought the night before under my arm.
I remember when that hope left my guts, too. That sad story of my orphan life. Walking to their gathering, hearing their hymns, feeling my spirits lifted: It didn’t take me long to pick out at least five people I cheated out of denarii.
I couldn’t go in. It’d be too shameful.
Plus, I’d just be turned away.
Well, Jude kept inviting me, and I kept giving excuses. I remember Jude, too.
Finally one morning he said he was going to meet me at my apartment to make sure I went.
I remember not being able to fall asleep, spending that night preparing myself for the hot shame that would come when those men I had cheated would recognize me.
I remember the only condolence I could think of then; at least I’d finally have an excuse to give good old Jude, so he would stop bothering me.
Now I almost feel like I am a stranger to that man I was then.
I remember going back to their gathering, those women and men worshiping. I remember the shock too…
Not only did those I cheated not make me leave, they greeted me in the peace of that Jesus.
That surprise, surprise matched only by my joy; those hot tears on my face, I will never forget that. I remember that morning.
Like I said, it is funny what you remember.
I remember finding out these women and men sold everything they had, and shared it all with one another. Mammon didn’t matter to them. And I remember all that denarii in my purse were like hot ashes in my mouth.
The lures of that wealth had left me an orphan, and here these women and men, my sisters and brother, had nothing of their own, yet they had peace enough to welcome a man like me into their family.
I don’t suppose it surprises you to find out that I gave all my denarii away too, began living with them. I don’t remember giving it away either; not really, anyway.
It’s funny. I don’t remember what I spent my denarii on, but I remember that day on the beach. I remember the wind in Joanna’s hair. And I remember, I remember this often, the light in Jesus’ eye. I don’t know, I guess I’ll never forget that.
And, I do remember Jesus’ story, but I would be lying to you if I told you I knew what the heck it was about, with birds and dirt and seeds.
I’ve asked my sisters and brothers here if they were there on the beach that day. Well, some were and some weren’t.
They tell me it was a parable, a parable about women and men like me.
I guess in that parable most of my sisters and brothers were the soil that those seeds landed on, they are the soil that bore good fruit, some even a hundredfold. Honestly, it isn’t hard to think of them bearing so much fruit.
I know I don’t feel like that good soil. If anything, when I think about who I was as that young tax collector and the hands I placed on my brothers to take their denarii, I honestly feel like the thorns in that story. Yes, if I anything I am thorns chocking out good fruit…
That grieves me, but honestly I don’t think of it much anymore. And I admit, I didn’t know Jesus as well as I wish I had, but I think he left something out of that fine parable of his. He forgot to tell us that some of those seeds did sprout admits thorns like me, and somehow their fruit was grafted into those previously barren thorns.
But bearing fruit and making more and more doesn’t matter to me much anymore. I suppose if that young tax collector I was could see me now he’d probably think me a fool. And maybe I am. I guess I don’t care much. I don’t think of that anymore, gaining and more and more.
I spend more time remember my sister’s hand pulling me along the path to the beach, Jesus’ eyes, the wind over the blue sea, his boat gently rocking, that day I was offered peace in the name of that same Jesus from a man I cheated denarii from.
I remember all that, and I am not sure what else really matters.
I am tired now; I’d take a nap but I hear my sisters and brothers singing hymns, I think I’ll join them.
Amen.
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