Back to the Garden

Joel 2:1-2,12-17
or Isaiah 58:1-12
2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10
Matthew 6:1-6,16-21
Psalm 103 or 103:8-14

Is not this the fast that I choose:
to loose the bonds of injustice,
to undo the thongs of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free,
and to break every yoke?
Is it not to share your bread with the hungry,
and bring the homeless poor into your house;
when you see the naked, to cover them,
and not to hide yourself from your own kin?

Then your light shall break forth like the dawn,
and your healing shall spring up quickly;
your vindicator shall go before you,
the glory of the LORD shall be your rear guard.
Then you shall call, and the LORD will answer;
you shall cry for help, and he will say, Here I am.
If you remove the yoke from among you,
the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil,
if you offer your food to the hungry
and satisfy the needs of the afflicted,
then your light shall rise in the darkness
and your gloom be like the noonday.
The LORD will guide you continually,
and satisfy your needs in parched places,
and make your bones strong;
and you shall be like a watered garden,
like a spring of water,
whose waters never fail.
Your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt;
you shall raise up the foundations of many generations;
you shall be called the repairer of the breach,
the restorer of streets to live in.


Share your bread with the hungry. Bring the homeless poor into your house. When you see the naked, cover them. Don't hide from your own people.

Isaiah isn't asking for much, is he? Just a version of radical generosity that requires us to care nothing for security, sustenance, and comfort. The kind that has us buying clothing and sharing our own food and homes with people in need. This is the kind of call that feels so completely unrealistic that it's easy to dismiss as the product of a different time, or the words of an idealist with no part of himself in the real world. It feels completely impossible to me.

In fact, here's a story to show just how impossible it is.

A few years ago, I was walking on the bike path that winds through our town, and I met a woman who was backpacking across the country. We got to talking, and I said that if she wanted a shower, she could come by our place. She said no to the shower, but said she was looking for a place to camp, if she could use our yard. I said sure, gave her our address, and went on my way. When I got home, I mentioned to Jim that this woman might be coming by, and I was overcome with anxiety: what if she was crazy? What if she was a thief? What if she took me up on that shower after all, and then held me and the children at gunpoint?

But I liked this woman--I had enjoyed our conversation, and she seemed really cool. I knew that the odds were excellent that she was just a woman, backpacking across the country, looking for a place to sleep for the night. But my anxiety at having a complete stranger in our yard was huge. I know that a lot of the stress came from the responsibility I feel to the children, and not putting them in harm's way--if it had just been Jim and me, we probably wouldn't have given it much thought. Or maybe I would have freaked out just as much--because I certainly didn't think it was any big deal when I was inviting her to shower in our house. It was only after, when my imagination started spinning all kinds of dire consequences, that I started to worry. I have a big problem with the unknown.

As it turned out, to my relief, she didn't show up. She asked around, but couldn't find our street. I know this, because I received a postcard a week or two later, thanking me for the offer and explaining that she couldn't find the street, but she didn't want me to think she'd been rude. So basically, I got a thank you note for something I wasn't even able to do. That's some crazy, scary behavior there, right?

So, yeah, bringing the homeless poor into my house? Not likely to happen here. I mean, I know people who have done this, but in my mind, they are exceptions and heroes. We don't live in a culture of that level of openness any more. Maybe we never did. I mean, maybe this was a crazy radical statement even for Isaiah, who, let's remember, was primarily addressing himself to the priests and politicians--the people who had the power to loose the bonds of injustice and let the oppressed go free.

But I have been grappling, lately, with how perfectly ungenerous I am. There are a few people in my life who really are in need. Real, desperate, maybe-not-going-to-eat today need. I help when I feel I can. But I don't always feel I can.

I worry.

I worry that their needs are so big and that I'm so powerless, that the need will just grow to soak up and overwhelm anything I can do to help. I worry that if I help out, I'm just making it easier not to deal with the issues that led to the bad situation they're in. Or that I'm putting our kids' future or our future at risk if I help too much now. I worry about putting a strain on my marriage if I try to help in a way that Jim disagrees with. Sometimes, I worry that I'm being played--and that might be the thing that would bother me the most. I don't want to be anybody's fool.

Fear and worry keep me from doing what is right. They keep me from knowing what right is.

I can hide in perfectionism and modern psychology and tough love and tell myself that this is not my problem, that I need to take care of my family first, that I have a right to enjoy what we've worked hard for. Or I can take a radical leap, and open myself up to being taken advantage of, and recognize that none of the things I'm trying to protect--our money, our home, our children, my life--none of those things have ever really belonged to me anyway.

If there is a God, it all belongs to God. If there is not a God, it all belongs to the universe. Either way, I have no more right to a warm home and a full belly than anyone else on earth. If it comes to my attention that someone else needs what I have, how can I be so cruel to cling to what I have and keep it for my own? I can and I do. Constantly.

But what I'm clinging to is dust. This is the good news of Ash Wednesday. Astronomers and theologians agree on this: we are dust becoming dust. And if everything is dust, what is left to protect? I've been clinging to dust, when I could just as easily let it fly away in the wind.