Grumpy
priests
My friend, Imam Ammar Najar, grew up in Jordan. He played
soccer with Christians and Jews, in the street. When someone had to leave for
prayer, the others sat down and waited for a while, then returned to the game.
The town had bells and chants and calls to worship on Friday, and on Saturday,
and on Sunday.
Ammar lived next door to a church that had walls around the
church yard. Sometimes someone would kick the ball over the wall, and that
would be exciting. Someone would have to go retrieve the ball, and the priest
would lean out the window and holler. You had to climb the wall fast, in both
directions!
Grumpy
priest with a stick
My wife’s uncle, Uncle Jim, grew up in Clare, Iowa. It’s
6,396 miles from Amman, Jordan, to Clare. In 1930, the population of Clare was
254, and 12 of them were Cavanaughs. Jim’s oldest brother was Dave, my
father-in-law. The pastor at St. Matthew Catholic Church in Clare was an Irish
import, a crusty old man. When Jim and his friends played in the school yard,
sometimes some fool would hit the ball into the yard around the rectory. Then
someone had to retrieve it. And often, the pastor would see the intrusion, and
lean out the window, hollering, “Come up! Come up, while I beat you with a
stick!” Sometimes the boys would get the ball and get away; but sometimes as
soon as the ball went toward the rectory, they would run for home. That stick
was for real.
Elijah and
the stick
I don’t recall ever hitting anyone with a stick. Maybe I
did, but I don’t recall it, and I doubt I ever did it. But I do remember
vividly the first time I wanted to hit someone with a stick. It was actually
fairly recently, three or four years ago. I was reading every text I could find
in the Old Testament about hospitality, and I was fascinated by the story of
Elijah and the widow who fed him in a town named Zarephath. In his career,
Elijah the bachelor was an odd eater. At the beginning, he lived in the desert
and a raven fed him. But then he moved on to Zarephath. There, at the entrance
to the city, he met a woman, and asked her for water. She started off to get
it, and he called after, adding to his request: please bring me some bread. She
said, I am almost out of food. My plan is to cook the end of my flour and oil,
and then my son and I will die. And Elijah said, feed me first.
Well. Feed me first. I don’t care who he is, I want to hit
him. I want to hit him in the head. In fact, for the first time in my life, to
the best of my recollection, I want to hit someone in the head with a stick.
Feed me first! Dusty grimy dirtball. Who in hell did he think he was?
I can’t hit him; he’s dead and gone. Well, I guess that’s a
little complicated; he’s the one who left in a fiery chariot instead of dying.
And he showed up with Moses to chat with Jesus at the Transfiguration. So he’s not
dead and buried and gone. But he’s unavailable to get hit with a stick.
Anyway, beating prophets is probably a bad idea. It’s an act
with an abundant history, none of it good for the attackers.
And anyway, he wasn’t just being a jerk. He knew she was
going to be okay, knew that he could and would take care of her and her son
until the end of the drought that was killing everyone.
Actually, it was a fascinating meeting. All over Scripture,
you read about God’s special concern for widows and orphans. If you don’t take
care of widows and orphans, you have no understanding whatsoever of God’s love
for his people. But attached to that – not every time, but most times – there’s
a third protected party: strangers. And welcoming strangers, in Scripture, is
not exactly the same as caring for widows and orphans. Care for widows and
orphans is a deep and repeated detail of love for all mankind; but welcoming
strangers is attached to the command to worship. The “stranger” in front of you
may be God, or an angel – or, in this case, a prophet. Love of God and love of
neighbor cannot be separated, but they aren’t identical, and love of God takes
precedence. So perhaps welcoming strangers takes precedence over care for
widows and orphans. And, perhaps, when the widow and orphan met Elijah the
stranger – Elijah the Tishbite sojourner – at the gates of Zarephath, all three
knew that among civilized people, the guest eats first.
Forget the
stick
Let me re-tell the story of Fatima and her son Ammar at Zarephath,
in Syria. Zarephath is in the region of Sidon, northwest of Jordan. This is stick-free
fiction.
Fatima was the beautiful daughter in a proud and ancient
Syrian family. When she was 12, men started fighting over her. But in good
time, she married happily, and her husband was devoted to her. She was very
happy, until a wealthy brute tried again to capture her, and killed her
husband. She refused to submit to her captor, and lived proud and independent
for some years. But when the drought hit, she did not have a network of
support.
Fatima was not afraid of death. Her parents had taught her
well, and she trusted God. She had seen her parents die peacefully and
gracefully. She was nervous when she thought she was going to die soon, because
she had never done it before. Nervous, but not afraid.
When the wild-eyed man come into town from the desert and
asked for water, she was glad to help. In fact, she set off to get water for
him to drink, plus some to cool and clean his dusty feet.
When Elijah asked Fatima for food, it was a very interesting
moment. She was not afraid of death, but she was planning to have one more meal
before she did it. So she went back and looked the man in the eye, and told him
her plan.
And he looked her in the eye, silently for a few moments.
And she remembered what her father had taught her. God loves us, and watches
over us, always. Always walk proudly, because you are beloved by your parents
and your family and your God. And she remembered that her father had also
taught her that strangers come from God. And so she decided that her dignity – the
dignity of her proud nation, and her proud family, and her proud self – meant
that she would always welcome guests properly. Always! So she thought to
herself, “Perhaps the last thing I will do on earth is serve this stranger. I
will do it freely, with all my heart, and offer this service as a sacrifice to
God. And then, having given my all, I will die – my son and I.”
As she decided, she saw love in the stranger’s eyes. Then
Elijah spoke, and said, “Serve me – first.” And Fatima knew that he meant she
would serve someone else second and third and more. She would not die. She was
ready to die – peacefully, as a beloved child, as a cherished wife, as a proud
and independent widow. She was ready: she had given her all to God. She had
offered the sacrifice of hospitality.
She was ready. But it would be delightful to die later.