A WOMAN'S BRIEFS #4 SOMETIMES, HUNGER CAN HELP

I meant today to write about the word “Must,” but I must have seen, heard, or read something to distract me. That’s what these “Briefs” are — the posting of thoughts that flit through my mind, and unless grabbed and forced to a page, quickly fly away.  This one landed, folded its wings, and said, see if you can capture me. I’m trying.

We followers of Jesus, we who cherish a book compiled centuries ago; we who, with no sense of sorrow, borrowed and failed to return sacred books belonging to Jews; we who read their stories with an eraser in one hand and an editing pencil in the other, we who quote our own scholars whose agreement, as N.T.Wright quipped, “is about as rare as snow in June,” we are members of a large family divided at dinnertime, church-time, perhaps all time, by demands of special diets.

Like many families separated by specific tastes, we run the risk of having never shared a meal but with our own kind, chewing on the familiar. Oh, right, we are not alone. Find finicky families, mouths full, fussing over such things as arts, music, science, education, health, politics, race, religion, gender, wealth, rights, daylight savings, the value of crows, and on we go; seated with our own kind.

 When Jesus offered a meal, he frequently (nearly always) broke religious, and therefore, cultural rules. He expanded his table beyond family. He served unfamiliar food. One day, the meal was on a mountain slope where thousands of curious people sat, stood, or squatted, waiting to hear what the man might serve up (an audience size the Rolling Stones might envy). How uncomfortable a situation must it have been (in so many ways)?

Good lord, who knew but that in the crowd there were not only curious Jews, but a Roman or two, Samaritans, Galileans, Judeans, lepers, rabbis, temple guards, priests, prostitutes, zealots, Pharisees, Sadducee, thieves, drunks, at least one hated tax collector, women, befouled babies, shepherds (so what, King David had been one. By the time of Jesus shepherds were social scum); god-only-knows-who all might have been among the 5000 or more drawn to park their behinds on the dirt, waiting to hear this supposed messianic messenger. Some may well have suffered insult to their status. How do you stay significant in a mob made up of have-ers and have-nots; of clean and unclean—morally, hygienically, socially? 

The problem was that the speaker spoke on—and on—and on, and soon the cycle of day was drawing the sun behind peaks, and the people were hungry, and there were no cafes or bodegas around, and there was a long walk back to town, and even the speaker’s sidekicks were a tad ticked. They admitted to thinking a mistake had been made by holding such an assortment of people together for so long a time. Now what?

Well, according to four agreeing gospels, “now what” was achieved by the miraculous provision of food. This is good. But my Brief thought, the flitting one, flew here:

Everyone was hungry, and usually in that first century culture, the priest would never pass a basket of bread to a prostitute. The Roman guard would expect a sword through his side before fish offered from a zealot. A woman with children would be served by a man. One of the speaker’s sidekicks passed the baskets offering food for her and her children. And, I wonder, whose baskets (a favorite basket?) were contributed, shared, maybe never to be returned? Under normal conditions, the sharing of food required the company of the right people, the right rituals, the right posture and placement at table according to earned respect. But this was not a normal condition. These people were hungry, far from their familiar tables.

Nor does the present condition of America feel normal, what with a threatening economic collapse, a cavalier Corvid virus, food lines, the killing of one black man too many, polarized opinions, and crowds of lord-only-knows-what-sorts filling streets and arenas in various forms of protest.

Back to that mountain side my mind flies. We aren’t told how Jesus managed making fish and loaves enough for a motley mob of thousands, but here’s something important (at least to me) about that day: a bunch of “un-a-likes” got drawn together seeking peace, and a desperate situation led those needy people to work together, to swallow some pride, to cooperate.

Maybe when a Roman ran from a pursuing wasp, a zealot saw his humanity and momentarily took his hand off the sword; maybe a crowd-cramped ritually pure priest picked up a toppled toddler for a woman nursing a newborn and soiled his standing; maybe a soft word got uttered in gratitude. Maybe. Look around. We are a diverse mob, we people of the world, we people of particular preferences. Maybe we need to share a meal.