Friday, February 11, 2022                                          (today’s lectionary)
To this day
Marc and I had dinner at Biaggi’s. Marc ordered risotto with scallops, I wanted spaghetti and meatballs in the worst way. Marc had a cucumber martini and I drank water, wishing it was wine. Red wine for the peasant. Marc’s food tasted wonderful, his gourmet choice was perfect for the evening. My food submitted to my desire for it. It seemed a little hastily prepared. The meat sauce did not sit on a stove for eight hours, simmering, filling up with flavor, the tomatoes opening slowly and turning into the soft sinews of heaven. Not so much. I brought it home. I will eat it when I’m starving, or my need for spaghetti and meatballs returns again.
I am a peasant at heart. I love liver with bacon and onions and peas and boiled potatoes. I thought the meatballs would satisfy, as did Margaret’s last week. But turns out her meatballs are the best I’ve ever eaten and, well, she doesn’t work at Biaggi’s.
Jeroboam left Jerusalem and the prophet Ahijah met him. The two were alone on the road.
I claim my peasanthood. Do I follow prophet, priest or king? Must I choose? What merit does each choice provide? Jesus filled all three roles. But all three occupations persist, to this day.
The prophet was wearing a new cloak.
Prophets are generally given respect through word service. Priests are bowed to but otherwise ignored. Kings get most of the cred, kings set the rules, hire the police and pay them with the taxes the police collect from the rest of us. Kings call themselves benevolent, but sometimes their benevolence feels so unutterably Roman: “They made a desert and called it peace.”
Ahijah tore his new cloak into twelve pieces. “Take ten pieces, Jeroboam. The Lord will tear the kingdom away from Solomon and give you ten of the tribes. And Israel went into rebellion against David’s house of Judah, to this day.
Jesus brought a new word, a new sacrifice and a new rule. The priests mistook him for a false prophet, the prophets wanted him to lead their army, and the king tried to kill him. His new world, his kingdom of heaven, his voice from God led him away from the city into the country, into the villages, into the homes of the peasants. Perhaps he often ate spaghetti and meatballs. Rarely did he sit down to risotto and scallops. The cucumber martinis went unmade. He drank water, which in his hands often turned into red wine.
Open our hearts, O Lord, to listen to the words of your Son.
Healings and rumors of healings caressed the country. Violence and rumors of wars took a back seat for longer than a year, but not so much as five.
People brought a deaf man to Jesus. He also had a speech impediment. Jesus took him off by himself away from the crowd. Jesus put his finger into the man’s ears and he spit on his fingers and touched his tongue.
Painting the scene, I would put a man or woman or child behind every tree, behind every wave of grass, climbing into hanging branches to get a better look. “Look, he is spitting on his fingers! Look, he is putting his fingers into old Josef’s ears! Look, their smiles are as wide as the Jordan River! Look, look, look!”
Jesus looked up to heaven and groaned, and said, “Ephphatha!” which unless you speak Aramaic you would not understand, but it means, “Be opened!” And immediately the man’s ears were opened and he also spoke plainly, and everyone could understand him.
There was joy in Mudville!
All were exceedingly astonished. They said to each other, “This man has done all thins well. He makes the deaf hear and the mute speak.”
Don’t tell a soul, Jesus warned. But they couldn’t help themselves. They told everyone they saw. And among us peasants, Jesus’ reputation for love and healing preceded him everywhere, to this day.
(Watercolor by James Tissot, “Jesus guerit un possede muet,” 1886-1898, at the Brooklyn Museum)
(1 Kings 11, Psalm 81, Acts 16, Mark 7)
(posted at www.davesandel.net)
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