Soulful Muse

Oh, wait! I got it. Jesus says, We’re the fish caught on the correct side of the boat. No. We’re all branches to his vine. No. We’re sheep, and he’s our shepherd. No, still. Here it is.

We’re the burning lamp atop a Steinhafel’s table. No, still, still. Silly me, we’re the mustard seed that grows into a humongous tree. Or, are we the clay and he the potter?

Dust! That’s it. We’re dust until he breathed life into us. Oh, wait once again. How could I forget, we’re the Prodigal Son asking for forgiveness. Or, on second thought, are we that small, little man in the tree looking for a glimpse of salvation. Now some of you may be Lazarus, thought dead but alive and well. Or, how about being pregnant at 86, like Elizabeth. Or sadly, sharing your husband as Sarah did.

Should I continue? No, that’s enough. All the characters of our lives are captured in that mystical book we call the Bible. They’re all there for our reflection and application upon our own lives – at different times and in varied situations. All those Biblical people are dead. Oddly enough, or grace-filled enough, those same characters sometimes continue to live within our neighbors, family, friends, and … yes, even within ourselves.

It’s simple to view the “mustard seed” in a second grader receiving the Eucharist for the first time this weekend. Yet, what about the 86-year-olds who also have new seeds to plant during this new chapter in their long book called, “War and Peace?”

I imagined Zacchaeus as a physically very tall and proud man. He only became small and needing to climb a tree because he thought little of people and treated them that same way for his own personal, financial gain.

I definitely know that we are all that unnamed Prodigal Son because his name can be any of ours. We make up a confession and begin to spit it out, but God kills the fatted calf in our honor because he’s forgiven us before we can finish our speech. We admitted our wrongdoing. That’s all that God commands of us. How about the crucifixion, we’ve mostly likely been both thieves, one demanding and the other admitting.

I’ve never understood us being “fish” or “sheep” in the eyes of Jesus. Both creatures are foolish and silly. Yet, both also are committed to community. A union of purpose and spirit. And, both needing a leader. But, I guess, even one fish and a single sheep can get wrapped up in oneself, self-serving, and thoughtless in uncaring and uncharitable ways.

Is this about us? I thought we were talking about fish and sheep? Oh, wait.

It was the unproclaimed center of our family home. Some days, it lit proudly, but most days it contained a soft, quiet glow.

Yes, there were other rooms in our family home but that one, single place encompassed and measured our growing-up years. We sat next to it and listened to the crackles when it was a full blaze. As the years wore on, it provided a soundless flicker that always reminded the five of us that it was still working.

That’s five plus two counting our parents. It was the family fireplace in the kitchen. Why we called it a “family fireplace” escapes me other than to remind the seven of us that it belonged to us all, never one. It was added on when they bought the house to expand the kitchen. A lounge chair was permanently placed parallel to it, and it became designated for our Dad. Nothing territorial about that chair. We’d sit in until he came, but he’d always say, “Stay there, it’s okay.” We gladly got up to provide him his throne, I mean his chair.

Unlike a royal throne no edicts were given or heads lost. The fireplace and his chair was the quiet sanctuary for our cigar smoking Dad. He sat there to let his flavorful smoke rise up the chimney and away from the kitchen. (I still can smell his cigar exhale, sorry Dad.) When sitting there, his words were few. His eyes and smiles spoke his many feelings. Married late, our friends thought we lived with our grandparents so raising five children must have been a challenge.

Us grade school children would share our report cards in front of him, and the fire. Our adolescents years compelled honesty even if we had a different version of the story to tell him. He’d listen. He would listen. (Did I mention, “listening?”) Then, entering adulthood with forming opinions about life and religion, his careful eyes would absorb but not understand our testing beliefs. In religion, his sad eyes would always win about some abandoning the Catholic Church. Around its glowing light was conversations, or more accurately a defense attorney’s opening agrument, with contrite confessions about divorce, wrong jobs, “The love of my life boyfriend doesn’t like me,” the lost religious vocation, the found religious vocation.

Since being an accountant for his professional career the real wood was economically replaced by compressed, synthetic faux wood. Cut into six pieces instead of the whole log, he figured this was a better use of the fireplace. What didn’t change or alter was the quiet presence of this man, holding a cigar and staring out the kitchen window. An affirming smile for the grades, a perplexing look for the pending divorce or wrong job and a downward heartbroken posture for the Church that he truly loved.

Mother was the spokesperson for those two, and we heeded her every word or tried too. His was harder to read because of his silence, but it’s that damn fireplace that captured our attention, every single time. The chair across from him served as both confessional, celebration and just, “How are you, Dad?”

In now my later years, I can picture him staring outside and praying for our benefit without us ever knowing about it. I’m confident that he did. I find myself staring out my window and praying for all those entrusted to my care. I can’t afford a fireplace and don’t smoke cigars, but I suspect that his tree did not fall far from this apple.

To Walter. Thank you for the quiet of your demeanor, thank you for never judging or weighing the five of us. You may have mistaken me for the name of our family cat, but I will never, ever forget the fireplace that placed you, always, within the center of our lives.

“There has to be a reason,” we say about the car accident, being fired, battling cancer or winning the lottery. I’ve never believed in reasons. I like the phrase, “What we do to life and what life does to us.”

It’s not the meaning before something happens but its meaning and application to our lives after. Where God’s finger pokes into our lives is a mystery to all us all. It’s anyone’s guess. The guidance of the Trinity is a no-brainer to Christian believers. I’ll never say at a funeral that God “Called so and so home,” or “God wanted an angel in heaven.” (I think that’s against the law in most states.)

It’s the 153 large fish that caught my eye in this Sunday’s Gospel. I’m not an accountant (I don’t balance my checkbook!) but I know all kind of number games can be played with any number. One author attributes that figure to those blessed by Jesus in the Gospels. You guessed it, 153! Marks gets three, Matthew ups it to forty-seven, Luke wins the door prize with ninety-four and John brings up the rear with a mere nine. “Whew, that’s settled, let’s get on to something else.”

That’s too easy and it’s boring. There’s no mystery when a mystery is solved. The mystery of life is carefully held like a priceless china cup. Meaning and purpose are what propels our lives toward God’s purpose. There’s nothing “reasonable” about our crazy actual/faith life. Many say the reason is to bring us back to God. I disagree. I say it’s all about walking together in the mystery of life, with each other (the Body of Christ), which then leads us to back to God. Sound reasonable to you?