The Moabite

Ruth the Moabitess marries Boaz.
It’s a rare romance in the Bible,
With an end of love, restoration, royalty:
A new child for bitter Naomi to love,
A line that will continue to the Christ.

So the end of Nehemiah reads like a slap:
The Ammonite and Moabite are not to come
Into the congregation of the Lord for ever.
Nehemiah is right: the law of Moses is clear:
Deuteronomy 23, speaking of those peoples:
“Thou shalt not seek their peace nor their prosperity
All thy days for ever.”

And at the end of Ezra, the concurrent story is
That those who had married Moabites
Simply sent their women and children away.
An end of barrenness.
Correct, but bitter.

What am I to do with this?

It is not satisfying to assume that Ruth
Was the only one who converted.
Besides, the prohibition is clearly racially based,
Without regard to faith in the true God.

It is satisfying to say that, by lineage
And story and heart of God,
The story of Ruth is the story that should be told.

And what was happening with Ezra and Nehemiah
May have been what the exigencies of the moment demanded.
They were faithful, and I can trust that God rewarded that.

But we know that the law brings death.

In Ezra, the families wait to be separated, in the rain:
A cold, sad picture of brokenness and failure.
One could say: a picture of life under the law.

The story of Ruth comes during the days when the judges ruled,
A time when every man did that which was right in his own eyes.
And yet, here is this story of harvest and life.
It is such a better story!

Can I read this as a metaphor for the New Testament teaching,
That the law brings death, but walking by the Spirit brings life?
Because that’s the story I choose.

A Joke by Isaiah, Age Ten

What do you call proud winds?

Lest the answer come too quickly,
Let me mention that yesterday,
When I was draining noodles by the open window,
Isaiah said, “Look! All the steam is wafting outside!”

Perhaps that prompted the question of the name of proud winds:

Weather vains.

Three Things

In a college class, the professor asked:
What three things do you value?

I assume the young answered with typical fatuousness,
Music, beer … I wasn’t there, but I can imagine.

And then my friend Ashley listed her three:

Monogamy,
My fertility,
And pretty things.

Fear of Intimacy

We hope for intimacy between spouses.
Can we have it between friends?

The Bible shows the beauty
Of deep friendship between
David and Jonathan,
Describing it:

Your love for me was wonderful,
Better even than the love of women.

I don’t think that was a sexual relationship.
But clearly it was deeply intimate.

Do men have friendships like this with other men?
Some women have their best friends,
And some spouses share camaraderie.
And there might be, sometimes,
Friendships across gender lines.

But for the one who doesn’t identify as straight:
Can she have a close female friend?
Not a sexual partner, but simply a close friend?
What would be the scriptural prohibition?

Can there be space for deepening of relationships
Of all types, perhaps with a little less
Legalistic worry about
Ever riding in a car alone?

I’m all for fleeing sexual immorality.

But I wouldn’t mind increasing in brotherly affection.

Have we thrown out all possibility
Of deep relationship with a large portion of the world?

Unimaginable

A report from a friend:
Terrorists going from house to house.
Asking the children of Christians
If they would renounce their faith.

Every child said no.
Every child beheaded.

The parents left alive.

Should such hardship come here:
May my children stand firm.
May I, too.

Pray for these sisters and brothers.

Birthday Wishes

I suppose it is a measure
Of my childhood contentment
That every year
When it was time to blow out candles
On my birthday cake,
I would waste my wish:

I wish the Care Bears were real.

I had seen the Care Bears once when a young child,
Vaguely knew that “Sunshine Bear” was my favorite.

I had no real desire that they become real,
But since I had no real desire for anything else,
Why not wish for something fanciful,
As a sort of nostalgia for all the birthdays
As far back as I could remember?

What City

Years ago, my uncle mentioned that
A friend had found the city
That most suited her.

The thought gripped me.

At the time, fresh from college
And a bit of travel,
I could not imagine a delight
Greater than living in Florence,
That city of architecture,
Painting, sculpture, church, palace,
Bridges, piazzas, steak.

I thought of it, the world’s largest
Art gallery,
As my city. The city that suited me.

I returned later once, for a week.
Still magical, still beautiful.
But I prefer to visit, not live.
I had children then, and it’s a city,
With graffiti and sirens,
Cacophony of noise, tourists, grime.

This holds true for
San Francisco, Chicago, New York.
Such nice places to visit, and leave again.

For a place to live,
I like where I am. In the middle of history—
All Thomas Jefferson, all the time, but he counts—
Near a small city with brilliant people, fun people,
And a liberal arts university where students study
English, religion, Arabic, sociology, chemistry.

Perhaps there is a place that would suit me more,
Somewhere.
But I’m not looking too hard.