living within the soil he carefully shaped into planting sod for his young tree. The ram’s horn sounded again. People being called to worship or some new proclamation.
“Do it this way or you are damned.”
“Listen to me or you are out.”
The city was so often in some kind of uproar, he thought. I have important work to do.
He did not hear the voice of the other man at first. His mind, hands, back, and brain were all one motion of devotion and resolve. He wanted to plant the tree.
“Man!” The other fellow stood over him and cried out. “What are you doing there? You need to come to Jerusalem with me right now. Why would you tally here?”
The farmer was reluctantly pulled out of his trance of work and dedication. He looked up and blinked into the bright light, barely able to see the face of the excited intruder.
“Why do I have to come with you to Jerusalem?”
“Why? Haven’t you heard? The Messiah has arrived!”
“I see. But I am planting this sapling right now.”
The visitor took a step closer. His body momentarily blocked the sun and the farmer could see his face and his eyes and what he saw was a good man looking for hope in a bleak world. He saw that loneliness, that yearning to belong to something, to fit in somewhere, to believe in some great power that could turn everything into easy answers.
My visitor does not know the peace of the fields and the wisdom of the skies, he thought. He is not running to Jerusalem because the ram’s horn is blowing. He is running to find himself because his soul is empty and hurting.
“I understand what you are telling me, my friend,” said the farmer, setting his spade down and slowly standing up. “I have respect. But we have two positions here. You want to go to see a Messiah you don’t know anything about. I want to plant a tree I know everything about.”
“What shall we do?” asked the visitor, his eyes growing a little wild from the predicament presented so calmly by the old man who was digging a hole in the desert.
“Well, there’s a rabbi nearby,” said the farmer. “His tent is just beyond this olive grove. Let’s go ask him what he thinks about our problem. I agree ahead of time to abide by his decision about what you and I should do.”
The other man nodded and they walked together to visit the sage.
The rabbi greeted them and gave them both some water to drink. The three of them sat down in the tent, which was cool and pleasant.
“Rabbi,” began the farmer, “this man tells me I must run with him to Jerusalem immediately. Because of the ram’s horn.”
“Why would you not accompany him?” inquired the rabbi.
The other man interrupted: “He won’t come to see the Messiah! They say the Messiah has arrived. He’d rather finish planting this one little tree in the middle of nowhere. Can you believe it?”
“Believe what, my son?” asked the rabbi. “That the Messiah is waiting in Jerusalem or that this farmer wants to plant his tree?” The rabbi was weary and kind all at once. He had seen and heard a lot of things in his life but seemed quite content in his tent.
“I am confused by your question, Rabbi,” said the man in a hurry to reach the city.
“Then you are beginning to stop and think, my son. That is good.”
The farmer was thinking about his sapling, laying and baking on the hot earth, still unplanted. He spoke: “Rabbi, I have pledged to my friend that I will abide by your judgment on this situation. Perhaps you can direct us.”
The rabbi smiled as he sat and thought for a moment. Then he considered his two visitors with a serene look. There was a twinkle in his eye. He leaned a bit toward the farmer and said, “First plant the tree. It’s more of a sure thing.”
THIS STORY IS TAKEN from an old rabbinic parable and it speaks to the purpose of this book. The early devotions and aspirations of the world’s three major organized religions convey stories and ideas that completely refute the terrifying trend of extremism, violence, and terrorism committed in the name of these traditions. Not one of these traditions was meant to turn its followers into cult members nor have their disciples morph into the slaves of self-proclaimed, often brutal “deliverers.”
This cautionary notice appears in the early Bible: “If a prophet (the term here used as a warning) or a dreamer of dreams arises among you, and if he says, ‘Let us go after other gods,’ which you have not known, ‘and let us serve them,’ you shall not listen to the words of that prophet or that dreamer of dreams.”
At its core, religion is not supposed to tell you what to think; it’s supposed to tell you to think. Within a hundred years of the origin of the sapling story presented above, Jesus pointed to a mulberry tree and challenged his apostles to think of the tree’s grace and power and use the tree as a metaphor for faith. Seven centuries later, Mohammed declared: “If a Muslim plants a seedling or cultivates a field, whenever a bird a human or an animal eats of it, it will be counted as a charity for him.” He is also quoted in Islamic verses as admonishing a fellow cleric who made a bigoted remark while they attended the funeral of a Jew. The Prophet replied, “Was he not a human being?”
The big religions—which loved the Earth, pleaded for social justice, and upheld personal freedom, and, yes, applauded love—appear to have been co-opted by fundamentalists and zealots. Hate crowds the pages of theological manuals, excommunication notices, and fatwās. This is not just recently; the path of religion is drenched with blood and littered with bones. Like a bad dream, we seem to be reliving its most melancholy and medieval travesties; we are living in a world of televised crusades and theological wars. It leaves us sitting in all-but-empty churches listening to useless pieties and waiting in choking, endless security lines filing past digital checkpoints. We are uncomfortable, wary, tired, and jumpy. If it’s not another suicide bomber or civil war atrocity, then it’s the latest scandalized bishop or charismatic preacher or disgraced rabbi. It leaves people like you and me shaking our heads and proclaiming: “I don’t know what to believe!”
And what person of any intelligence, any mercy, and any humility would not be asking this question? We are hardly all atheists; we need faith and caring and some rituals to connect us to our childhood homes, our parents, and our grandparents. We see something in a lit candle—a festive hope or a remembered soul. We find relief in confession; we get comfort and pleasure from holiday meals; we like to feel we can kneel on the earth, on a rug, or on the floor of a pagoda and speak quietly with God. We just want to trust the officers of God’s houses, and we want to make sense of what’s become a skewed scripture.
We don’t want somebody to tell us he or she is a messiah; we’d prefer to discover messianic moments by ourselves.
What of the little guy who can’t keep pace with all the edicts or can’t afford the membership dues or whose son or daughter falls in love with someone from “outside the faith?” All this guy wants is peace and acceptance, and he’s not even dealing with cults or fanatics. He’s dealing with a church or a mosque or a synagogue, and what he is getting is rejection and judgment. For God’s sake, we clergy should be part of the solution, not part of
