You can call me Joe

You can call me Joe. Mamma always called me Jonah because she said that was the name she gave me and I should be proud of it, but would you like to be the Jonah in your neighborhood? So, all my friends have called me Joe.

Like so many others in this part of the country, I’m a fruit picker. I work the harvests moving from place to place as the crops come into season. Then I pick until the crop is in, or until things get rotten. I don’t work the clean up, that’s left to the gleaners.

At the end of the day, I take my pay, run into the market place to buy whatever the sellers have left over, fill my wineskin for some nighttime warmth and comfort, and find a safe place for the night with guys I’ve met in the field. Then we eat what we’ve gotten, drink a little wine, listen to and tell some tall stories (maybe a few lies) around the camp fire to pass the time; and then we fall to sleep so that we can get up and start over again the next day.

I know it’s not much, but in these times, with Roman soldiers everywhere and the temple guards running around like they own the place, what choices are there? There are days when I think that the blind and crippled beggars outside the gates of the city have it better than I do. They may not make as much, but they don’t have to sweat like I do either.

Each morning I get up with Mamma’s words ringing in my memory. “Jonah! Get up and go to the great city.” It’s the little family joke—very little. Still, it’s those little family rituals that seem to shape and form us. I wish I could hear her now, but those days are gone. Papi died from sunstroke three years ago, and we buried Mamma last year. My two sisters have married; Mary’s dowry took all that we had. So, each day, or most days, I get up and go into the city, occupied by the Romans and policed by the Temple Guard, find work, and bear witness to the economic realities of the world. In a world of haves and have-nots, I know my place.

This last Friday morning, like so many others, I walked to the city gate to get work. The fig harvest is mostly over, but there is this one landowner, Isaac Barsabbas, who continues to hire. He has a bumper crop this year, and the fruit seems to keep coming; I thought I could maybe get a job there.

There’s always some push and shove when the land owners come for workers, but I’m a big guy, and I look strong, so I had no problem being seen. When Isaac Barsabbas came, I was selected immediately. With fifteen other day-laborers, I jumped into the wagon, and we started out to his estate.

Now, I have to tell you, Barsabbas’s is no small place. There are vineyards and fruit groves, melon patches, and fields of wheat and chick peas. Sheep graze on the hillside behind the main house, and cows graze in the pasture at the foot of the mountain slope. The brush around the stone walls bordering the vineyard, fields, and groves is well managed by goats and donkeys. Chickens strut in the yard around the barn as if they own the place, clucking and crowing disapproval to anyone who interrupts their gravel scratching. From the women’s quarters come the sounds of laughter and shrieks of children at play; and from the main house, servants, richly-robed, come and go. If there is a heaven, it should look like this.

This is, of course, not where we were headed. Our cart rolled by all of this to a far grove where we were met by a steward who stood next to carts of baskets—baskets we would fill and stack; baskets that would feed the people here and baskets to be sent into the market, the same market I would go to at the end of the day.

There I would be privileged to pay for those same figs, so carefully picked and stored, then bruised and broken, with the money I had made. Wow! I am truly blessed by the Lord. It’s almost like paying for the honor of working.

The steward told us to remove our robes and loincloths because he didn’t want us stealing, then pick up a basket and go into the grove to begin our work. We looked a little like Adam walking into the garden of old looking for his fig leaf. As we began the work of picking the fruit, there were the usual jokes about Eve and the serpent in the tree. In affected falsetto voices, workers offered fruit to one another. Some of the fruit did make it into our mouths to break the fast from last night’s supper; but slowly the baskets were filled, and the carts started moving away for the women to preserve and serve the great household of Isaac Barsabbas.

That’s when it happened, or, maybe, that’s when we became aware of it. The steward came into the grove to see how well we were doing. We were used to being told that we were lazy good-for-nothings, that we were slow, and that we were damaging the fruit. It was a means of docking our pay, but we were not prepared for his tirade this morning.

“I was told that you knew how to pick fruit! I was told that you knew your business! I know most of you are lying snakes, but how can you possibly justify your work when you leave the best fruit still hanging on the trees? Even the gleaners can’t gather and eat as much as you are leaving. When you think you are done with these trees, go back and start over again! God knows that the figs that are left are too good for the poor.”

We were angry; we had been working hard and doing a good job. We had picked each tree as clean as possible. We had only left unripe fruit, and, of course, there were the usual windfalls. So, it was a little embarrassing, when we walked back with the steward and looked up at the first trees picked, to discover that, indeed, plump ripe figs hung from every one of the trees.

As we looked, new figs appeared and ripened before our eyes. Some called it a miracle. All I could think was, “This is going to be a long day.” There was no way that we would finish picking before the end of the day now. Fruit was going to spoil.

It was a relief that more workers came just after nine, but the day still looked long. As noontime arrived and sweat glistened on everybody, we paused and realized that we had not picked even a quarter of the figs, and half the day was over. Just after noon more workers arrived, and again at three still more workers came, to get this amazing harvest off the trees and into the drying racks and stewing pots.

We had heard that some wealthy Romans and Herod’s court would be dipping them in honey, but that was beyond our bill of fare. For now, we worked like donkeys under the lash with the carrot of our salary ahead of us. Carts of empty baskets kept arriving. We kept filling them and sending them back to wherever they had come from. We wondered if we would ever get the job finished.

Our arms and shoulders, backs and legs ached. Nectar from the figs covered our bodies. Then, as the heat of the day started to wane, gnats, which are always annoying, and flies, started swarming. The gnats got in our eyes, and the flies started biting, warning of rain to come. Still, the picking continued. Around five, we thought that we might beat the rain, but no one was certain.

With less than an hour to go, more workers arrived, and, finally, we were sure: we were going to make it. As the first drops of rain began to fall, the last tree was picked. We had done it; it was accomplished.

As we waited for our pay, we were told to line up with the last workers first. The steward started paying off the workers, and waves of excited words started washing back over the workers. Those who came in at the end were getting a full-day’s wage. There surely would be bonuses for those of us who had worked all day, but those who came at three got only the usual wage. Those who came at noon also got the regular amount. Soon voices of complaint started chanting, “Justice for the working man! Justice for the working man!”

Servants from the big house came and surrounded the paymaster. Finally, Isaac Barsabbas came and addressed us. As I stood, watching the commotion that was only delaying our payment, I realized that the market was going to be closed before I could get there. “Well, I ate figs throughout the day,” I thought. “I’m not starving.”

I looked to the heavens and shook my fist. “You did it again! It’s just like Ninevah all over again!” I was filled with rage, and my disgust swallowed me up. I took my pay; then washed off with the three pitchers of water allotted me, wrapped my loincloth around me, and put my robe on. As I walked through the rain into the fields of shepherds’ caves to meet up with friends, I was reminded that God’s mercy rains down on the just and the unjust alike. As I reflected on God’s activity in the world, I looked up into the falling drops and said, “If you had asked me first, I would have done it differently!”

When I got to the cave and started to warm, I wondered what I could share. It was then that I discovered, tucked in the folds of my robe, my half-filled wineskin and some bread from yesterday. Warmed by the fire, surrounded by the stories and the laughter of my friends, I started to drift off to sleep. As I drifted, I opined, “…The kingdom of heaven is like, … this. It is enough.”