Ascent of Boaz
Someone will get a picture of this morning’s sky that my iPhone simply will not capture, but I have better than any photo, viewing the crescent moon against black velvet, Venus beside it nearly in conjunction, Jupiter hanging above the moon, and Mars somewhere dimly in the mix.
From horizon to horizon, our little speck of Creation is such a wonder to behold that I can hardly imagine what all else is out there.
Our old time Sunday School story for tomorrow is the bawdy tale from Ruth, edited to qualify for a G rating so it can be read before the Children leave.
Following Naomi’s instructions, Ruth goes to the threshing room floor where the men of the village are gathered for the annual barley harvest debauchery of wine, women and song. Nobody likes to give up a party, so I can’t help but wonder if, like Halloween and Christmas christened with new names, it wasn’t a fall festival holdover from pagan times. Anyway, in the excitement on the threshing room floor, the lights are out so everyone is anonymous when the ladies of the gleaning swarm in for the evening. Ruth uncovers the nudge, wink, wink, “feet” wink, chortle, snicker, of Boaz and snuggles up. The next day, according to divine will and the wiles of women, Ruth is pregnant and Boaz does the right thing.
The framers of our lectionary thought they did a great job of veiling that lusty evening’s activities beyond our imagination, but just in case we don’t “get it,” this is what they subtly give us for a responsive psalm. Get this —
Psalm 127. A Song of Ascents.
Unless the Lord builds the house,
those who build it labor in vain.
Unless the Lord watches over the city,
the watchman stays awake in vain.
It is in vain that you rise up early and go late to rest,
eating the bread of anxious toil;
for he gives to his beloved sleep.
Lo, sons are a heritage from the Lord,
the fruit of the womb a reward.
Like arrows in the hand of a warrior
are the sons of one’s youth.
Happy is the man who has
his quiver full of them!
He shall not be put to shame
when he speaks with his enemies in the gate.
Shades of Anthony Trollope. Light now, moon and stars gone. Last evening fish littered the beach below, dead from the Red Tide, they also are gone now, washed out by the tide. And the Red Tide organisms in the air aren’t suffocating this morning, last night I couldn’t stay out without coughing.
At any event, there’s tomorrow’s story, isn’t it: Lights Out: Boaz’s Big Night on the Threshing Room Floor. One can tell we are starting to think about Christmas, because the fruit of that night of revelry between Ruth and Boaz was Obed, the father of Jesse, the father of David of whom we soon shall hear “… for he was of the house and lineage of David.”
Thos+