Rest a while

Schindler’s List was a screen adaptation of a novel by the Australian author Thomas Keneally. The original novel was published under the title Schindler’s’ Ark.

The book, and subsequent film, tell the story of the German industrialist, Oskar Schindler. The story centres around Schindler’s efforts to save over a thousand Polish Jews from the concentration camps during World War II.

Schindler was certainly no saint. He was a man riddled with contradictions. He certainly knew how to enjoy the so-called good life – cigars, drink, women.
He was a Catholic, though in name only.

He was also a member of the Nazi party, and his avowed aim was to end the war with ‘two trunks full of money’.

He exploited the Jews as a source of cheap labour.

However, anyone who has read the book and/or seen the film becomes aware that Schindler has about him a basic goodness, and in spite of his many lapses, he returns to this better side, his basic goodness.

As the war progressed, Schindler became appalled at the horrors of what was known as the “final solution.”

At considerable personal risk (he was twice arrested by the Nazi), he protected his workers from the death camps.

Oskar Schindler was no angel; he was a human being, an essentially good human being, even though seriously flawed.

I know, for myself, and perhaps you dare reflect, that part of the story’s attraction is that it tells mine!

I am no saint or angel; I understand I am a human being – essentially good yet with serious flaws.

Using the imagery from today’s Gospel ( Mt. 13: 24 – 33) I am indeed a landscape of healthy, ripening wheat, with a fair smattering of darnel.

While growing, to the untrained eye, wheat and darnel look very much alike; when ripe, wheat will appear brown, whereas darnel is black. The farmer needs to work with each growing healthily until they are fully ripe, and then their difference becomes apparent. Weeding too soon and too abruptly may be disastrous – what I or another thought darnel may have proved to be wheat.

Patience and leniency are needed towards ourselves and towards others.

Throughout the Gospel story, the darnel and wheat don’t seem to mind sharing the same plot of land.

What makes the angst between them is a judgement from the outside.

The author Alexander Solzhenitsyn, in his book, “The Gulag Archipelago” writes, “Even in hearts that are overwhelmed by evil, one small bridgehead of good is retained. And in the best of all hearts, there remains an uprooted small corner of evil.” (From The Gulag Archipelago, Part 4, Chapter 1, “The Ascent”.)

A small Gospel reading, but big things come in small packages.

Jesus said, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

The very nature of a yoke is that it is made for two!

No doubt in the workshop of Joseph, Jesus would have assisted in producing many yokes for donkeys, mules, and horses. He would know the difference between one that fitted well and one that chafed the animal’s neck.

[I am informed that in the Yellow Pages for the township of Nazareth, there was an advertisement that ran, “Joseph and Son, quality carpenters: our yokes are easy, the burden will be light.”]

Just down from the Church property on the island of Ovalau in the Fiji group of islands, there was a small land holding, and frequently the land was readied using oxen yoked together.

I would sit on the porch of the parish house and watch the landowner working his oxen.

One day, I wandered over and, for want of a better phrase, asked Josefa, “How does a new young ox learn the yoke trade“

“Simple” the landowner replied, “we match a young ox with a seasoned veteran, and the young learn from the old”

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Listen again to the words of Jesus, “Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me”

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The yoke belongs to Jesus.

The invitation is to become “yoked” with him, and to learn from him.

The Irish writer, Oscar Wilde, made a reputation for himself as a fine writer, and was regarded as a celebrity as well.

He was sent to prison for having a sexual relationship with a young man. It was a terrible humiliation for him.

As two policemen from prison were bringing him to the courthouse, a noisy, hostile crowd had gathered.

But then a friend of Wilde’s appeared, who made a simple gesture of friendship and respect that silenced the crowd – this man raised his hat to Wilde as Wilde passed by.

It was a very small gesture yet meant a great deal to Wilde at the time.

Later, Wilde wrote of the gesture, “I store it in the treasure house of my heart.

I keep it there as a secret debt that I can never possibly repay.

It is embalmed and kept sweet by the myrrh of many tears. “

The small gestures are frequently the most powerful; a cup of tea, giving my seat to another on a bus or train.

Small flowers give off a little scent on their own, however, put a bunch of them together, and they can fill a room with their fragrance.

The dawn chorus results from many birds singing their own tune and filling the entire canopy of trees.

In this Sunday’s Gospel (Matt. 10: 37 – 42), we read, “And whoever gives even a cup of water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple, truly I tell, none of these will lose their reward. “ ( v. 42 ).

Below is the full text of what Oscar Wilde wrote in his letter, written while imprisoned, known as “De Profundis”

“When I was brought down from my prison to the Court of Bankruptcy, between two policemen,—waited in the long dreary corridor that, before the whole crowd, whom an action so sweet and simple hushed into silence, he might gravely raise his hat to me, as, handcuffed and with bowed head, I passed him by.

“Men have gone to heaven for smaller things than that. It was in this spirit, and with this mode of love that the saints knelt down to wash the feet of the poor or stooped to kiss the leper on the cheek.

“I have never said one single word to him about what he did. I do not know to the present moment whether he is aware that I was even conscious of his action.

“It is not a thing for which one can render formal thanks in formal words. I store it in the treasure house of my heart.

“I keep it there as a secret debt that I am glad to think I can never possibly repay. It is embalmed and kept sweet by the myrrh and cassia of many tears.”