A reflection on “Water… a time for prayer”, Ruth 1:1-18, and Mark 12:28-34; preached Sunday 5 November 2006
We arrived in Clermont in January 1997, when the country was displaying all the signs of the longest dry spell in recorded history. Our last hundred kilometres was through “the long paddock” – the cow cockies’ shorthand for the roadside where cattle had been turned loose to graze because the real paddocks were bare. I sought to reassure my daughter that the gaunt grey shapes of the Brahmans were not indicators that the end was nigh, but my words simply betrayed my ignorance of just how bad things really were.
A few days later we went visiting. The prospect of a property with an eleven kilometre driveway kindled our imaginations, but again reality bit into our naivety. We were taken aback as Bill’s cows rushed to greet us – cows smart enough to realise that vehicles were the source of the molasses and hay which was keeping them alive, but not smart enough to tell the difference between the feed truck and the new minister’s station wagon.
Further out we called at “Tricorner”, a carefully selected block of prime dirt – black soil so rich and so deep that the homestead had to be built on a concrete raft floating fifteen feet over bedrock. The owners had not been there long and their first year had been a good one: wheat going nearly three tons to the acre without fertilizer. But in dry times the next season saw half of that, and the year after half of that, and the year after half again.
But the saddest story was Martin’s (not his real name). His was one of the older properties, gracing the surrounding district with its name and history, a block of great beauty and immense richness – when the rain fell. Martin was a man of great faith. Shortly after we arrived, I met him in town and he spoke passionately of his love for the Lord and his deep-seated belief in the power of prayer. Repentance for his sins and earnest supplications claiming the promises of scripture would win him through. No, it had hardly rained for six years, but his faith and perseverance were sure to be rewarded by his Lord.
There was a certain fragility, however, to Martin’s claims. Six years with little or no rain in answer to his petitions meant a heroic battle to stave off doubt and uncertainty. When the end came it was not pretty. In faith, in confidence, in response to the weather bureau’s predictions and the ag. consultant’s advice, Martin planted sunflowers. And nothing happened. A week without rain, another week, a month. And almost overnight, the property was sold and Martin was gone.
Three weeks after that it rained – not much, but enough to bring the sunflowers from the soil. There was follow up rain, too – not much, but enough for a crop. A drive past Martin’s old property revealed paddock after paddock of golden, nodding sunnies, a crop like the good old days, a crop to fill the silos, to keep the property going another year at least, a crop to pay off some debts and to keep the bank manager from the door.
And Martin? Well, it’s a small world, and it was inevitable that he would hear what had transpired. Rain had fallen, but not for him. Martin had what we dismissively call a “breakdown”. At least he didn’t do what many farmers have done over the years – take the rifle down from the wall and go for one last walk down to the machine shed. But Martin was a broken man.
You and I both know that it rains on the just and unjust alike. The bible tells us that. Conversely, it fails to rain with the same lack of discrimination. Martin’s prayers presumed that God plays favourites, that the faithful will be singled out, that we just have to have enough faith. But it doesn’t work like that. After all, if it worked like that we’d all be believers.
How does prayer work?
I’m not sure just how much my prayers change God. What I do know is that my prayers change me. I could dress that up in religious language and say that through my prayers the Holy Spirit aligns my will with God’s will. Perhaps that’s what happens. Whatever the mechanism, prayer changes me.
Somehow, I am altered. When I attend to God (and surely that is what is happening when I pray) when I attend to God, I am changed.
The story of Ruth and Naomi is a profound example of how people are changed. We begin with Ruth, a Jewish wife and mother, taken to a foreign land (I hope you noted Elimelech’s pragmatism in the face of famine) and the story rapidly descends into tragedy. By the seventh verse of the opening chapter, Naomi has been widowed and her sons are dead. She is adrift in a foreign land without a single male relative to provide her with security and a place in the community. Equally, her daughters-in-law – Orpah and Ruth, having given up their birthright as Moabites and now widowed – are also without kith and kin to provide for them.
We should avoid romanticising what happens next. Naomi tries to reduce her problems by divesting herself of the liability of two daughters-in-law she simply cannot provide for. Just as practically, Ruth and Orpah resist, at least Orpah resists for a little while before deciding that her best bet is to attempt to find a Moabite man prepared to take in a used woman. And Ruth – well, Ruth utters those fabulous, famous words:
“Where you go, I will go;
where you lodge, I will lodge;
your people shall be my people,
and your God my God.”
And so begins the story of Ruth and Naomi.
What do we take from their tale? After all, God features very little in the book of Ruth. We don’t hear much about prayer; we certainly don’t hear of fervent supplications offered up and divine compassion miraculously revealed in response to faith. I’m sure that Naomi, as a faithful Jew, and Ruth, as a faithful convert, did pray. I’m sure that they called upon the name of the Lord, but the point of the story is not about how God is changed but about how Ruth and Naomi are changed.
They change. They do things differently. They attempt something neither of them has attempted before and, with great courage, they make things happen. Tragedy does not overcome them. There would be no story if they had not turned themselves around and together – note, together – confronted what had to be confronted.
Now I haven’t said much about this week of prayer, have I?
What should I say? That if we pray hard enough, God will have a change of heart and bring the rain? That if we just have more faith it will rain? That we need to repent of our sins and it will rain? That we just need to persevere a little longer – a little longer than poor old Martin, anyhow – and God will change.
Perhaps it might be more helpful to look at how we are called to change. The suggested reflections for this week of prayer call us to profound change: to be thankful, to change our ways, to care for creation, to act with compassion, and then to rest in order that we might be renewed. It is no longer a secret that there are direct and incontrovertible links between climate change and humanity’s wilful disregard of creation, and now we ask, “Is it too late for us to change?”
Surely Ruth and Naomi are to be our models – looking out for one another, demonstrating the total commitment that we need if we are to change our attitude to God’s gift of rain, demonstrating how far it is possible to go together to make things right. “I will go where you will go… Your people shall be my people.”
And here is the link to today’s gospel, Mark’s story of “which commandment is the greatest of all”:
Did you note something quite cute in Mark’s account of the scribe’s question? The scribe asks for one commandment; Jesus gives him two: Love God, and love your neighbour. And the one who does those two things is “not far from the kingdom of God”.
Praying for rain for me and for my needs is not the answer. Loving my neighbour is the answer. Recognising that the guzzling of resources that goes on in prosperous Western societies is stealing my Third World neighbour’s future. Being bold enough to say, “Your people will be my people”. Knowing that I have to change because if I don’t then the kingdom of God will slip further and further away.
I commend to you the material distributed by the Heads of Churches; I ask you to consider what changes we might make as individuals, as families, and together as the church in order to use God’s gift of water responsibly. I ask you to investigate for yourselves the true nature of what we face, because to love our neighbour means we need to be educated. You might like to visit your local library and read volume twelve of the Griffith review, or something by Professor Ian Lowe the president of the Australian Conservation Foundation, or even The weather makers by Tim Flannery.
We need to change. We need to do things differently. We must attempt something we have not attempted before and, with great courage, we must make things happen. It is not inevitable that tragedy will overcome us. But there may be no story if we do not turn ourselves around and together – note, together – confront what has to be confronted.
But, whatever else you do, please pray. And may God change us all. Amen.
