Reflections on chapter 2 of Ruth…
There is a lot happening in this chapter where we see the focus shifts from the two women, Naomi and Ruth, and brings Boaz into the spotlight. The second chapter of Ruth sets the scene for Boaz to stroll onto centre stage as Naomi is silent and inert at home and as Ruth labours in the fields from early morning to the end of the day. And this chapter of the story ends with a sense of anticipation. Ruth’s kindness and faithfulness seems to have been met and found an equal in Boaz’s kindness and generosity…what next?
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Here we are at the start of the barley harvest. The crop is ripe and ready, so teams of reapers, men and women, are in the fields – among these are the young men Boaz later has words with about not bothering Ruth.
The Leviticus law says that when the reapers bring in the harvest, they must not reap to the edges and corners of the fields, but they should leave some ungathered stalks standing for the gleaners to reap, along with any grains dropped as the stalks are cut. The gleaners are the poor – aliens, orphans and widows – those whose family connections or sense of obligation have disappeared, and so they are vulnerable in many ways.
Ruth begins gleaning early in the day and is on her feet all morning. She may well have set out to glean in the fields uncertain if the Levite law would include her. Marriages between Moabites and Israelites were taboo, so although Ruth believed herself to the be widow of a local son, she couldn’t know if the locals saw her this way too.
When Boaz walks into the field where Ruth is working, we are already primed for his significance, thanks to the introduction at the beginning of the chapter. We know Boaz is a relative. There’s a potential hero in the making…maybe. We watch him walk around greeting his workers and they are all very proper and courteous, and then he notices Ruth and asks after her…who does she belong to? I wonder if he didn’t already know? Surely he did. He admits already that he’s heard the story of her clinging to Naomi, of her kindness and her faithfulness and her love for her mother-in-law. He’s heard stories about Ruth and about Moabite women in general, don’t forget.
But his interest in her seems to be purely protective and generous. He provides a safety net of women around her as she gleans so that, even in the hidden corners of the fields where hidden and unbidden touching may occur, she will not be alone and vulnerable to these. He gives clear orders to the young men not to try their luck with her, and he even tells them to pull out and leave extra grains for her to find and gather. He invites her to eat with the reapers and to drink the water they have drawn – the other gleaners are not so invited – and without this provision, Ruth would perhaps not have had the strength to continue working through the rest of the day.
Ruth receives Boaz’s kindness with humility and gratitude. Does she also know who he is? That he is a relative? That as a relative he has some familial obligations to provide for Naomi and herself? We don’t know. When Ruth returns to Naomi with her store of extra bread from lunch, her ephah of grain, and the morsel of news about Boaz, Naomi seems to come to life again. At the end of the last chapter, after her long journey home to Bethlehem, Naomi makes a declaration of her new name, Mara meaning bitterness, and then she seems to have sunk into deep grief. She begins this chapter with the merest exchange with Ruth and seems not to have the energy or will to glean or contribute to her own survival.
This actually makes sense to me. She returned home having lost everything, having failed to provide care for Ruth and instead having become dependent. Perhaps she spent this day sitting with and taking stock of all that has ended. It is true that when something ends, or dies or is lost, we need to mourn what is gone before we can truly see what we still have. What happens if we do not mourn, if we move on too quickly and do not feel the weight of loss? What happens if we do not honour the value of what has passed away but rush instead to hold up a treasure that remains, a good that we can take comfort in?
I believe if we do this, if we look too quickly for a silver lining, something to be glad and grateful for, we miss the full experience of life, instead we get an impression of living. I believe if we do not take in the heft of grief when the world changes – in whatever way – then we are not ready to move into the next season, the next chapter, the next moment of life with openness and trust. This is something for us to consider as we move into the traffic light system which is to become our new normal. Not life post covid. Life with covid.
Perhaps we need to give time for mourning what is past, lost and gone, so that we can move more freely towards the changed world we must learn to live in. Naomi, Ruth and Boaz together embody a path through change. Naomi grieves. Ruth moves with openness and trust, Boaz brings new possibilities.
Undergirding all of the action and interaction in this chapter I notice the signs of peace. I see peace in the way that Ruth relates to uncertainty in her life. She does not know these people, this land or the customs here, but she sets out willingly and with openness to see what will come to her. I see peace in the way that Ruth is open to generosity- both to give generously of her own resources to Naomi and to receive the generosity of Boaz. I see peace in the way that Ruth cares for herself as well as for Naomi. For example, Boaz offers her food and water, and she eats and drinks as much as she needs, not sacrificing her own needs to give more to Naomi, not taking only a little so as not to seem greedy and make a good impression. I see peace in the way that Boaz moves to protect the vulnerable widowed foreigner, in his provision for her which does not reduce her to a charity handout but supplies what she needs so that she can usefully work to supply her own needs.
This kind of peace flows from a willingness to trust. Ruth has known loss and disappointment, grief, and dislocation. She hasn’t had a classic easy life, and yet she chooses trust.
Trust says: I am safe. I can handle whatever happens. I can be open and forthcoming. I can bring a hopeful, curious, caring generosity to what unfolds. I can cooperate with others, listen, share, offer ideas and take on new information and reflect on my own actions. There can be no peace without trust. In fact, there can be no hope, joy, or love either.
If we do not trust, we will instead be saying: I am not safe. I can’t handle what might come next. I need to protect myself. I need to be on the defensive, resist, avoid and complain, find someone to blame, keep my ideas to myself and judge everything else that is offered, justifying everything based on distrust.
This is a stark contrast, isn’t it?
I wonder if you trust easily, or if you are more cautious, requiring proof before you will risk being open; before you will risk letting what is important to you be vulnerable to the actions of another?
It would be easy now to bring God into the picture and ask if you trust God? And that is an important question, of course.
I think somewhere in the early stages of my own journey, I found myself in a position where I believed in God, but I wasn’t sure I trusted God. I had been taught a punishing understanding of the cross, and it’s hard to trust a God who is said to punish us for mistakes – even deliberate ones. I had faced some difficult experiences and there were choices to make but it was hard to trust – to be open and hopeful and cooperative – with a God who kept silence when I was crying out, confused and scared. I was no longer sure that God was actually trustworthy. I wasn’t sure God was very reliable – I wasn’t comforted by explanations about why some prayers were answered with miracles while others were not. I wasn’t sure that God was consistently present and caring in any way that applied to my daily experiences. And this was hard because clearly there’s no question of God’s competence to complete a task since the creator of all things is well qualified to manage all things.
And so I also wasn’t sure that I could trust God to care about me, not in the midst of the big picture, not in anything more than a general way. How could God communicate this care to me in a real way, not a theoretical understanding of love and forgiveness, but a conscious experience of these and of God’s delight in me, of joy in the simple fact of my existence. And lastly, I wasn’t sure that I could trust all the things that I had heard God say – or been told that God said. There was some inconsistency there.
And all of that is good doubting. It’s helpful, sincere and creative doubting and it’s part of the journey of faith, and it’s necessary. Because, just like in any relationship, if you don’t face the truth of your concerns about the other’s trustworthiness, you end up with what’s known as cordial hypocrisy.
Cordial hypocrisy is a friendly front that hides a deeper distrust, it’s guarded, cautious and ready to withdraw. Almost all of us use this friendly front at some point. I am sure you can think of someone right now who you have that kind of careful relationship with.
The thing is that trust is a two way street. The way to build trust is not just by showing you are trustworthy; it is also by trusting others with what is important to you. It is by risking what you value and making yourself vulnerable to another who may- or may not – treat your treasure with the same care.
And God trusts us – trust us with creation, with each other and in Jesus, born in Bethlehem, God trusts us with God’s very self. We cannot find hope without trust. We cannot know peace without trust. This Advent, perhaps more than any other in our time, we are called to trust that God is with us, and cares for us and for all of creation. We are called to trust that God will stay with us in the midst of life, in the midst of learning to live with covid, in the midst of making hard choices, feeling confused and resistant and looking for a way out or someone else to blame.
We are called to trust that with God, we can handle whatever happens. And that means we are called to be open and willing to listen and share ideas, to take on new information and to reflect on our own actions. We are called to respect each other, to recognise what we can manage and what we can’t carry alone. We are called to compassionate advocacy and provision for the vulnerable until they are strong enough to carry the normal load of a daily life.
This is what God is trusting us with.
God has trusted us to care for this whole treasured and fragile creation, and for each other, for the purpose of bringing us into the fullness of hope, peace, joy, and love. This is the good news, and, as you go through this week, this season of Advent, I hope you find time to ponder this wonderful truth: this good news, this purpose, is something God cannot do without you.
