There are some advantages to living in the city. One is that, within a short walk of my wife’s old flat, there were two old fashioned greengrocers, the sort where they let you taste the fruit before you buy it. We always thought it was worth paying a bit extra to do business with people who had such an obvious relish for what God’s earth is able to provide. Not that they used that kind of language. They just wanted you to smell the peaches, feel the mangoes and buy the best.
Soon after we were married, I mentioned to one of the greengrocers that we were about to move. For the next two or three weeks, he put boxes aside for us. Not just any boxes. He kept the ones which are used to freight bananas. These are strong and have a lid which sits right over the box. He said they were much better for packing glassware than the large, flimsy boxes that you get from removalists. He was absolutely right. We appreciated his kindness.
One of life’s dilemmas is that the older you get, the more difficult it becomes to move house. I don’t just mean that it becomes emotionally difficult to leave a familiar environment where you have made friends and know all the local shortcuts. I mean physically difficult.
There is an inverse law that applies here. When you are young and fit and capable of lifting anything, you never have much to move. I remember helping a friend to move when I was at university. By the time he had loaded all his worldly possessions into his small car, there was still room for him to give me a lift as well.
As you get older, you have more stuff but less strength with which to shift it. My wife and I were astonished at how much we had managed to accumulate in her flat. We kept going back to the greengrocer to ask for more boxes. He said we were lucky his fruit was so good because it meant he sold more than anyone else and so had plenty of boxes for his friends.
I was really the guilty party. I confess to being an agent of the forces of clutter. I come home with bargains I have found in op-shops and my wife knows that they will just take up space until, eventually, we donate them to a fete or jumble sale without ever having made use of them.
I can recall an occasion on which I heard a talk at our local church based on the gospel reading for this year’s Ash Wednesday. The reading says that if you want to pray, go to your private room and close the door. I thought this sounded like a good idea. The problem was that, when I got home, there was so much stuff behind the door of my room that it wouldn’t close.
Clutter applies to more than just material things. It represents an entire way of living. Sometimes, if there is a blank space in my diary, I will fill it up with lists. The list will include things like ‘make some time for quiet’.
One year, I decided for a Lenten observance that I would not put the radio on in the car. I thought this would provide some quiet and I could use this for prayer. I found the resolution very hard to keep. In the country, we spend a lot of time driving. The minute I get in the car, my tendency is to put on the radio. By the end of the week, I have spent hours listening to news, interviews, talk-back and old songs. I can hardly remember a single thing I’ve heard. That’s how important it really is.
This year, the Sunday readings for Lent are a lot about clutter. They
are about leaving things behind and moving on. The issue of choosing what
is really important comes up again and again.
Jesus calls the disciples to leave their work and follow him; after the
Transfiguration he lets them know that they can’t stay on the mountain
top; he removes the profiteers from the Temple because they have cluttered
up the heart of their religion with so many regulations that they have
lost sight of the essentials.
Finally, in the week before Passion Sunday, Jesus tells his friends that ‘my hour has come’. He has to leave behind people and places that he loves because the Father is calling him to live by faith alone and to risk the consequences.
I don’t know that I could ever respond so fully to a call to love as Jesus does, but this Lent I might try to leave a little room so I can at least hear the invitation.
