AJS: Miriam and relief (ii)

The Bible doesn't say so exactly, but centuries of readers have liked to believe that Moses's big sister, the gutsy kid who walks right up to her royal highness, the Egyptian princess, bathing in the river, was Miriam. Could have been another sister, but Miriam is no bit player in the great exodus story.

It was, after all, sister Miriam who not only composed and sang a song but in fact led the Israelite chorus in a soaring melody of triumph the moment Pharaoh and hosts were swallowed up by the Red sea. "I will sing unto the Lord. . ." or so it went. Look it up.

But Miriam was no saint. She got a little pushy eventually, when she and brother Aaron grumbled about their brother Moses's superior power. "Has the LORD spoken only through Moses?" they whispered to each other. Besides, little brother Moses had up and married a girl from the way wrong side of the tracks, a Cushite. 

When the two of them groused, the Bible says, "The LORD heard this." Oops.

Still, I've always admired that little girl at the river's edge, not only for walking right up to Pharoah's daughter the way she did and walk away with baby Moses. Whether or not she was a cutie, she was a Levite, a stupid slave. She dared to be a Daniel.

Little gutsy liar is what she was. Next thing you know, she lets out a half-truth: “Shall I go and get one of the Hebrew women to nurse the baby for you?” she says, as if she'll check with the employment agency.

Thus, this little sweetheart not only rescues her little brother, she brings him home to her grieving mom, and most importantly saves a baby who will one day lead his people out of slavery. Great story. Unforgettable. 

Last week we visited an agency, a mission enterprise really, in Central America, in Honduras, where I heard the scenario of that ancient biblical tale used to explain the vision of that enterprise, a turn on the tale, and it goes like this:

Say you're down by the river and you see babies floating by in baskets, a la Miriam. Most of us would wade out into the water and grab them, save them, pull them from imminent danger. That's rescue work that has to be done. When people are hungry, really hungry, they need food, the basics. Retrieving babies from the water is relief work in its most pure form. When that work involves danger, it merits the scripture's greatest praise--"Greater love hath no man or woman than that. . ." You know the rest. 

In 2017, the American people gave 410 billion--let me write that out: $410,000,000,000--to charity, the first year on record that the total exceeded the 400 mark. Needless to say, that's some kind of cash. 

Did all those bucks cover needs? Probably not. According to Food Aid Foundation, 795 million people still don't have enough food "to lead a healthy life." It seems, as callous as it is to say it, that there's always babies in the water. There's always more we can do. 

When we use the phrase "relief work," we normally mean giving money or food or shelter to those who don't have it. The Good Samaritan did absolutely blessed relief work by helping the beat-up victim of a highway robbery get on his feet. And it didn't stop there either--he got that poor guy a place to clean up and rest--and he was a lowly Samaritan, too, a lousy, spat-upon Samaritan, the only one with a heart.

In this rich interpretation of the story by a 17th century artist named Jason Jordaens, a Samaritan dressed only a diaper, is helping the naked, bloody victim, while three heavy-set dandies sort of watch, slack-jawed, at the evident moral reckoning of what's happening before their eyes. One--the most pompous, a religious man, too--appears to help. Appears. 

There must be untold relief organizations who use the word Samaritan in their titles, who identify themselves by way of the famous biblical story. You just can't say enough about the good Samaritan. He's a model of selflessness. 

Nor can you say enough for Miriam. She took that baby from the river, walked right up to her royal highness, and saved that child for the mission God almighty had in mind--and what a mission that was. 

But last week I heard a man explain a Honduras ministry in a line that, to me, made all kinds of sense. He said it this way, something close anyway: Praise God for those who pull the babies out of the water, who save lives, who bring relief where it's most required. Praise God.

But there comes a point when those who stand at the river's edge have to start to ask themselves why all those babies are floating down the river--who's dropping them off up there, why they're not with their mothers, what's causing this damned phenomenon, and what on earth can we do about it?

That's relief work too, of a different type. There are babies in the river and no fish in the water. People are suffering; they're hungry and dying. We need an army of Good Samaritans to do something now, quickly, to pull those babies out and give away five loaves and two fishes and more.

But somewhere along the line for rescuers face a difficult question, and that question is "Why are there babies in the river?"

(More to come)