The Burden of Work and the Heat of the Day

Jesus told a story once about a landowner who employed a bunch of guys to work in his vineyard (Matthew 20:1-16). These men were all employed at different points throughout the day but they were all paid the same, a denarius, a living wage. It's a story of compassion and generosity and it moves me. 

I wrote a poem about it from the perspective of one of the last ones to be hired at the end of the day. As you read this, don't imagine my voice in your head, imagine someone elses', a young middle eastern family man, that'll do it.

My father was a hard worker, he was.

He had to be, with a wife and six children to provide for.

Seven mouths to feed, plus his own.

Four boys with feet, now fully grown.

From sunrise to sunset he was out in the fields,

bearing the burden of the work and the heat of the day.

Bringing home food for the family with what he was paid.

I am a hard worker. I am,

when there is work to be had.

Now I am a man, with a wife and these three little lambs.
“Abba!” they call as I walk up the lane.

I have had no work for days.

My hands are empty and my head hangs in shame.

I have had no work, but who is to blame?

I have gone out each day to the marketplace.

Every day I go to that street corner looking for work.

Every day I stand there, eager and alert.

In the heat of this day I have borne the burden of no work.

No money for food, no money for shoes.

Four mouths to feed, plus my own.

“Amma,” I hear my children groan.

All night they moan.

All night I worry, where might I find money for bread?

Maybe I’ll go up to the Temple and beg.

But I am a hard worker, I am.

So I rise early again.

I get dressed and wash my face

and head back toward the marketplace.

I wait at that old familiar corner,

the place where opportunity and occupation meet, 

where the landowners and our livelihoods intersect,

where I wait with all the other men who are just like me.

We wait and he arrives,

he needs workers to tend to his vines.

“A denarius,” he says, “for a day’s work.”

“A denarius?! That’s excellent pay.”

But I am at the back of the gathering crowd.

I have been here since first light,

yet now I am out of this landowners sight.

I am a hard worker. I am,
when there’s work to be had.
I have stood here all day, ready for work
I have stood here all day and watched the foremen come.

I have stood here all day, and I’m not the only one.

That first landowner came back at the third hour, the sixth and the ninth,

“Come, work,” he said, “and I’ll pay you what it right.”

Somehow, in all the fuss and kerfuffle

we were not chosen so we stand here and shuffle our feet.

Another day spent with no purpose, no point.

What have I earned but more humiliation?

I am eager to work, this is exasperating!

I am a hard worker, I am!

What more can a man do?!

I have been standing here since first light,

I stand here though it soon will be night. 

We wait, and he arrives yet again.

“Why have you been standing here all day long?”

“Because no one has hired us,” we say, forlorn.

“You also go,” the landowner says,

“go, work in my vineyard,” he declares.

I am a hard worker, I am,

even if just for one hour.

There is no talk of money nor work for the morrow,

but no matter.

I may return to my family with empty hands,

but today, with these hands, I have worked the land.

Evening comes and the foreman calls.

Again we men gather around.

Those who have been working all day await their pay.

We, who were last, have been waiting all day.

Now, strangely, we are called first,
likely to be sent away, with nothing.

We rise and ready ourselves for the journey home.

We stand before them; the landowner and the foreman.

Strange things are happening to us,

for an hours’ work we each receive a denarius.

A denarius, that’s more than we deserve, that’s more than we’ve earned.

I am a hard worker.

I am what I am.

But what about this man?
Has there ever been one so generous?

He has esteemed and honoured us.

In his compassion he has noticed our need,

we have wives to care for and children to feed.

We were born to work, born to serve,

with a need for purpose and a sense of worth.

Today, we have been given more than a denarius,
we have been given a way to live.

Reconciliation

There was a battle at Gate Pa a hundred and fifty years ago. Maori and Pakeha fought over the land and men fell in the fight. Last Tuesday (April 29) hundreds gathered, and remembered, and sought reconciliation. 

I shivered in the southerly breeze as the war-painted warriors roared and wielded their guns. The men, armed with muskets instead of taiaha, were quite terrifying as they lay their challenge for peace at the foot of the manuhiri, who stood staunch and silent. 

The tangata whenua were eager to defend and protect those dearest to them; their woman, their children, and their land who gave them life. 

There were speeches and songs and shouts. And then he sang and my spirit was very still. One warrior took careful steps to the centre of the clearing. He bent low, lay down his weapon and began to sing. I didn’t know the words that he was using, but it was like he was whispering to the wounded world beneath his feet, ‘it is finished’.

‘It is finished’, that’s what Jesus said. God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting people’s sins against them. And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation. (2 Corinthians 5:19) We are being reconciled to God and to one another. 

May the Spirit of Christ, the Prince of Peace, who is closer than our breath, pass between us and bind us together as one people.

Cave, Table, Road

Spirit, lead me to the wild spaces

where the wind whispers through lonely places. 

Lead me to the desert, to the cave

where my cry is heard for you are quick to save. 

Spirit, lead me to the laden table,

with my brothers and sisters, each needy and able. 

Lead me to community, 

the place where we commune with thee. 

Spirit, lead me to the open road, 

where we travel together and share the load. 

Lead me to the marketplace, 

to work, to play, to seek your face.  

Dorothy

You can’t dance all the way down
the Yellow Brick Road.
It starts out wide and bright,
then curves ‘round corners, out of sight.

You, my dear, have seen lions and tigers and bears.
You, my dear, have stood eye to eye with fear. 

In the dark, there are quite frightening fellows.
In the dark, the path doesn’t seem so yellow. 

But you took heart, you took courage,
armed with veracity and valour.
You were safe in those arms,
as he followed you into the dark
and took hold of you. 

You, brave one, were not alone
on those dark days.

Nor in the cold light of day,
when the icy snow gave bite
to the words you’d say. 

There were days, too, full of songs and quick, rhythmic steps.
There were days full of rest and long, deep breaths.
There were days, full,
                           full of life.
There are days still,
               days still to fill. 

So, just close your bright, blue eyes,
tap those ruby heals together three times
and say, “there’s no place like home.” 

 

What's in a Name?

Kia ora. Ko Katarina Arihi toku ingoa. 

Catherine Alice, this is the name that I belong to. 

I am named after both my Grandmothers: Dorothy Edith Catherine and Alice Elizabeth. From one I learned how to be feisty and forthright, from the other, gentleness and faithfulness. 

I inherited Dorothy's quick feet and desire to create, and Alice's dark curls and love for white pearls. Turns out I inherited more than just their names. 

I must confess, when I was a kid I didn't like my name all that much. Mostly, the only people I knew with names like mine were old ladies (my old man's old lady and my old lady's old lady, and some queen who Henry VIII disposed of). Interestingly, the name printed on the back of my Year 13 Leavers Jersey was 'Nana' - for various other reasons. 

Alice lived ‘til she was in her 90’s and it looks like Dorothy is headed that way too. It has been a privilege to observe both my Nana’s in their old age. From them I have learned something of what it means to be human, to be vulnerable and fragile and to embrace that rather than avoid it. 

I don’t think it was easy for either of them, though; these two strong and staunch women who lived rurally, ran households and raised a handful of children each. Their husbands worked hard, honoured their wives beautifully, and died well before anyone was ready. 

I don't mind my name all that much now, though. At graduation I was told that the name printed on my certificate sounded elegant and important. But now, my name is more than just a name it is a reminder of my heritage and the people I belong to. 

Catherine Alice, these are the names that I belong to. 

Ko Katarina Arihi toku ingoa. Kia ora. 

This photo was taken on my 15th birthday, two days after I broke my nose, 

so please don't look too closely. 

Mum made me pose for the picture. I'm glad she did.