In his novel Winter’s Tale, Mark Helprin takes us to a reading of a will. Present were two brothers, Evan and Hardesty, sons of the deceased, in addition to the lawyer and others.
The lawyer read.
“‘Herein the last will and testament of Vittorio Marratta, San Francisco, drawn the first of September, the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and ninety-five.
“‘All my worldly possessions, ownerships, receivables, shares, interests, rights, and royalties, shall go to one of my sons. The Marratta salver, which is on the long table in my study, will go to the other. Hardesty will decide, and his decision as it is first announced will be irrevocable. Neither son will be entitled to the patrimony of the other, ever, under any circumstances, the death or desires of one or the other notwithstanding. I make this declaration in sound mind and body, convinced of its justice and ultimate value.’”
That’s a fascinating family moment, isn’t it? Two brothers, one gets his father’s entire and very considerable wealth, and the other gets the Marratta salver — a tray. And it’s not the father who chooses. Helprin writes,
Hardesty shook his head in pleasant incredulity and then began to laugh when he saw Evan begin to quiver in anticipation of having to get a job.[1]
The salver had been given to Signor Marratta by his father, … who had received it from his father, who had received it from his father … etc. etc., how far back no one knew. … The Marrattas believed that the salver was protected. It had survived wars, fires, earth-quakes, and thieves, who, like Evan, seemed not to want it. Hardesty wondered how his brother could have refused such a miraculous thing, for in the cloud-buffeted sun it shone in a hundred thousand colors, all subsumed in gold and silver. Seamless rays rose from it in a solid thicket, radiating in blinding beauty from the words engraved around the rim, meeting the others above the center, and plunging downward to illuminate the primary inscription.
“‘La onestà, honesty,” was the first, never properly valued, Signor Marratta had said, until one must lose a great deal for its sake alone, “and then, it rises like the sun.” Hardesty’s favorite, even though it was the word around which his mother’s death seemed to revolve, and even though he associated it with tears more than with anything else, was “il coraggio, courage.” Next was one that he hardly understood— “il sacrificio, sacrifice.” Why sacrifice? Was it not a defunct trait of the martyrs? Perhaps because it was so rare, it was as mystifying to him as the last virtue …, the most puzzling, the one least attractive to him as a young man, “la pazienza, patience.”But none of these qualities, hard to understand as they might have been, and even harder to put into practice, was half as mysterious as the pronouncement inlaid in white gold on the center of the plate. It was from the Senilia of Benintèndi, and Signor Marratta made sure early on that Hardesty knew it and would not forget. … Hardesty picked up the gleaming salver and translated its inscription out loud:
“‘For what can be imagined more beautiful than the sight of a perfectly just city rejoicing in justice alone.’”
He repeated this to himself several times, and then put the salver into a pack that held everything he would take with him.[2]
Honesty. Courage. Sacrifice. Patience.
For what can be imagined more beautiful than the sight of a perfectly just city rejoicing in justice alone.
I hear echoes of scripture — the city on the hill, the new Jerusalem; some might say, writer, protagonist, and reader are tapping into the deep current of Western culture. Hardesty remembered his father telling him,
Little men spend their days in pursuit of such things [as wealth, fame, and possessions]. I know from experience that at the moment of their deaths they see their lives shattered before them like glass. I’ve seen them die. They fall away as if they have been pushed, and the expressions on their faces are those of the most unbelieving surprise. Not so, the man who knows the virtues and lives by them. Ideas are in fashion or not, and those who should prevail are often defeated. But it doesn’t matter. The virtues remain uncorrupted and uncorruptible. They are in themselves the bulwarks with which we can protect our vision of beauty, and the strengths by which we stand, unperturbed, in the storm that comes when seeking God.[3]
I appreciate Signor Marratta’s stoic wisdom during these days of easy lies and little courage.
Ideas are in fashion or not, and those who should prevail are often defeated. But it doesn’t matter. The virtues remain uncorrupted and uncorruptible. They are in themselves the bulwarks with which we can protect our vision of beauty, and the strengths by which we stand, unperturbed, in the storm that comes when seeking God.
Micah was no stoic, and far from unperturbed in the storm. He was a prophet from the hinterland of Jerusalem, where he witnessed the devastations wrought among rural folk by the corruption rampant among city leaders.
[Your] rulers give judgment for a bribe, [your] priests teach for a price, [your] prophets give oracles for money; yet [you] lean upon the Lord and say, “Surely the Lord is with us! No harm shall come upon us.” Therefore because of you Zion shall be plowed as a field; Jerusalem shall become a heap of ruins, and the mountain of the house a wooded height.[4]
In our reading, Micah presents a court scene, with God as the plaintiff, the people as defendant, and the mountains and hills as witnesses, or perhaps, jury, in this breach of covenant case.
Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye!
Rise, plead your case before the mountains, and let the hills hear your voice.
… for the Lord has a controversy with his people.
And the plaintiff rises and speaks, but what we hear, along with the mountains and hills and foundations of the earth, are not itemized accusations, but agonizing and sorrow-filled questions and implorations:
O my people, what have I done to you? In what have I wearied you? Answer me!
What’s troubling the God of the covenant is not the long list of trespasses which Micah could have recited readily from memory — what’s troubling God is what those individual breaches reveal about the relationship between the covenant partners.
I brought you up from the land of Egypt, God declares.
I redeemed you from the house of slavery.
I sent before you Moses, Aaron, and Miriam.
I was with you all the way, through it all, was there when you entered the land, crossing the Jordan from Shittim to Gilgal—I remember, don’t you?
The mountains and hills remember—don’t you?
And now the defendant speaks, not addressing the plaintiff directly, but perhaps the mountains and hills, or all of us who, thanks to Micah, get to witness this emotion-laden moment between God and God’s people.
With what shall I come before the Lord?
The written text doesn’t communicate tone and attitude and emphasis, and so it’s hard to tell how much frustration is driving this speech; to my ear, it’s a lot. Some hear honest questions here, I hear irritation and aggravation:
What does he want?
Shall I come before the Lord with burnt offerings, with calves a year old?
Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams, with ten thousands of rivers of oil?
I don’t know about you, but I’m picking up some hyperbole here and even a touch of sarcasm—Rivers of oil? How much is enough—is anything, ever?
Shall I give my firstborn?
The mountains and hills are quiet, and for a moment the questions just hang in the air:
What have I done to you?
With what shall I come before the Lord?
How have I wearied you?
What does he want?
And now Micah turns to us, not to deliver the verdict, but to teach us, to tell us the truth about our relationship as covenant partners with God: remembering the saving acts of God has nothing to do with some cosmic ledger where the kingdom accountants keep a record of what we owe for divine goods and services rendered. Remembering the saving acts of God is about knowing the character of God and letting our own character be shaped by it:
He has told you, O mortal, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?
What God requires of us are not thousands of this or rivers of that, but us walking humbly with God, lovingly leaning into the kindness with which God meets us, and seeking to build right relationships with neighbors near and far, with our fellow creatures, and with future generations of life—and in, with, under, and through it all with God.
The psalm for today, Psalm 15 further illustrates the simplicity and urgency of Micah’s teaching. The psalm begins with questions, and the answers rest in the verbs that follow:
Who may abide in your tent, Lord?
And who may dwell on your holy mountain?
The person who lives free of blame,
does what is right,
and speaks the truth sincerely;
who does no damage with their talk,
does no harm to a friend,
doesn’t insult a neighbor;
someone who despises those who act wickedly,
but who honors those who honor the Lord;
someone who keeps their promise even when it hurts;
someone who doesn’t lend money with interest,
who won’t accept a bribe against any innocent person.
Whoever does these things shall never be moved.[5]
The words are simple, and powerful in their simplicity. The psalmist doesn’t assume, though, that the Lord’s tent will be empty, because in their simplicity, these words are rarely easy to live. The point is that they are worthy of our aspiration. The words engraved in the Marratta salver were honesty, courage, sacrifice, and patience. Micah adds kindness and humility to the virtues that make justice shine, and he urges us to add them to the pack that holds everything we take with us.
For what can be imagined more beautiful than the earth full of the knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the sea?
[1] Mark Helprin, Winter’s Tale (Orlando, FL: Harcourt Books, 1983), 269.
[2] Ibid., 271-275.
[3] Ibid., 273.
[4] Micah 3:11-12
[5] Translation drawn from CEB and NRSV.