Community

The rabble with them began to crave other food, and again the Israelites started wailing and said, “If only we had meat to eat! We remember the fish we ate in Egypt at no cost—also the cucumbers, melons, leeks, onions and garlic. But now we have lost our appetite; we never see anything but this manna!”  --Number 11:4-6

I have been thinking a lot today about how we live (or do not live) in community. Such a simple word. Basic parts broken down mean, simply, "with (or in) unity." How do we manage to make it so hard?

Geese in migration instinctively know to trade off who is in charge. No elections, no bloody coups. When the one at the front gets tired, another steps up. Simple as that. And meanwhile, all that honking from the peanut gallery? It may sound like heckling to us, but to the geese out in front, it sounds more like the cheering that goes up when Ohio State scores over Michigan.

Watch any pair of primates in the zoo. They lovingly groom one another, reaching the spot r-i-i-i-g-h-t >there< where it's so hard to reach. No big deal, it seems. It's just what they do. Part of being in community. Living together. Caring for one another.

And of course, there are the elephants. We watched the female elephants, five of them, move from one enclosure to another at our zoo. The humans started the movement, but the alpha elephant, if that is what she would be called, takes over.

The five all trot into the area, and they circle up-- bum to bum, trunks high in the air. The alpha trumpets, fills the air with the sound, and the five look around, making sure this new space is safe.

The keeper tells us that if there were a baby elephant in the herd, it would be safe in the center of the circle, and every female in the herd would look out for it as if it were her own.

Ad when the alpha determines that all is well, she calls again, and the trunks come down, the tension in the air lifts and each elephant goes about her business, eating, drinking-- whatever.

Looking out for Number One? Not in that herd. 

Those Israelites didn't realize how good they had it. They were safe, freed from the hard labor of their days as slaves to the Egyptians-- and all they could do was whine about the menu. "Manna-- again?" (Anyone besides me hear their mother reminding them that there are starving children in Biafra [or Somalia or Cleveland] who would be thrilled to have that manna, young lady? She was right, you know.)

It seems no matter how well off we are, it is never good enough. Always, we are seeking greener pastures. And if that greener pasture is someone else's yard-- stinks for them, because it won't be their yard for long.

Oh, I know I am a hopeless idealist here, that there is plenty of violence and dysfunction in nature. But somehow, overall, it just seems like those God left us in charge of, gave us dominion over, could teach us so much about life if we just stopped and watched.