Tithing mint and dill and cumin

I frequently shop at a very special grocery store in Austin known as Central Market. I'd never heard of it until JB returned to Shreveport from his first interview at the seminary. It was thanksgiving, and he got off the plane with an entire stalk of Brussels sprouts. He knew that a whole stalk of Brussels sprouts would make my heart beat the way other women would respond to two dozen red roses.

The variety of produce they have is staggering. Right now it is probably eight or ten different kinds of peaches. The meat counter is long and inviting...bison and rabbit and quail in addition to what you'd usually expect. Whole fois gras. Seafood fresh from around the world. For what it is, it is not overpriced, but at Christmas I see people taking home prime standing rib roasts that cost $300. There is a Spanish ham that costs $95 a pound, and I guess somebody buys it, because they have it. My own purchases are typically more modest. A couple of pork chops or marinated chicken breasts, sweet local corn, arugula, organic milk. I like to stop by on my way home from work to see what looks appetizing.

But there is one department that has a whole different feel to it, and that is the bulk spices. There are I'd guess a couple hundred square glass jars with metal lids that contain every herb and spice you can imagine. One day I counted 37 different kinds of chiles and chile powders, but we are talking Texas. They keep metal spoons in jars of rice and small zip loc bags to be filled with an ounce or two or three of what you need. You then place the bag on the scale and tap in the number on the front of the jar. You might have seven cents worth of mustard or sixteen cents wort of tarragon or a whopping thirty cents for smoked Spanish paprika. You have to place these little bags in the top tray of your cart or they'll get lost.

I can never buy bulk spices without thinking of Jesus' remarks about tithing mint and dill and cumin. I don't think I could spend a dollar on all three without buying multiple bags of each. And yet they require a different kind of attention from me than the pork chops or the red carton of milk. They cause me to slow down. They cause me to pay attention. In working with this image and metaphor, I want to turn Jesus' intention on its head. Well, actually maybe not. He was fussing at the Pharisees, and his fussing was a frustrated way of inviting them into authentic generosity. That little bag of feathery green dill is a lens through which to see the incredible bounty of the whole market as an invitation into celebration and gratitude. Laying three tiny zip loc bags onto the check out belt to make sure they don't get covered up, to make sure I pay my thirty-two cents is a crazy way for God to open my heart, in the big scheme of things. Maybe they are a version of the still, small voice. Maybe they are holy.