Henry Fonda in “The Grapes of Wrath”
Spiritual Sunday
In today’s Old Testament reading, Moses realizes his divine calling—he has his epiphany—when encountering a blazing bush that is “not consumed.” The voice of God instructs him to lead the Israelites out of their suffering and into “a good and broad land, a land flowing with milk and honey.”
Moses is a reluctant prophet, asking, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh, and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” In Joseph Campbell’s terms, he initially resists the call but eventually accepts the hero’s journey.
A reference to the burning bush also appears in The Grapes of Wrath, this one involving another reluctant prophet. Jim Casy can be seen as both a Moses and a Jesus Christ figure (his initials are JC), one who gradually come to understand and embrace his call.
Early in the book, we learn that Casy has lost his faith:
“I was a preacher,” said the man seriously. “Reverend Jim Casy—was a Burning Busher. Used to howl out the name of Jesus to glory. And used to get an irrigation ditch so squirmin’ full of repented sinners half of ’em like to drowned. But not no more,” he sighed. “Jus Jim Casy now. Ain’t got the call no more. Got a lot of sinful idears—but they seem kinda sensible.”
Casy, like Moses, witnesses the suffering of God’s people, but at first he doesn’t know what to do. Here he is observing the devastation of the Joad farm:
Casy said, “If I was still a preacher I’d say the arm of the Lord had struck. But now I don’t know what happened. I been away. I didn’t hear nothin’.” They walked toward the concrete well-cap, walked through cotton plants to get to it, and the bolls were forming on the cotton, and the land was cultivated.
Americans, like Moses and the Israelites, are on the move. They have their own dream of a California of milk and honey but are currently lost in the wilderness:
Casy said, “I been walkin’ aroun’ in the country. Ever’body’s askin’ that. What we comin’ to? Seems to me we don’t never come to nothin’. Always on the way. Always goin’ and goin’. Why don’t folks think about that? They’s movement now. People moving. We know why, an’ we know how. Movin’ ’cause they got to. That’s why folks always move. Movin’ ’cause they want somepin better’n what they got. An’ that’s the on’y way they’ll ever git it. Wantin’ it an’ needin’ it, they’ll go out an’ git it. It’s bein’ hurt that makes folks mad to fightin’. I been walkin’ aroun’ the country, an’ hearin’ folks talk like you.”
Only after Casy lands in jail, having sacrificed himself to save Tom from arrest, does he begin to understand his mission. He compares his emerging understanding to Jesus meditating in the desert:
The preacher leaned forward and the yellow lantern light fell on his high pale forehead. “Jail house is a kinda funny place,” he said. “Here’s me, been a-goin’ into the wilderness like Jesus to try find out somepin. Almost got her sometimes, too. But it’s in the jail house I really got her.” His eyes were sharp and merry. “Great big ol’ cell, an’ she’s full all a time. New guys come in, and guys go out. An’ ‘course I talked to all of ’em.”
Casy learns that we are not discrete individuals but are part of something bigger. The ultimate goal is not a physical land of milk and honey but a union of all humankind. His death at the hands of worldly authorities, therefore, is not the end but a transformative beginning. Tom Joad is his Apostle Paul who will spread the gospel to all nations:
“Hm-m,” he said. “Lookie, Ma. I been all day an’ all night hidin’ alone. Guess who I been thinkin’ about? Casy! He talked a lot. Used ta bother me. But now I been thinkin’ what he said, an’ I can remember—all of it. Says one time he went out in the wilderness to find his own soul, an’ he foun’ he didn’ have no soul that was his’n. Says he foun’ he jus’ got a little piece of a great big soul. Says a wilderness ain’t no good, ’cause his little piece of a soul wasn’t no good ‘less it was with the rest, an’ was whole. Funny how I remember. Didn’ think I was even listenin’. But I know now a fella ain’t no good alone.”
“He was a good man,” Ma said.
Tom went on, “He spouted out some Scripture once, an’ it didn’ soun’ like no hellfire Scripture. He tol’ it twicet, an’ I remember it. Says it’s from the Preacher.”
“How’s it go, Tom?”
“Goes, ‘Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their labor. For if they fall, the one will lif’ up his fellow, but woe to him that is alone when he falleth, for he hath not another to help him up.’ That’s part of her.”
“Go on,” Ma said. “Go on, Tom.”
“Jus’ a little bit more. ‘Again, if two lie together, then they have heat: but how can one be warm alone? And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him, and a three-fold cord is not quickly broken.'”
“An’ that’s Scripture?”
“Casy said it was. Called it the Preacher.”
JC may have left the earthly building but he has left behind an advocate with the father within each one of us. Think of it as the social gospel:
They sat silent in the coal-black cave of vines. Ma said, “How’m I gonna know ’bout you? They might kill ya an’ I wouldn’ know. They might hurt ya. How’m I gonna know?”
Tom laughed uneasily, “Well, maybe like Casy says, a fella ain’t got a soul of his own, but on’y a piece of a big one—an’ then—”
“Then what, Tom?”
“Then it don’ matter. Then I’ll be all aroun’ in the dark. I’ll be ever’where—wherever you look. Wherever they’s a fight so hungry people can eat, I’ll be there. Wherever they’s a cop beatin’ up a guy, I’ll be there. If Casy knowed, why, I’ll be in the way guys yell when they’re mad an’—I’ll be in the way kids laugh when they’re hungry an’ they know supper’s ready. An’ when our folks eat the stuff they raise an’ live in the houses they build—why, I’ll be there. See? God, I’m talkin’ like Casy. Comes of thinkin’ about him so much. Seems like I can see him sometimes.”
Preach it, brother. Preach the good news.