The Jews of Jesus’ time may well have been puzzled by this parable. Treasure in their stories came to the righteous, like Abba Judah who took care of the rabbis with all he had. Here, you have no idea if the finder is righteous or not. Probably not, given that he hides the thing. It also runs counter to another aspect of Jewish life, where treasure is something you bury and never recover, because your people are always fleeing from someone. They must have enjoyed imagining themselves as the finders.
Interpreters tend to focus on the joy of finding, the free gift of God's grace. You can't help but wonder, though, how the man would eat or where he would live, if he really sold everything. I see the treasure as the thing Joseph Campbell made famous when he urged us all to "follow our bliss." Gregg Levoy points out that if you follow your bliss, you'll have it, but it could indeed require you to sell everything, and make your life precarious. Here's a sort of waking dream I had about this:
I’m walking on the beach in Superior, Wisconsin, a town that has become poorer since my parents left it decades ago. Tourists don’t come here much. The beach is not kept well, gray and pebbly sand filled with debris. There is an old couple out there with me, a few families with kids. Even at the height of the summer sun, it is cool here. I take off my shoes anyway, cup my feet, ball to heel, bracing them against the rocks and cold water. Suddenly, my right heel hits a hard bump. It’s metal, the rounded corner of a box, dark green. I bend down to scrape away the sand, but it is packed in tightly. I feel crafty all of a sudden, possessive, and filled with desire.
I wait everybody out, pretending to read. I’m getting hungry, and it’s even colder with the sun dropping. I don’t care. I feel a strange joy filling me, and I can wait forever. Finally they start hauling coolers to their cars. I drive to K-Mart to get a cheap sweatshirt, flashlight, garden spade. The cashier wants to talk about my garden; fine, let her think that. When I return to the beach, it looks less friendly by dark. I’ve heard stories about drugs around here, after-hours. A strange feeling passes through me - as though I don't care what happens to me. I scrape and scrape, finding the contours of an old tackle box. It’s a deep green with scratches and pockmarks. I feel a panel with a tiny keyhole, the key long lost or kept somewhere by someone.
I carry the box back to my car, running the engine to get warm, and wrench it open with a large screwdriver. There is no fishing gear, but a tangle of gray-green muck. I pluck out an engagement ring, silver with several diamonds in an old setting, the largest cut square. It looks a lot like my mother’s. I gently untangle a silver chain with a pendant, a cut-out liberty dime with her birth date, 1921. Wedged in the side is a faded cloth purse that snaps at the top, and inside that, a thick curl of ones. There is a black and white photo from the 1940s, hand-colored, and I feel my heart inside my ears. My father and mother are slim, young, standing on a bridge looking away from the camera like models. She wears a smart pair of slacks and her hair whips across her face.
At the very bottom, are letters in a bold version of my dad’s handwriting. They are from Georgia where he was training for the Army, before they were married.
Dear Bev, they feed us well here – lots of it, even if it’s not great... Dear Bev, I hope you like the work, and they’re treating you well at the shop. Probably won’t get much pay from the Jew... Dear Bev, It’s been a long time since I’ve heard from you. You know this is not right. We’ll just forget about the whole thing, kid – just come back...
My mom fell in love with her boss at the studio where she worked, coloring black and white photographs. He was married, and a Jew. She told my father about it, hoping to shock him. I only heard this story last year; toward the end of his life, my dad is now loosening up around the family secrets.
These treasures have long disappeared. The ring went to my sister, who had it reset in a more modern style. The necklace was mine briefly – dropped somewhere during track practice in the seventh grade. I’m sure she spent the money on rent and groceries. Did he write her any letters during their separation? What did she do with them?
Like anyone who has lost their mother young, I have longed all my life to touch her again, to hear her tell the stories, or not tell them, more likely. I wrestle with my own decisions sometimes, staying or leaving. I would love to ask her: What should I do, Mom? Are you glad you came back? Her eyes fill with tears, with love, and she doesn’t say.
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