The Miracle of Tony the Trash Man

The Miracle of Tony the Trash Man

A Sermon preached via Live Broadcast

Sirach 26:10: The Headstrong Daughter Facebook Page

Pentecost IX - Proper 13 A

August 2, 2020

 

Whenever I hear this story ofthe feeding of the five thousand, I am immediately transported to that Christmas morning when I was eight years old and the shiny red Radio Flyer Wagon that was waiting for me under the Christmas tree.

 

It wasn’t “brand new” but I didn’t care. My father had gotten it from somewhere – maybe a second-hand store. Maybe from one of the guys at work whose kid had outgrown it. Maybe from the dump. It didn’t matter. Daddy had given it a new coat of red paint, including a slightly less-than-perfect re-tracing of the white letters that said, “Radio Flyer” – complete with a kid in a wagon between ‘Radio’ and ‘Flyer’.

 

It didn’t matter. What mattered is that it was Christmas and I had my very own Radio Flyer wagon and my grandmother was going to be thrilled. It was like a miracle.

 

I already had a Radio Flyer tricycle which I loved. My grandmother and I had devised a way to secure the handle of the wagon to the back of my tricycle so that I could be an even better help to her than I already was. I could hardly wait for Spring so I could help with moving mounds of dirt in the garden, fruits and vegetables in the Summer and, in the Fall, her canned produce from the kitchen to the pantry shelves.

 

My Really Big Business Plan was to collect old newspapers from my neighbors in my wagon, take them home and bind them in twine and then take them to the dump with my father on Saturday morning.

There, the dump man, whose real name was “Tony” but we called him “Bluto” – but never to his face, that would be Mr. Tony – because he was big and bearded and burley and looked like Popeye’s nemesis and rival for Olive Oyl, would weight the newspapers and pay me for them.

 

A half a penny a pound, is what I remember.  I only made a few pennies a week – a few times, a whole dine, but there was a story to that. I kept my “commission” – that’s what Mr. Tony called it – in a large mayonnaise jar I had carefully washed out and dried thoroughly. Once a week, I would wait until my siblings were outside playing and I would sneak into my bedroom and take out my pennies and count them.

 

I remember one day, very clearly, picking up my jar and knowing right away that something was wrong. It felt much lighter than usual. When I looked at it, I knew instantly that someone had been in my penny jar.

 

I could feel the tears burning in my eyes as anger began to spark right under the sense of outrage and betrayal I felt. Who would do this, I asked myself as I twisted open the lid? Immediately, a cascade of Most Wanted posters cascaded in front of my eyes. My brother? No, never. My baby sister? No, she was too young. It had to be Madeline, my immediate younger sister. Had to be. Couldn’t be anyone else!

 

George W. Geezel

I heard myself say to the image of Madeline that danced before my eyes, “I hate you to pieces.” I sounded just like George W. Geezel, a regular patron of the Rough House Cafe, who always said that to his nemesis, Wimpy.

 

When I opened the jar, all the pennies spilled out onto the floor and there, in the sea of copper with flashes of silver, was a slip of paper. I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat and as I leaned over to pick it up from the pile, I instantly recognized my mother’s handwriting.

 

The note said, “I.O.U. two dollars.” At the bottom of the note, my mother had written, “Daddy is on strike. I will pay you when he goes back to work. Thank you. Mom. xoxo”

 

Well, what was I supposed to do? First of all, it was my mother. And second, she didn’t actually steal it. Technically. She took it without my permission but she left a note. So, that’s not really stealing. I guess.

Years later, I could only imagine how desperate and humiliated she must have felt – to have to take money from her child in order to pay the bills or put food on the table. And, she only took what she needed. Nothing more. Nothing less. When I think of her sitting on the floor next to my bed, reaching under to find my mayonnaise jar and counting out exactly 200 pennies . . . . well, it just makes me weep.

 

And third, Daddy was on strike. All the men in my neighborhood were on strike at the factory. As the strike wore on, my grandmother and I used to load up my red wagon with loaves of freshly baked bread from her oven, and a huge pot of soup from her stove teeming with vegetables from her garden which she had canned, and we would go down to the strike line at the factory to feed the men lunch – and, as the strike wore on, their wives and children.

 

No matter how much she made, or how much we brought, or how many adults and children were there, we always seemed to have enough. I never understood how that happened. It was my second experience with what I came to call, “VaVoa’s magic”: making enough soup and bread to feed hungry, desperate people so perhaps there would be enough food at night to fill the children’s bellies so they could sleep.

The first experience of her magic was her tattering – how she could, with one hooked needle and a single thread and the rapid motion of her fingers and hands, produce a web design that would rival any spider’s web. Producing food at the strike line was a very close second.

But, it is the miracle of Tony (AKA “Bluto”) The Trash Man’s that strikes closest to my heart and reminds me most about this morning’s Gospel story of Jesus feeding the five thousand. It also gives me a little insight into this miracle of Jesus.

 

Bluto

My “commission” for the bundles of newspapers was not set by Tony. He did not own the dump He just worked at the dump.

The town owned the dump and Tony worked for the town, but even the town did not set the price.

That dollar (or penny) amount was set by the company with which the town had the contract.

 

Soon after it happened, I remember confiding to Mr. Tony about the loss of 200 pennies from my mayonnaise jar and how I had to make it up, somehow and, if possible, make more to help my family.

He wanted to know if someone stole it. Nah, I said, my mother had to borrow it because, well, you know, Daddy’s on strike.

 

I could see Mr. Tony had great compassion on my situation. I could almost feel his sorrow and for a few seconds, I thought he was going to cry. “Don’t worry, kidd-o,” he said. “It’s all gonna work out. You’ll see.”

 

After that, two things happened. The first was that my commission began to increase. Slowly but surely, what I had guestimated to be around five pounds of newspaper turned out to weigh six or seven pounds on the scale.

I couldn’t believe it. Tony always smiled and said, “I think you been eatin’ your spinach, little lady. You’re getting strong. You think it’s only five pound but it’s really more. Keep eatin’ that spinach. You’ll soon be as strong at Popeye.”

 

It was a couple of weeks later, when I caught a reflection of Tony weighing my newspapers. He had the toe of his boot ever so slightly on the scale. I’m sure that money probably came right out of his pocket. But, he never said a word.

 

The other thing that happened was that more people began to put out more newspapers for me. I mean A-LOT of people and A-LOT more newspapers. Some Saturdays, I’d have 10 or 12 pounds of paper. That’s five or six whole cents – more than double my usual take.

 

It didn’t take long before I not only had replaced the 200 pennies my mother had “borrowed” but I was ready if she needed more without worrying about whether or not she would replace it. (Which, she never did. I’m sure she was just too embarrassed to remember what she had done in her desperation.)

 

I think it was when my grandmother and I were walking out of church one weekday morning after Mass, when I finally learned what had happened. One of the men came up to me and said, “I’ve got a lot of old newspaper to bring to Tony but he said I should give it to you. When are you coming by?”

I told him I would be at his house around 7 AM on Saturday morning and he said, “And, it’s free?”

“Yes, sir,” said I.

“Well, I guess it’s worth it not to have to go to the dump,” he said.

 

That’s when a light bulb went off in my head, just like one of those cartoon characters when they have an idea. It was then I realized that Tony had been getting people to give what they had to support me so I could support my family during the strike. It wasn’t much, but when everyone shared a little bit of what they had, well, it was like some sort of pretty amazing miracle.

 

How did Jesus turn five loaves and two fishes into enough to feed five thousand? Well, first he sent out his disciples to see what was already there. Then, he made the people sit down.

Jacob and the Angel

Author and theologian and teacher Parker Palmer imagines that, when the people sat down, they began to talk to each other. Then, they took stock of what they had; after which, they started to share with each other, and, with that, everyone had more than enough to eat. Indeed, they even had some left over.

 

There are lots of miracles in this Gospel story – beyond the fish and the bread. There’s the miracle of compassion. The miracle of kindness. The miracle of generosity. And, the greatest miracle of all is the miracle of community.

 

Those qualities – compassion, kindness, generosity, community – seem to be in short supply these days, don’t they? I’m here to tell you they are not. Jesus said, “They need not go away; you give them something to eat. They replied, ‘We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.’ And he said, ‘Bring them here to me.’”

 

When we take what we have and bring it to Jesus, we have everything we need, especially when we share with others and they, in turn, share with us. That’s the important lesson Jesus taught that day, in that deserted place.

 

Oh, that and, sometimes, you have to balance the scales yourself. For others. Because the justice of Jesus requires taking a few risks.

And, sacrifice. Because, just as Jacob learned, when you are hoping for a blessing or a miracle, sometimes you have to wrestle with angels.

And, when you wrestle with an angel, sometimes, you are so deeply touched that you walk away with a limp, and you are changed and transformed and will never again be the same.

 

Amen.