The God of Peeled Oranges…and Apples

It’s Monday morning. The moment I wake, I am instantly alert, a memory already rolling through my mind. Whether I was dreaming the memory or whether it jarred me from slumber, I don’t know. Regardless, I am reliving—clear as day—the moment when Tim, a dear friend and father figure of sorts, who has since passed away, told me of his morning ritual. 

He said his then-teenage daughter was hurting and angry, and often refused to acknowledge him or his wife. So every morning, he sat with her at the kitchen table and simply peeled her orange. Just to be near her. Sometimes she acknowledged him. Often she didn’t. But every morning, he showed up at the breakfast table. Just to peel her orange.

The second this memory fades from my mind, a phrase promptly follows. It’s quiet and simple yet succinct. I “hear,” although not with my ears, “This is the God I am. I would sit and peel your orange every morning, just to be with you.”

These words ripple and tremor through my body, and I lie in bed a long while, stunned. Considering their possibility. Doubting their veracity. Questioning my “hearing.”

Often, I fear I am in a one-way relationship with the Divine; if I don’t reach out for Him, He’ll never reach out for me. In my mind, I don’t actually believe this; I’ve occasionally experienced God as closer to me than I to myself. Still, lately, I can’t quite seem to convince my heart to feel otherwise. I have a hard time believing He initiates.

Rising from bed, I share my experience with our Boston priest-friend, Fr. Anthony, via text. He quickly replies, “This is beyond beautiful. I am so grateful to God. That is a fragile seedling. Cultivate and protect it. Sit with the Lord at the kitchen table and invite him to peel not only your orange, but also your apple. ‘Wash not only my feet but my head also,’ said Peter after denying Christ the opportunity to serve him at first. Christ said if you do not allow me to ‘peel an orange’ for you, you have no part with me. NOW YOU DO. Stay with him. He is FATHER, MOTHER, SISTER, BROTHER, AND ALSO A FRIEND. In the Armenian language, the word friend literally means a person you share bread with. Receive him because he offered the Bread of Life.”

These words leave me feeling once again stunned, and something in me stirs uncomfortably. Fr. Anthony’s suggestion feels audacious, and I cringe at the thought of asking Christ for anything more than He’s potentially offered. An apple as well as an orange?! Already, I struggle asking anyone for anything, let alone a deity who’s “peeling oranges” at my kitchen table. I find myself cocking my head, straining to gain a new vantage point from which to consider these words. Yet, no matter my degree of contortion—I stop just shy of standing on my head—I can’t quite seem to wrap my brain around this concept. 

I decide to follow Fr. Anthony’s suggestion: cultivate, protect, sit with, and invite. 

It seems a better alternative than standing on my head.

*

It’s now Wednesday morning. I’ve been practicing inviting God to “peel oranges at my kitchen table” for two days and have grown acutely aware of several roadblocks: 

Scenario 1: I am sitting at the table and invite God to join me. This is problematic because, once again, I am the initiator and He, the responder. I decide this is not theologically correct.

Scenario 2: We are sitting at the table together. I extend my orange and ask Him to peel it. Once again, I am the initiator. No, this scenario does not work either.

Scenario 3: God is already sitting at the table, and I decide to join Him…no, this does not feel right either; this version of God is overly passive. I am sensing a personal problem with perceiving God as an initiator. 

Scenario 4: I shift gears. God is already seated at the table, and this time, He summons me to join Him. I feel immediately fearstruck, childlike. What have I done wrong? Where have I performed less than my best? Here, I recognize an old childhood wound. I apologize to God like I’m breaking up with Him. Sorry God. This one’s on me. It’s not You.

Scenario 5: I imagine a more polite version of God. This time, He invites me to join Him. Immediate roadblock. I’m stuck and can’t go any further. Why would God even invite me to join Him in the first place?

Finally, after much wrestling, I give myself permission to create a scenario that feels right, one that satisfies the longings of my heart:

Scenario 6: I can’t quite envision God, so I make an accommodation and simply picture myself as the angry, wounded daughter, and substitute Tim as the placeholder for a loving God. In this scenario, neither of us shows up first. Somehow, we’re magically just both…there, even though I know in my heart that he’s been there way longer because my place and breakfast were already set and prepared. We sit at the table in silence, me poking at my food, longing to unburden myself, knowing I’ve done so many things to distance myself from him, from his unconditional love. But I’m tongue-tied. I can’t think of a thing to say, so I just sit there with downcast eyes, shoving food around my plate. Mercifully, Tim reaches for my orange and wordlessly begins peeling it—one spiral, then another. And with every twist of his wrist, with every little white fiber he meticulously picks from my orange, something in me softens, and I slowly allow myself to just be. I allow my self-judgment to slip away along with my shame, my fears, and my feelings of unworthiness. In time, I allow myself a tiny glance into Tim’s kind and gentle understanding eyes. He hands my orange back to me, and I accept it with humble, quiet gratitude. We sit together at the kitchen table peacefully—just being. I chomp down on orange segments, letting the juice carelessly run down my chin, and I can feel his gaze upon me, amused. Delighted even. After finishing, I grab the apple on my plate, and, without a second thought, casually extend it to Tim. “Peel my apple too, please?” I brazenly ask, and I’m not one bit surprised to find his knife already open in his hand. He’s been eagerly waiting for me to just ask.

*

It’s Wednesday evening. This week is Holy Week for us Orthodox Christians, and tonight we are attending a service called “Holy Unction,” during which we will be anointed with oil. We arrive early so Arin can help Fr. Anthony prepare. I am sitting in the pews, alongside a few long-standing members, when Fr. Anthony breezes in the side church doors, his vestments flapping behind him. I think nothing of this and glance down to continue reading my book. But then a motion catches my eye, and I realize Fr. Anthony is bypassing the altar and heading straight for me. Immediately, a lump forms in my throat, and I want to disappear. I can’t help it. It’s spontaneous, uncontrollable, and I immediately recognize the feeling of unworthiness. Still, he greets me warmly, extends a friendly hug, and I tentatively, but oh-so-gratefully, receive it. 

Initiator…responder. 

Father…wounded child. 

God…humanity.

I can’t yet fully get to God; many personal roadblocks still hinder me. But somehow, despite my downcast eyes and my shame, fears, and feelings of unworthiness, God has condescended and robed Himself in garments of flesh. I catch traces of Him in Tim, in Fr. Anthony, my husband, and many other loving individuals in my life. 

Through them, I find it significantly easier to believe in a God who peels not only oranges but also apples.

*

I am as great as God, he is as small as I. 

—Angelus Silesuis, German mystic