Delivered at St. Jude's Episcopal Church in Wantagh, NY
July 22, 2012 (C) C. B. Park, All rights reserved
I
have lots of good memories about growing up in rural Indiana: creating
playhouses in fallow cornfields, finding Indian arrowheads in the
backyard, and being chased by our Shetland Sheepdog. Probably my
favorite memory of all is Sunday dinner at Monie’s house. Monie is my
mom’s mom. She and Patti (my grandfather) moved from Kentucky to
Indiana to secure jobs at the Studebaker plant and White House clothing
factory. It was at Monie’s house that I learned all about good southern
cooking. You know, all the stuff that’s bad for you: bacon-laced green
beans, fried chicken, okra, biscuits and gravy, and fruit pies with
crusts made with lard.
It’s no wonder I have cholesterol issues.
It
was only when I was composing the sermon for her funeral 8 years ago
that I realized the sacramental significance of those dinners. Sunday
dinner wasn’t just about eating. It was about becoming family. It was
about taking time to really be with each other. It was about Sabbath.
I’m
not talking about Sabbath in a do-nothing sort of way. I’m talking
about Sabbath where we set time aside to be thankful for what we had and
were borne up on the love of family.
We were loved
because we were, not because of what we did or said or accomplished. We
were appreciated for just being. Oh, there was plenty of work involved
in those Sunday dinners, Monie and my mom finished things in the
kitchen, my sister and I set the table, and my dad and grandfather made
sure there were enough chairs around the table.
We told
stories at those Sunday dinners. There were fun stories about my
grandparents and parents growing up. They were rural people and so
there were all sorts of tales about animals and crops and the silly
things that kids did back then. We made our own stories too, kidding
each other about a bad dish of creamed peas or how Patti burned his
wrist on the turkey candle one year. My son was lucky. While he never
got to experience his great-grandfather, he did get the chance to
experience Monie’s Sunday dinners when he was growing up. Leaving that
table stuffed full of carbs made for a sleepy boy driving back to
Columbus!
Monie’s Sunday dinner table wasn’t only for
family, though. So many times we pulled the table apart for one more
leaf and a few more chairs so that a friend or visitor could join us. I
learned hospitality at that table. I learned about taking a little
less so that others could have something. Funny how the resources
always seemed to stretch to feed us all.
I think this is
why that sentence in today’s gospel makes me so sad. “For many were
coming and going, and they had no leisure even to eat.” I can’t imagine
a more vivid image for our lives in 21st century America. There are
days when I look at my watch and realize that it’s 2 pm and I haven’t
taken time for lunch! That’s when I end up in a fast-food
drive-through, stuffing my face with something unhealthy, and
rationalizing it by saying ‘well, that’s just the way it is.”
The
sin in this isn’t that I’m eating fast-food. Well, okay, maybe that’s a
part of it. The real problem is that I haven’t allowed myself any
Sabbath time. In a culture that moves 24/7, we must carve out for
ourselves time to rest, reflect, and remember that we are valuable for
who we are – beloved children of God. I’m beginning to understand that
the reason there is so much table fellowship described in the Bible is
because that is where we share the Sabbath with each other. It is at
table with family and friends where we experience God incarnate.
Have
you ever had those “God” moments at a dinner table with your spouse or
your children or a good friend. It’s like having time stand still and
you’re overcome with the sheer reality of the love that is surrounding
you.
Have you ever dined alone, closed your eyes and had
the aroma of the food you’re eating transport you to a familiar kitchen
where a beloved relative was making something special just for you? All
those memories, all those stories, they weave themselves in and out of
your conscientiousness like wisps of steam transporting the smell of
cinnamon and butter. You and your loved ones, living and dead, are
brought together in an instant created by remembered stories and God’s
presence with us. You want to linger there as long as possible.
But,
alas, we cannot stay there forever. Life reminds us that we can’t just
sit at the table, we have work to do, meetings to attend, deadlines to
meet. Nor can we can stay forever at the Lord’s Table. Our mission is
in the world, bringing Good News of God’s love to the broken hearted,
feeding the hungry, fixing what we can, and committing what we cannot
fix to God’s own healing. However, we can come away from this Table
knowing we are always welcome to return, and of course invited to bring a
friend because there is always room for one more.
I invite you to take note, this week, of how you spend your time in food consumption.
Will
you rush through, or take some time to be still and have a picnic with
Jesus? Will you grab something to go, or will you make time to have
lunch with your colleagues and engage them in conversation? Will you
sit down to dinner, or lunch or breakfast, with your family? Perhaps
you have time to share a snack together. Dining alone? Turn off the
television and give yourself a gift of divine recollections.
Remember, you’re not just eating, you’re making room for memories.
You’re making room for God.
Amen.
