don't eat alone

My semi-regular Sunday synthesis of NPR and morning worship began in my kitchen and a segment on Weekend Edition Sunday called “Reminder: Our Memories are Less Reliable Than We Think.” Charles Fernyhough, a researcher from England, has written a book called Pieces of Light that looks at how memory works and what we carry with us as we go. As he talked about what scientists are learning about memory — and that often we remember things from a third person point of view, he said,

There’s something weird going on with memory. The scientists are telling us that memory is a reconstruction, and yet we, as people, tend to stick to our old-fashioned ideas that memory works like a video camera, for example, that it just records, and it files things away in mental DVDs that we can pull down and set playing. And in a way, that’s not surprising, because we see memories as foundational for who we are. We commonly feel that we are our memories; our memories define us. So something needs to change. … Accepting that memories are not literal representations of the past as it happened doesn’t mean that we have to forget about them or start disbelieving them all. But they’re shaped by who we are now. They’re shaped by what we feel, what we believe, what our biases are.

His words came back into view as I listened to the gospel reading in church, John 12:1-8, which is the account — the memory, if you will — of Mary anointing Jesus’ feet.

Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, “Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?” (He said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.) Jesus said, “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”

Scholars wrestle over when the gospels were written, but no matter when one dates the documents it stands to reason Jesus was long gone before anyone started writing anything down. Jesus didn’t have an official biographer; no one made transcripts of his sermons and parables. They remembered. And when they remembered scenes like the one described above, they looked through all that had happened in between. In recalling Judas’ words, for example, John couldn’t help but also remember Judas betraying Jesus to the authorities. All the gospel writers have their moments where they remind us Judas was no good from the start. Whether they knew it in real time is indiscernible; when they re-membered the events — when they put the pieces back together — they couldn’t do it without recalling the damage he did that last night in the Garden, and so most every time he is mentioned the writers insert, “the one who betrayed Jesus.”

When I was in high school, I remember my father preaching a series of sermons on the disciples. The one on Judas was titled, “What Have You Done to My Name?” The quote that sticks with me was Dad saying, “He so defiled the name that no one would even name their dog Judas.” Of course, my brother and I tried to name the next three dogs we got after the disgraced disciple. Down two millennia of Christian memories, we have put him back together not as one of the twelve, or the treasurer, or anything else but the one who betrayed Jesus.

Here’s the thing. He wasn’t the only one. Peter denied Jesus three times, even cursing his name, yet he wasn’t remembered as a betrayer. Almost every last one of them deserted Jesus in his final moments on the cross. But when those stories were re-membered, they became wonderful tales of grace and redemption. Peter dove out of the boat and swam to breakfast; Judas jumped from a tree limb and hung himself. I don’t think it’s as simple as, “he was rotten from the start.” Fernyhough said our memories are “by what we feel, what we believe, what our biases are.” Such seems to be the case even among the gospel writers.

I realize none of them was writing an exhaustive biography of Jesus, much less the disciples. We get but glimpses of all of the twelve, not full character development. Yet, as I have ruminated during the day, I’ve wondered why Peter thought he could return and Judas didn’t. And then it took me to thinking about a couple of old friends who have gotten written out of my story, though in far less dramatic fashion. Through some recent discussions, I’ve been thinking about friends — close friends — who are not so close anymore. No, that’s too much of an understatement. I’ve wondered what to do about once vital friendships that have grown unessential. I guess I should say I’ve been wondering about my part in the distance. After hearing the NPR segment this morning, I’ve been wondering if how I remember the past creates any possibility for us to find each other or chooses instead to learn to live without them. In a couple of cases, we just drifted apart; in a couple of others, we have some damage to deal with. The task, it seems either way, is whether I want to remember them as a relic of the past or a relationship that matters.

When I read John’s words about  “the betrayer,” I wonder how the story would read had Judas had a chance to tell it. And then I imagine Judas walking up on the beach not long after Peter had climbed out of the water. With all my heart I believe Jesus would have fed him and then said, “Judas, do you love me? — Feed my sheep.”

Peace,
Milton

For most of the past week I’ve been looking forward to a surprise.

Ginger told me she had an adventure planned for this morning. Last night she told me I needed to be ready to walk out the door at eight. I was, even though I had no earthly idea where we were going. We drove out highway 70 and then to I-540, which wraps north of Raleigh, following it until it ended into another state highway that took us down Lizard Lick Road and then one more turn that brought us into the heart of Zebulon, North Carolina.

As we drove, she would intermittently start laughing and say, “This may be the craziest thing I’ve ever taken you to do.”

I was the navigator looking for 410 W. Gannon Street. Downtown was slipping by: the Family Dollar Store, the Dollar General, the Dollar Tree. As we approached a shopping center that was located about where I had discerned the  number of the address would be, I said, “Well, there’s a Piggly Wiggly.”

She started laughing again. “I’m taking you to the Piggly Wiggly.” We had driven an hour to join in the celebration of the store’s second anniversary. She had heard it advertised on a drive home from Charlotte last week. I’ve always been rather fascinated with the store. Most of it, I think is because of the name. I love the name. Two Christmases ago, she gave me a t-shirt. This morning she took me to an actual store. I was elated. And amused. My wife is awesome.

In the parking lot in front of the store was a big Trailways type bus tricked out to advertise North Carolina agriculture, a giant grocery cart that had an engine in it, a tent for a local radio station that was giving away all kinds of swag, a fire truck, two food tents that had hot dogs and ham biscuits, and a refrigerated semi-truck with a “Truckload Meat Deals” banner down the side. Inside the store there were people at the end of almost every aisle with some sort of barbecue meat or sauce.

Trust me, it was worth the drive.

The assistant store manager was standing on the back of the meat truck when we walked up. He greeted us and gave us a tour of what was inside and told us about the store and their plans for the day. He was pride and enthusiasm were contagious. Inside the store, which still seemed shiny and new, the employees were engaging and fun. They seemed a little fascinated that we had driven up from Durham to take part in the festivities and they were happy to include us in what was mostly a hometown happening.

After we finished there, Ginger and I walked over to the Old Town Cafe across the street. As we drank our coffee, I said, “There’s something wonderful about a town small enough to make a big deal about a grocery store’s birthday.” As my day went on, my words kept circling back and I began to realize those kind of personal connections are what matter most, regardless of how big the town is. I thought about how much fun we have had celebrating the opening of Cocoa Cinnamon or standing in line the first morning that Monuts was open — we were our own little Zebulon, gathered around our friends and sharing in seeing their dreams come true.

One of the things I learned about the folks from Midtown Fellowship in Nashville was they had decided the best way to grow in real community was not to see how big they could get, but to figure out ways to grow new connected congregations that let everyone be in a sort of small town church — not more than about 300 people. When they get bigger than that, they break off and start new neighborhood congregations to make being together a face to face proposition.

I’m a city guy. I love busy streets and bustling activity. I like living downtown and walking through the middle of everyone else’s life, whether it be Boston or Durham. Much of what engages me is finding the community that exists in the midst of the apparent anonymity. The names we remember. The rituals we share. The way life becomes personal and connected. The way we learn to celebrate openings and anniversaries and other things that matter only to us. The best of life is built on parking lot celebrations and neighborhood block parties and things no one else knows about — unless of course, you’re married to the amazing kind of person that thinks driving through Lizard Lick to get to the Piggly Wiggly Party is the stuff dreams are made of.

During our Poverty in Durham series, one of the presenters offered a familiar quote by Margaret Mead:

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.

Even though we are still a couple of weeks away from the end of Lent and the return of our alleluias, I offer a paraphrase: never miss a chance to share in the joy of a small group of celebrating, enthusiastic people, because it’s how we remember we were made to pull for each other. Let’s look for reasons to throw a party, to offer an affirmation, and to cook hot dogs in the parking lot. Let’s do all we can to foster and feed joy in one another, and to look for the small connections that keep the overwhelming nature of existence in perspective. And let’s give thanks for those who will wake us up early to go to the Piggly Wiggly for no other reason than it seems like fun.

Peace,
Milton

About two weeks after I started substitute teaching at Charlestown High School — over twenty years ago — the assistant headmaster called me into her office one day after school and said, “You like English, right?” By the time the conversation ended, I was filling in for one of the English teachers who hurt his back. “He’ll be out about a month,” she said. He came back in April. I went up to the room to see what he had left and there was one file folder with attendance sheets for his five classes with thirty-two students each. Thus began the Year of No Sleep and Great Learning. (Wait — I’ve had several of those.)

I quickly developed a routine. I got up about 4:30 so I could be in the building at 5:30 when it opened — that meant I could get to the copier without facing a line. The school day ran from 7:15 until 2:30; I would stay and work for an hour or so, come home and work on lesson plans and do what else needed to be done, and then get what sleep I could so I could get up and do it again. I held on to two pieces of advice that saved me in those early days. The first was from Ginger. Everyday as I left for school, she would say, “Remember not to take their behavior personally.” My school was made up of urban kids, most of them poor and seventy percent of them nonnative English speakers. All but about fifteen percent of them lived in another part of the city and had to negotiate trains and buses to get to school by 7:15. And they were teenagers. Their angst and anger spewed out all over the place and often I was the one who got caught in the crosshairs. When I did remember what was getting thrown at me had nothing to do with me I was able to do more than exacerbate the problem by joining in the power struggle.

The second thing came from Jeter Basden, who was a seminary professor, friend, and member of University Baptist Church in Fort Worth when I was youth minister there. I asked him to do some teacher training for my Sunday School teachers. He began by writing a sentence on the board:

I teach students the Bible.

“You tell me the direct object of the verb teach and I’ll tell you what kind of teacher you are going to be,” he said. After a short discussion, he continued, “If you think the Bible is the direct object, you are going to be frustrated and ineffective. If you think students is the direct object, you can read from the phone book and change lives.”

I didn’t know how to teach English, but I did know how to teach kids. So I asked them to write their stories and then I looked for stories to read together that would help us all communicate better. After a couple of weeks, we found an equilibrium that allowed me to not operate in constant crisis mode. The problem for me was I had never been in a high school English classroom as a teacher. I didn’t know if what was happening in our room was normal or effective or awesome or ridiculous. There were three other English teachers — all veterans — on my floor, so I went to each one and asked if I could come by on my off period and just sit in the back of the room to observe and see if what happened in my room bore any resemblance. All three said, “No.”

The science teacher across the hall befriended me and offered me a seat in the back of his room. His kindness allowed me room to develop the courage to ask him to cross the hall into my room: “Come, tell me what you see,” I asked.

The story came back to mind last week as I looked back over some of my travels with the book. I have been in several different flavors of churches, if you will, and I have been struck by how little we talk to each other outside of our closest circles, how little we ask to sit in the back of the room. We have much to learn from those who don’t do it the way we do. I love that many mainline churches are working to be more evangelistic, but often it seems they tend to consult one another about how to do it rather than ask those who have been doing evangelism for years. In the same way, the energy of the emergent movement is exciting as they embrace the inclusive power of the gospel and they aren’t the first ones to discover it; some of their mainline friends could offer words of wisdom and encouragement. And it’s not just with churches. In everything from local city councils to state legislatures to big nonprofits to families, we aren’t very practiced at saying, “Tell me how you handle this issue. I need help.”

I would love to be able to tell you that every year I taught I went and asked if I could sit in the back of the room during my planning period, but I only did it my first year, and only that one time. I found my rhythm and developed my way of doing things. As an extrovert, I thrive on connectedness, so I have always liked to collaborate, yet I continue to realize I need more conversations about sharing our “best practices.” One of the great things about working in a restaurant kitchen is sharing knowledge is essential to success. At the computer store, one of the first things they told us in training was to not be afraid to admit we don’t know something. If a customer stumps us, the best thing we can say is, “I don’t know, but let’s find out together.”

At the core of what both Jeter and Ginger taught me is the truth — whether in the classroom or sanctuary or any other room in life — that I am not called to be the expert; I am called to be a participant, or perhaps a facilitator, which means sharing and listening are at the heart of the deal. I am both teacher and student, depending on the moment, which has less to do with a power structure and more to do with the question at hand. Sometimes I am both simultaneously. In either case, my world is as big or as small as my questions.

And there’s always something to learn if I am willing to ask, “Come, tell me what you see.”

Peace,
Milton

one afternoon long ago I stumbled
upon Albert Einstein sitting on a stair
a map of the constellations at his feet
what I remember is the playful look
in his eye — as though the universe
was intended as a source of joy

today is his birthday — and Pi Day
which he would actually understand;
me — I chose, instead, to bake pies
and fill up our table with friends
who would share an evening of pies
as though it was our best offering

you don’t have to be a rocket scientist
to understand how the world is changed
when friends eat and drink and talk
as though their lives depended on it:
the world is held together by dinner tables —
nothing matters more than together

Peace,
Milton

Sometimes you get on a roll — I mean I get on a roll and I forget things I already know. Last night I got going on the idea that Jesus didn’t sing and it all fell together so nicely until I got up this morning to find notes from a couple of friends reminding me of Mark 14:26:

When they had sung the hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives.

After the shared their last supper, Mark says they sang. The verse is not obscure. In fact, it is part of the closing of our Communion service every month. Ginger says the verse and then we all sing together and go out, but to Coffee Hour instead of the Mount of Olives. I read the comments and smiled at myself. Mark writes as though “the hymn” was something they knew and sang regularly — or so it seems as I read his words tonight. I hear the word hymn and I’m going through a list of songs that Jesus knew nothing about. Whatever they sang would have been a Hebrew song out of their Jewish tradition; no one in the room knew anything about being a Christian.

But they sang together. I’m glad to be reminded of such an obvious moment.

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Tonight I came across this report from NPR about a class Billy Joel taught at Vanderbilt. During the question and answer time, a student named Mark Pollack told Joel that “New York State of Mind” was his favorite song and asked if he could come up and play it with him. Billy told him to come on up and the young man played as he sang. It’s one of my favorites, too, and this version ranks up their with the best of them: the courage of the kid to ask and the generosity of Billy Joel to share the stage and risk the song.

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In years past, I have posted a Lenten Soundtrack, which has consisted of regularly offering clips of songs that help me through the season. Though I have not been as frequent this year, tonight feels like a good night to include one of the songs I keep coming back to in my life: “LIttle Victories” by J. D. Souther.

in my hometown and family circles
they seem unsure and unempowered
oh, they don’t understand and you can’t help that
though you can love so hard, that never comes back
till you just can’t take it for one more hour

little victories
I know you need one
little victories

I know it hurts sometimes to look around
the sameness of it beats you down
and the best seems all behind before you start

little victories
I know you need one
little victories of the heart

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I got a text from my nephew Ben telling me he was at the Emmylou Harris and Rodney Crowell concert in New Orleans, where they are opening their national tour. I gave him their new record for his birthday last week. I will let the title track be our benediction:

we are
following stars
way cross the sky
round an old yellow moon

Peace,
Milton

I can remember buying the record. Vinyl. 1979 — my first year in seminary and her first record, self-titled: Rickie Lee Jones. The radio hit was “Chuck E.’s in Love,” but the record was full of great things beyond what was fed to the general public. I loved the abandon with which she sang and played, the mix of sounds and rhythms, the way she chewed up her words to make you work to understand what she was saying.

I loved that record and I had not thought about it in I don’t know how long until Sunday at Downtown Presbyterian Church in Nashville. One of the announcements printed in the worship guide was an invitation to a church work day, which said something to the effect of, “If you have been planning to do something special for Lent and haven’t gotten around to it, here is your ‘Last Chance Texaco’ for Lent: come to the work day.” I had to hand it to Alan, the guy responsible for the announcement, pulling the title of a  deep cut from a thirty-five year old album as your reference point was a bold and creative move. And there were six or seven of us in the congregation that actually knew the song.

it’s your last chance
to check under the hood
it’s your last chance
she ain’t soundin’ too good,
your last chance
to trust the man with the star
you’ve found the last chance Texaco

I know that because Ken, the pastor, asked who knew the song. Those of us who raised our hands were, as they say, of a certain age. Somewhere on my journey home yesterday, as I listened to Emmylou Harris and Patty Griffin, it struck me that none of the gospel writers talk about Jesus making music. For all of the songs and hymns that are a part of Christian history, there is no record of Jesus singing or playing or even listening to music. The New Testament doesn’t have a soundtrack.

How did I not notice that before?

In my mind, they were singing all along — as they walked from place to place, as they gathered for meals and discussions, as the fished. Even at the Last Supper, I have an image of them singing together around the table. I can’t imagine being with Jesus and not singing, even though the gospel writers didn’t think it was important to mention. Even talking about the gospels sets me singing along with Emmylou Harris and Robert Duvall. I am incredulous, most of all, because I find so much gospel in the music around me that I guess I have always imagined the converse to be true. Life and faith are both full of melody and harmony and poetry.

Maybe that’s one of the reasons I am so pulled by things like Godspell and The Cotton Patch Gospel, both of which put Jesus to music. Years ago, when I had the chance to sit in the Garden of Gethsemane, I found myself singing,

on the willows there
we hung up our lyres
for our captives there
required of us songs
and our tormentors mirth

because it felt like what they might have sung. Whether or not Jesus ever sang a note, the truth of our faith could not have survived the centuries had it not been carried by words and music. May we all keep singing.

Peace,
Milton

Last week at my church’s series on Poverty in Durham, one of the speakers said the biggest difference between those who hit on hard times and end up homeless and those who hit upon hard times and do not is the latter have a network — they have people to turn to who will help them out or take them in. As I have said before, life is a team sport. We need each other. Desperately.

I thought about her words as I wound through the Smoky Mountains on my way back to Durham from Nashville where I spent the last four days with friends. I started to say I was there for book-related events, but the real reason I was there was because of friends who asked me to come and talk about the book, or to cook dinner, or both. My soundtrack for much of the trip was a record called “stone water wood light” by my friend, Christopher Williams, who was the main reason I went over the mountain in the first place. The chorus of one of the songs says

I want to be seized by the power
seized by the power
seized by the power of great affection.

That’s exactly what happened to me, thanks to the man who was singing me home. Christopher called about two weeks ago and did more than invite me. He told me about an “evening of extravagant hospitality” his church was planning to surprise their pastor on the occasion of his ordination, and he told me about Evie Coates, who was cooking the dinner, and then he said, “I want you to come and bring your book and be a part of the evening.” Then he spent another fifteen minutes talking about other ideas he had about how to help me get the word out about Keeping the Feast. I put the word out that I was coming to Nashville and two other friends opened their homes. Joy and Todd Jordan-Lake not only hosted a chili supper and gave me a place to sleep, but also made connections at Downtown Presbyterian Church in Nashville. Lynnette and Sam Davidson opened their home for a Sunday night gathering and invited their friends. My weekend was wall to wall.

Friday night, one of the people at the chili supper asked what I had learned from the experience of writing the book. Had I known of Christopher’s song at the time, I would have said, “I have learned what it feels like to be seized by the power of great affection.” The only words I had were to say I had been overwhelmed by unsolicited encouragement. (I like the phrase, it just doesn’t sing as well.) I am both grateful and amazed by the way people have taken chunks of their lives and spent them on me. None of those who welcomed me this weekend were sitting around with big holes in their lives waiting to be filled. They made room. They made time. They offered grace with skin on. And they seized me with their great affection.

Sunday at Downtown Church, Ken Locke preached on the Prodigal Son using an artistic interpretation of the parable provided by one of the children in the church. For Lent, they are letting the kids draw the covers to the worship guides. Ken said the class had talked about hugs as a way to show love, and so the artist drew a picture of the father welcoming back his once lost son and Ken talked about the “hugs and kisses crazy love” of God — the power of great affection. When the young man had squandered everything, he had somewhere to go, someone who loved him no matter what.

I traveled over the mountains to the far country because of friends determined to incarnate their crazy love by including and encouraging me. I came home tonight to Ginger the crazy love that has sustained me for almost twenty-three years. In between, I listened to Christopher sing and watched the clouds embrace the mountains and glided home on gratitude.

In our discussions about hunger and poverty, one point that has been repeated is the issue is one of distribution, not quantity. There is enough food; it’s just not getting to everyone. Could not the same be said for love? There is enough, it’s just not getting to everyone. So Christopher sings in the final verse of the song:

there are orphans in the trenches fighting for their lives
held captive by injustices so evil and devised
and millions of thirsty people with simple basic needs
I feel each story but walk away and don’t do anything
so wreck my heart and make me different than I’ve been
your love will make me strong so I can walk on in
I want to join the saints as they come marching in
I want to be seized by the power seized by the power
I want to be seized by the power of the great affection

Me, too, Christopher. Me, too.

Peace,
Milton

Tonight I am grateful that grace abounds.

I have been in Nashville since Friday for several book-related events, most all of which have centered around gathering with friends and most all of them have gone late into the evening before the conversations stopped — or at least before I quit talking. I have not, therefore, kept my promise to write everyday during Lent.

I will get back to writing tomorrow. I am thankful for the days here.

Peace,

Milton