On the Altars of the World
The Rev. Timothy B. Safford`
September 20, 2009
Back in my California days, one of
my priestly duties was to serve as president of the church’s homeless
shelter. And, a duty of being
president was to raise money for the shelter.
We served meals, and each Tuesday
dinner, one volunteer in particular would show up, go to the sink, pull on
long, yellow rubber gloves, grab kitchen cleanser, and proceed with the worst
job in the kitchen—scrubbing out the burnt government surplus cheese from large
casserole pans.He never missed a
Tuesday. He never wanted to serve
the supper, which surprised me, because most people who volunteer want to serve
dinner to the homeless; to do so works makes them feel better about themselves
and their affluence. This man just
wanted to scrub the pots—the work new volunteers were never willing to do.
“You should ask him for money,” a
kitchen volunteer whispered to me on Tuesday. “He drives a really nice car.” I paid no heed. If this man were rich, he didn’t act that way. The rich and powerful, I knew, act “that way” even when they
try not to act that way.
One afternoon, I was at the barber,
and thumbed through the magazine Vanity Fair, and stopped on the article, “The 50 most powerful people in Hollywood.” Staring back at me was my Tuesday
dinner volunteer, #13 on the list, maker of some of the biggest deals, and
crowner of some of Hollywood’s biggest queens and kings.
So, the next Tuesday, I asked him
to lunch, suggesting a posh, hip fashionable place where Hollywood moguls would
eat. He said he could have a quick
breakfast on the way to work, and suggested IHOP.
I did what I do. He said yes to the Finance Committee,
then the Board, and when it was time to build the new building, he chaired the effort,
and brought along some of his bigshot friends, and the building was built. I told him that at the celebration
dinner to conclude the project, we wanted to honor him. He checked his calendar and said,
“No.”
Our fancy dinner was
scheduled for a Tuesday, and he was scheduled to be scrubbing out the pots
among the homeless, hungry and lost. Seeing my disappointment, and a look that communicated that I thought he
could miss one Tuesday, he asked me, “Which is more important?” I couldn’t answer; my mouth went dry.
In the gospel reading, the mouths
of the disciples went dry when Jesus asked them what they argued about along
the way. They could not tell him
they bickered and boasted about whom among them was the greatest, the most
powerful, the most important. “Whoever wants to be first, must be last,” Jesus told them.“You must be a slave to all.”
The Christian life, the life of
discipleship, is about finding comfort in God’s constant reversing of the
expected and exploding of the obvious. My Tuesday dinner volunteer knew he was rich and powerful, and he knew
that gave him obligations for charity and leadership with his money and
influence. But he also knew that
if he ever abandoned the burnt cheese in the casseroles, he would no longer be
the servant that Christ had called him to be. He would go from being last—which in the unexpected
reversals of God is really first—to thinking that he was first in the wisdom of
the world—which really puts you last in the economy of God.
That kitchen sink, wearing his long
rubber gloves, amidst the incense of kitchen cleanser and the odor of the
homeless, with the grease from the cheap meat being the unction of healing—that
was his place of worship. There
was his altar in the world. In
that unexpected corner, the God of unexpectedness met him. Only in the unexpected place, did all
of the unexpectedness of Jesus make sense: that in losing life, life is gained; in being lost, the lost
are found; in being meek, the meek are powerful; in being struck on one cheek,
allowing the other to be struck; to hate not the most feared enemy, but to love
him; to ask not for retribution, but offer forgiveness; to store not treasures
on earth, but in poverty in this life to have riches hoped for in the life
still unseen; to forgo the wisdom of the world for the foolishness of God.
Each of us must seek God on the altars of the world, and be
assured that God has left upon that altar engraved with our name a battered
casserole pan with burnt cheese in the corner.
Note: I am often asked, "Is that a true story?" Yes, this story is true. If I were asked, "Did it happen exactly that way?" well, that's another matter. A preacher's license, if there is such a thing, leads to the combining of people and experiences into one; or so I am told.