Thanksgiving 2017: The Kid's Table

I never liked sitting at the kids’ table.

With a large crowd each year at Thanksgiving, and people from many families, there was never enough room at the big table. The youngest were assigned to sit elsewhere, off to the side or, even worse, in the kitchen, at what was referred to as “the kids’ table.” Even though I was sitting with those my own age, I looked longingly at the big table and wondered what it was like to sit there. Even though we could talk about things we cared about, like the latest TV shows and who had a boy or girlfriend, I wondered what they talked about at the big table.

In time, I graduated from the kids’ table. I sat in seat wedged between a beloved aunt and an unfamiliar guest at the corner of the table where my legs were forced to navigate a table leg. My mother had me in clear sight to ensure I behaved like I belonged at the big table. The food was the same, but talking about politics and recent marital scandals made the turkey taste dry.

Over the years, my seat improved, and, when there was a wine glass at my seat, I felt like I had arrived. Even the conversations became interesting. No longer at the corner, with room on either side, I noticed the table was not as full as it had once been. I realized my seat came because someone else had not filled it. There was room at the big table because others were absent. I was now one of the old people sitting at the big table.

“To everything there is a season,” someone quoted, when I pointed out the change. Might as well have said, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” I want everyone to come back. I want Thanksgiving to be the way it used to be.

I want to go back to sitting at the kids’ table.

Barnacles

I grew up going to the Jersey Shore, in a small town a mile long. The beaches weren’t as crowded as the ones to the North and South, and I loved to wander along the ocean’s edge for hours. Up from where I’d enter the beach were a series of jetties, and I always gravitated in their direction.

Built to protect the shoreline and the houses on the beach, probably after a major storm many years ago, they begin on the beach, with wooden pilings and wall embedded in the sand, leading to massive boulders leading into the ocean. The jetties provided constant entertainment. Even when the surf was calm, the rocks could insight an entertaining splash, but, during storms, they caused waves to explode, covering me with water and foam.

I liked to sit on one of the pilings and watch the sea and rocks meet. No matter how picturesque the wave, the rocks always brought its dance to an end. Although I couldn’t see it, nor would I be around when it finally happened, I knew the waves would eventually win the battle, turning the rock to sand.

On the rocks were white barnacles. They were tiny, in comparison to their hosts, but I knew not to be fooled by their size. I had scars on my hands and feet to remind me. I have no idea what role the barnacles serve in nature’s drama, but they appear without invitation on anything that remains in the water for a significant period of time. I doubt they have a brain, but I marvel at how smart they are. They know the rocks will keep them safe, and they hold tight. No matter how tumultuous the sea, they’re safe . . . as long as they’re attached to the rocks.

At the time, I didn’t know the valuable lesson they were teaching. Looking out, I couldn’t see the storms beyond the horizon of my life. At that age, I’m sure I saw myself as a rock able to bring down the mightiest wave, but now I know better. Now I realize I’m more like a barnacle, and I can only hope I have the sense to cling to a rock, one that will protect and get me through whatever storm arises.

October 31, 1517

500 Years ago tonight, on the eve of All Saints Day, a monk named Martin Luther walked quietly up the steps to the doors of the Wittenberg Cathedral where he posted a list of ways in which he felt the Church needed to reform (95 theses). He loved the Church, but felt it had become distracted from the Gospel and was engaged in practices which contradicted what Luther found in  Scripture, namely that grace is a gift, not achievement, is given, not earned. He wanted to awaken the church and bring about change within the Church, but the Church banished Luther, which led to the Protestant (Protestors’) Reformation.*

I’ve always had a thing for Luther. I love his far-from-saintly life, his becoming a monk even though he liked beer (a lot), his struggle to live a holy life while remaining keenly aware of his humanity, and his passion for the good news which caused him to climb the stairs that night. He had found news too good to keep to himself, even though he knew his theses would cause a stir.

I am no Luther, but found myself in a similar, but not nearly as important, struggle with the Church. Like him, I loved the Church, but, after undergoing a self-created crisis, I came to understand God’s grace is available to us all, and is not as conditional as far too many churches practice. “Yes, we’re all fallen,” they admit, “but just don’t be too fallen.” After trying to earn God’s love all my life through works and deeds, I crashed and was left to scoop the shards of my achievements into my hands, and search for another way. Like Luther, my struggle helped me find the love I’d been looking for (and working for). It was waiting patiently on the other side, free of charge.

I wanted to share that good news with others, so I bought an abandoned old church. I wanted to create a place where people could know the love of God regardless of their spiritual condition, or moral fortitude. Much to my surprise, and horror, my actions caused a stir within the church. I received word from the Bishop that other clergy in the area had complained about the “rogue church,” as he put it, and forbade me from giving communion, baptizing or marrying anyone in the place. I didn’t follow the rules, he said in a more Anglican way, and, as noble as its purpose, the community was not acceptable.

Just then, one of our members, a seventy-year-old recovering alcoholic, asked to be baptized. Caught in the middle between what the church was saying, and what I felt Christ wanted, I took a deep breath, wrote the Bishop, and renounced my vows. At the next service, without a clerical collar around my neck, I baptized the man.

It was not global in its significance. It did not create a new church, just a new minister. Without a collar, I took my first authentic ministerial step on a journey that continues imperfectly today. The Bishop lost no sleep over my decision, I am sure, and washed his hands in a way that would have made Pontius Pilate proud, but the moment was my Wittenberg door.

(Read the next questions in ascending order . . .  like steps!)

                   For what would you climb stairs and speak out?

          For what are you willing to take a stand?

On the 500th anniversary of Luther’s protest, my question is, what’s yours?

*     It should also be pointed out that the Church, from then on known as the Roman Catholic Church, did reform in what many refer to as the Counter Reformation.