“...he had been made known to
them in the breaking of the bread.” (Luke
24:35b)
One of my great pleasures in my
bachelor days in Philly was the occasional trip to Center City's Ritz
Movie Theater to see foreign and independent movies which weren't in
wide release. I was particularly excited to see a film called Gods
and Monsters, a 1998 fictitious account of the mysterious death
of the British film director James Whale—the man who directed the
original horror classics Frankenstein (1931) and The Bride
of Frankenstein (1935). I'm a life-long movie geek, and I was
also once a horror movie host for a midwestern TV station (probably
the low point in my utterly underwhelming theatrical career!) and a
tour guide at Universal Studios in Hollywood where those grand old
fright flicks were made. I even took my tours past an outdoor set
Whale had used, and so his mysterious drowning in 1957 had always
been of interest to me.
I was a bit surprised when I entered
the Ritz auditorium as I had expected to see it filled with geeky
academic types not unlike my own dear self. Instead, the Ritz
audience consisted of mostly well-dressed, fashionable, professional
looking thin people. And they were almost all men. And they were
sitting as couples.
I remember saying to myself, “I
wonder if James Whale was gay?”
Sure enough, Gods and Monsters
left no doubt as to Mr. Whale's sexual orientation. I thought it was
an excellent and entertaining drama (it would later win an Oscar for
its screenplay), and I started to leave the theater after the film
feeling I had gotten my money's worth. In the lobby I overheard a
trio of young professionals discussing the film and wondering how
much of it was based on fact. I confess I could not contain my
pedantic geekiness, and, apologizing for eavesdropping on the
conversation, I introduced myself to the three strangers and shared
what I had known about Whale and his career. The troika thanked me
for the information, and the four of us struck up a conversation
which resulted in their inviting me to join them for dessert and
coffee at a bistro on Spruce Street.
My three hosts were a gay man and a
lesbian couple—all three of whom I learned could correctly be
addressed by the title “Doctor.” One was a physician, one a
psychologist, and one a university professor. We discussed the movie,
movie-making, art, aging, and a host of other subjects. Rarely have I
enjoyed such good-hearted, spirited, and intelligent conversation. It
was an utterly delightful, serendipitous experience (made all the
better when my three friends insisted on paying the tab!).
Some months later I found myself
visiting patients as a volunteer chaplain at what is now called Aria
Torresdale Hospital. Making my rounds, I arrived at the room of an
elderly patient just as his evening meal was being served. I
apologized for the intrusion and suggested that I could come back at
a later time.
“Not at all, Father,” he said.
“Please come in! Join me! Or should I call you Reverend..?”
I explained that I was Lutheran and
that “Pastor” would be the correct form of address. The old
gentleman smiled. “Won't you sit down, Pastor?” he said.
I pulled up a chair near his bedside.
He explained to me that he was Jewish, and that his faith taught him
always to share with strangers. He politely divided the meal he had
been served, putting portions of his chicken and vegetables on the
bread plate for me, and explaining how a kosher meal should be eaten.
Taking a dinner roll, he broke it, handed half to me, and recited a
prayer in Hebrew. We ate together, talking religion and ethics. I
left the hospital room feeling as if I had met a long-lost relative.
In our first few weeks as students at
the Lutheran Theological Seminary in Philadelphia my fellow juniors
and I had been instructed to explore worship opportunities in
different Christian traditions. One Sunday three or four of us found
our way to the New Bethel African Methodist Episcopal Church, a huge
congregation on Germantown Avenue. When four young Caucasian men
enter an AME church, the ushers know pretty quickly that we were not
members. With the utmost of tact, an elderly usher inquired if this
were our first visit to New Bethel. We explained that we were LTSP
students exploring worship in other Christian traditions. The usher
politely directed us to our seats, and then approached the senior
pastor, alerting him to our presence. After the first spirited praise
hymn, the pastor announced to the assembled faithful that there were
special visitors in the assembly that morning. A host of black faces
turned to where we were sitting with beaming smiles of genuine
welcome. Then the pastor explained that we were seminarians. The
smiles turned to shouts of “Amen!” But then the pastor announced
that we were students at the Lutheran seminary—the seminary
whose Urban Theological Institute had trained so many members of
Philadelphia's black clergy. Suddenly we had gone from being
celebrities to being super rock stars.
“And of course, Brothers,” the
pastor said, “you'll stay after service today and break bread with
us!”
There was no saying, “no.”
Following the three-hour worship service, the four of us headed to
the church basement where an army of church ladies fed us fried
chicken, greens, and mashed potatoes until I had to loosen my belt. I
have never experienced such genuine love and hospitality in any other
church I have attended. It was truly amazing.
In the gospel lesson in the Revised
Common Lectionary for Easter 3 (Luke 24:13-35) the disciples walking
to Emmaus encounter a stranger. When they break bread with him, they
recognize him as the risen Jesus. What I love about this story is
that these two grieving souls find someone who will walk their
journey with them, and when they open their table to him, Christ is
present.
I think we all yearn to know Christ—to
know the love, the compassion, the total acceptance and forgiveness,
the peace that is the presence of Jesus. In the gracious welcome of
strangers—be they LGBT, Jewish, African American, or
whatever—Christ is made known. In the comforting of the bereaved,
when a neighbor brings a meal to a mourning family, Christ is made
known. Anytime we choose to feed the hungry, Christ is made known.
And when we all come as one with our burdens and sins and anxieties
to the table of the Lord's supper—each of us weighed down and each
of us in need of grace—when we acknowledge our oneness as the bread
is broken, Christ is made known.
May we all experience Christ in the
breaking of bread and, like the disciples of Emmaus, may we be eager
to run and tell the tale!
God's peace, my friends.
PS- Wouldn't it be great if
Lutherans and Roman Catholics could break bread together at the
Lord's table? A church called Mission of the Atonement in Beaverton,
Oregon brings the two denominations together to worship
and—almost—share the Eucharist. Read this cool article about the
church by clicking on Mission of the Atonement. Then, sign my
petition to Pope Francis and see if we can't all of us break bread
together! Just click here.
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