On one of my favorite blogs, wind scraps, there has been a great debate going for the last week. It all started when Shannon, the author of wind scraps, blogged about an experience she had last Tuesday. (You can read the entire post here; just scroll down to the one titled "On legalism, grace, and skinny, naked legs." But I will summarize it for you.) She was taking her kids to school and was running late when suddenly she remembered that it was Tuesday - and that meant Chapel Day at her kids school. Knowing the "rules of the school" she knew that meant her kids were to "dress up." Remembering her daughter's bare legs in the back seat adorned only by a pair of brand new shorts, bought for Field Day (an Olympic-style event held every year to close out the school year; I remember Field Days from when I was young.) She asked her daughter, "Don't you have Chapel today?"
Her daughter responded, "Yes."
"Then won't you get in trouble for wearing shorts?"
"No, I won't get in trouble. They'll just make me sit by myself in the very back away from the other kids."
Shannon was appalled! With good reason, as far as I am concerned. She had taken this issue to the school board last year but to no avail. She was upset that this "rule" teaches kids that God loves them less if they aren't "dressed up" which is, of course, completely false, completely opposite to the attitude of Christ. God says, "Come, just as you are." And so the debate started. People writing in from all over expressing their opinions, voicing their minds, declaring their's to be the right way, the only way. One commenter, Anonymous, had made her point of view known. In her comments Anon had seemingly brought on judgments and condemnations to those who did not "dress up" for church and that those with piercings and tattoos or green hair simply could not be Christians. She stated that dressing up shows our honor and respect to God and the deacons of the church basically calling into question the hearts of those who have tattoos or piercings or aren't "dressed to the nines." Shannon was compelled to respond by posting a new blog-entry. She addressed each issue patiently, lovingly, and in a very Christ-like manner, backing up her points with sufficient scripture and examples from the Bible. The debate became more heated. Anon posted another comment. Everyone had an opinion (including myself; I posted comments a few times as someone who has two tattoos and used to have a tongue piercing and am a follower of Christ) and wanted their's heard. Back and forth, the arguments went. Shannon declared she’d had enough after Anon posted one last comment that was particularly harsh in tone and spattered with statements that made me feel as though she'd rather be right than happy. Shannon then gave us this story as a new blog-entry titled "Coffee at Clackamas":
My friend had driven four hours to see me. Not only that, when she arrived, she immediately rolled up her sleeves and helped us move a garage-load of boxes from one storage shed to another -- a job that took the better part of a day. When we finished, I asked if she wanted to go get coffee at a nearby mall. Women don't turn down trips to the mall. We don't get that tired. We chatted ferociously all the way to the Clackamas Mall. I hadn't seen her in months, not since we left our farm and moved south to be closer to Dave's seminary. Though we'd talked nonstop while transferring boxes to the new shed, we hadn't yet run out of topics. Away from the apartment complex, my friend had lots of questions about our neighbors and how Zac was adjusting to the new environment.
"He misses the woods," I told her, "but he likes having cement." Back home, Zac never got the chance to ride his bike on a smooth surface. It was all bump and slide and skitter as he maneuvered his wheels over our dirt driveway.
My friend was impressed with the mall. It's not everyday you see an ice skating rink dropped in the midst of shops and restaurants. The espresso stand I brought her to was situated just in front of the broad glass windows above the rink.
"Let's get our coffee and watch awhile," she suggested.
As we approached the stand, my friend said, "I've been craving a mocha. I know exactly what I want."
The stand looked empty when I leaned against the counter. The structure was shaped liked a horseshoe, and I couldn't see the barista tucked around the far corner. But he heard us and came into view.
"Hi," he said. "Can I help you?" he asked, looking directly at me.
"She knows what she wants already," I said, nodding to my friend. But my friend shook her head.
"No, I don't."
That seemed odd since she'd just told me otherwise. But I didn't argue.
"Well, then ... let's see ...." I scanned the menu and nibbled my lip. "Hmmm. I think I want a grande almond latte, but I don't want it too sweet."
"How about if I give you three pumps instead of four?" the boy asked.
"That sounds good."
As we settled on my order, a second barista appeared from around the corner, saw my friend standing at my side, and said, "I can help whoever's next." My friend left me and walked around to the far side of the "U." I couldn't see her, but I could hear her giving the girl her order.
I watched my barista empty the metal, coffee-ground holder thingy and fill it with fresh grounds. He was a nice-looking boy with wild hair, earrings, a pierced eyebrow (the first I think I ever saw), and two arms full of tattoos.
"I have to ask," I said.
"What's that?"
"The eyebrow ... did that hurt?"
He grinned. "I won't lie. It did. But I got over it."
I laughed. "I almost left with just one ear pierced when I was sixteen and sitting in the back of a jeweler's store. That first one hurt so much, I didn't think I could take the second."
I watched the boy fly through his routine and listened to the birth of my latte. Click, twist, burble, drip. The slurp and splat of three pumps of almond liquid dropping into my paper cup. The "hooo-whaa, hooo-whaa" of the milk steaming to a froth. As he was sliding a lid over the milky concoction, I noticed the tattoo encircling his left wrist.
"Hey! That's Greek!" One of the perks of seminary was that I got to sit in on Dave's classes with him. For a few months, I'd been learning Greek alongside him, and while I couldn't read the word upside down, I did recognize the letters.
"You're right," the barista said, grinning again. "It says, 'Savior.'"
"Are you a Christian?" I asked, smiling back.
"Yep."
"What a great tattoo."
He handed me my latte and turned his wrist so I could see all the letters. "I know. It's my favorite. I'm going to get another on this wrist that says 'Messiah' in Hebrew."
We talked for another minute or two about seminary and tattoos and Jesus, until I noticed my friend sitting by the window of the the skating rink.
"Well," I told my new favorite barista, "it was nice talking with you."
"You too," he said.
"Perfect latte. I'll remember to ask for three pumps."
"Good. And I'll remember when I see you next."
He gave me a last smile and we exchanged "God bless you's". Feeling very happy with the coffee and the conversation and the way God has of crossing our paths with lovely souls, just to surprise us, I crossed the floor and took a seat next to my friend. She looked at me, looked at my coffee, looked back at the espresso stand ... and shuddered.
"I nearly died when that boy asked me what I wanted. I wasn't about to let him
touch anything that was going to go in my mouth." She glanced again at the cup that had paused itself halfway to my lips.
"How can you drink that?"
I didn't know where to begin.
Wow! A beautiful, poignant story. One also wrought with sadness, pain and a great lesson to be learned, as well. What an unbelievable follow-up to the post and debates of last week. I was heartbroken to hear Shannon's friend's comments about the barista. To blatantly reject someone based on their appearance alone? Everyone has value. Even the homeless man on the street who aches for a touch. Even the lonely elderly gentleman I saw this morning shuffling his way through life, hunched over with the world on his shoulders, like Atlas. Even the teenager who has the debilitating disease and is in a wheelchair. Even Britney Spears. Even the tattooed barista.
I think it's a sad, sad thing when a person will shut down when approached by someone "different" than themselves. That person could offer us something of far greater value that we quite possibly would never get somewhere else. They could hold some magic key in the form of encouragement, a smile, a comment or insight that forces us to look closer at our own lives, our own judgments, or our own walk with Christ.
That kind of reaction to someone who is "different" speaks of someone who is afraid, afraid that that person might actually have something to offer them. People reject the unfamiliar convinced that they couldn't possibly learn anything from that person or idea or thing. This kind of reaction tells the rejected, "You're not enough. You're not good enough to serve me. You have nothing to offer to me. What could you possibly offer to me that is of any value to me, my world, my existence?" It's a very selfish, narcissistic reaction.
We have all been rejected at some point or another and all know how painful it is and therefore, we should do what we possibly can to prevent others from feeling the same effects. This kind of thinking just absolutely breaks my heart in two. This kind of thinking angers me because it goes against everything we, as Christians, should stand for. I actually feel sorry for the person who has this closed off response: to think what they could be missing out on, all kinds of interesting, exciting relationships with adventurous people who yes, might be different but also might be more like you than you know. Who yes, might not be the cleanest on the outside but who also might have a heart of purest gold. Who yes, might not be huggable by society's standards but who also might just need a hug to remind them that they are indeed still human. Who yes, might be so much older than us but also has a lifetime of fascinating war-stories, love-stories and other untold stories to tell and wants more than anything a listening ear to tell them to and a warm hand to hold. Who yes, might have tattoos and piercings and weird things on his body but who also might be one who knows and follows hard after Christ. Matthew 25:40 says, "Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you also did for me." And Matthew 25:45 states, "Whatever you did NOT do for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did not do for me." Doesn't that just say it all?
Christ died for US - lowly, sick, sinful, selfish US! And he is the holy one, the purest, The Almighty God. Who are we to tell someone, "Oh, you are not worthy of me. I am so much better than you. You're not worthy enough to even serve me?" This makes me ill.
The best thing I have learned in life thus far is that there is nothing we can do or not do to make God love us any more or any less than he does right now, in this very moment. He already loves us as much as he ever will with an infinite, unconditional, sacrificial love. He taught us about the human condition and how we’re all designed to be relational beings: loved, accepted, respected, cherished, etc…
I know what Jesus would have done had he been approached by that barista. He would have asked the boy to walk and talk with him a while. He would have told the boy to prepare a meal – for He was coming to his very home for dinner. He would have put His arms around the boy and said, "I love you. You are my son." He would have washed his feet. He would have hung on the cross and died for him. And he did!
Everyone is worth getting to know. Everyone has value. Everyone has something to offer to someone. I can only hope that my life that I live out daily reflects my thoughts that I have laid out here.
Oh yeah, and piercings? Christ had four!
