Lectionary reading: The THIRTEENTH SUNDAY OF ORDINARY TIME - August 30, 2009

Mark 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23

So the Pharisees and the scribes asked him, "Why do your disciples not live according to the tradition of the elders, but eat with defiled hands?"

WORDS TO LIVE BY! by Larry Patten

My mother tried to save me. For the most part, I think she did an admirable job.

In high school, I was a nerd and geek before those terms were popular; a guy with black-rimmed glasses always more comfortable reading books than interacting with people. But occasionally, if only because of expectations or longing or both, I attempted to escape my geekdom. One event that created tension between expectation and longing involved attending my high school’s Senior Ball. I felt I should. I felt I must. Wasn’t I supposed to go?

Question: how many dances had I been to in high school? Answer: 0. Yeah, you read that last sentence correctly . . . zero, nada, none, zilch, to emphsize the factual, actual reality.

Did I know how to dance? No. Had I ever worn a tuxedo? No. Would I have to ask (beg, barter, plead) to use my father’s car? Yes. Would I have the courage to ask a girl to be my date? Would I have the courage to ask a girl to be my date? Would I have the . . . yeah, I recall staring at the phone and having certain questions roil my mind, endlessly repeating as I pondered—feared, dreaded—dialing those seven memorized numbers. Call. Don’t call. Now. Later.

I called. She said yes. A tuxedo loomed in my future. Dancing beckoned. What had I done?

And yet when life is bad, it can always find a way to get worse. At some point, in the boy-girl negotiations for the date’s details, I suggested we go the FANCIEST RESTAURANT IN MY TOWN. She, of course, agreed. How wonderful Larry, she purred, I always wanted to go there.

As noted, I’d never worn a tuxedo, but I was fairly confident that my sloppy jeans and the creased, polyestered, fancy-pants shared one thing in common: you put one leg in there, and the other leg into the other side. Ta-da. I pretended the cummerbund was a bad belt.

Several friends and I—all confirmed due-paying members of Geeks Gone Mild—practiced dancing. As frightened as I was of 1) touching a girl, 2) getting a left and right foot to move in unison, and 3) doing this in public . . . I’m a baby-boomer. Since the 1950s Chubby Checker had trumped Fred Astaire. We wouldn’t be waltzing. The Twist and its progeny dominated the dance floor. With a fast dance, I’d just move a lot of body parts as fast as possible and survive. If it was a slow dance . . . well, I’d offer to refill her punch.

But the restaurant was climbing Everest. It represented the part of the ancient map beyond the last known land mass with the printed warning, “there be monsters here.”

Thus, I consulted my mother. Around the family dinner table, life was simple: spoon, fork, knife. But at the FANCIEST RESTAURANT IN MY TOWN, I’d heard the rumors of endless and obscure utensils. Not one fork, but many. Spoons of various sizes and shapes. Knives that did one job and then were whisked away by devious waiters. Hors d’oeuvres. Salads. Second courses. Fifth courses. Oh my!

My mother said, her voice calm and reassuring, “Work your way from the outside.” Words to live by! Directions that made sense! A plan, a goal, a strategy.

Let’s pretend this was the set-up: 111 -O- 22333. All those 1s on the left? The myriad forks. The middle -O-? The plate! The 2s are knives and the 3s are spoons. Whenever the first dish arrived—say some salad I’d never eat at home—I knew that a pronged utensil was needed. Who used a spoon for a salad, right? (Unless it’s a fruit salad, but I shoved that horror from my mind.) Which fork to use for the salad that arrives first? Work your way from the outside. Thanks Mom! If there were more 1s, or fewer 3s . . . no problemo. Mom’s rules led me through the wilderness of forked paths and knife-edged precipices.

How odd we humans are. No culture is without its arcane rules, the written or unwritten guidelines to determine insiders and outsiders, the experts from the amateurs.

Why are your disciples “eating with defiled hands,” religious authorities asked Jesus. Follow the rules! The insiders know. The outsiders should either follow or be humiliated . . . or worse.

So many rules.

What matters? The heart. Not the outside sequence or pretence, but who we are within. And, and here Jesus was so literal, what comes forth. To this day, I hear my mother’s voice. Work from the outside. They have (literally) served me well over the years. But there is also the voice of the One I try to follow . . . live from the inside. Each day, that’s a faithful struggle, with unwritten guidelines that remind me what really, really matters.

Senior Ball was great. Except when I got lost while driving my Dad’s car and then there was that (not) goodnight kiss. Whew. Glad there was only one in my life!

in Peace,

Larry Patten

(written on August 18, 2009)