A little flight of fancy here.(1) You are stacking dishes in
the kitchen of the restaurant where you work the evening shift
when a well-dressed courier arrives at the back door. "The owner
won't be back until tomorrow," you tell him.
"I am not looking for the owner, I am looking for you."
"Huh?"
"I am from the White House," he says, which explains the
dark suit and briefcase. "I came to deliver this letter."
"Huh?" Part of you wonders what you have done wrong.
Another part of you wonders if this isn't a joke your cousin
Alfred is playing to get back at you for the horseradish in his
car. And all of you thinks this guy has the wrong person. But
you dry your hands on your apron and take what the man hands you.
It is a personal letter. There is an emblem on the envelope and
your name is written, not typed, in elegant cursive. The
stationery is the heavy expensive type, which blows the Cousin
Alfred theory; he's too cheap to buy this. Que pasa? You open
the letter and, well, yaba-daba-doo, it IS indeed from the man
himself. An invitation: The President of the United States
requests the pleasure of your company...
You look up at the fellow who brought it and he is smiling
like this is the part of his job he likes the best. You look
around in the kitchen for somebody to show it to, but you are
alone. You think about running into the restaurant and sharing
it with Alma the waitress, but you can't because you are too numb
to think that quickly.
The invitation is to a state dinner. A dinner given in YOUR
HONOR, a dinner dedicated to YOU. Huh? Your ex- threw you a
surprise birthday party during the first year of your marriage,
but besides that, you cannot remember when someone has had a
dinner for you. Not the kids, not the neighbors. Not your
boss...you don't even know if you have ever given yourself a
dinner in your honor. And now the commander-in-chief wants to.
"What's the catch?" you ask.
"No catch, just a request that you come to the White House.
May I give the president your response?"
"Huh?"
"Your answer. May I give the president your answer? Can
you come to dinner?"
"Well, a-a-a-of course. I'd love to go."
The big night arrives. You have made all the appropriate
preparations. Cleaned and pressed, washed and waxed, sugared and
blowed. And so you go. 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. You are met
out front by more black suits who escort you in. Inside the
doors, a garçon of sorts takes over. Your steps echo as you
follow the tuxedoed guide down the tall hall lined with portraits
of past presidents.
At the end of the corridor is the banquet room. In the
center of the room is a long table and in the center of the table
is one plate and beside the plate is one name - yours. The
attendant motions for you to sit and when you do he leaves and
you do the thing you have wanted to do since you stepped into the
residence. You look around this way and that, up and down and
all around. You say for the first time out loud what you have
been saying inside ever since the invitation was delivered.
"Wow!"
You have never seen a table this long. You have never seen
crystal this nice. You have never seen china this valuable. You
have never seen a setting with so many forks or a candelabra with
so many candles.
"Wow."
Under your feet is an oriental rug. Probably came from
China. Over your head is a chandelier with a billion pieces of
crystal. Got to be German. The table and chairs are made of
polished teak. Indian, no doubt. Straight ahead is a hearth
with a fire and a white mantel. Above the mantel is a painting -
a painting of...gulp...a painting of YOU! That is you up there.
Same eyes, same goofy smile, same ski-jump nose. That is YOU!
"Wow."
"I keep it in here so I can remember you."
Say what? The voice from behind startles you. You don't
have to turn and look to see who it is - there is only one voice
like that. You wait until he is right beside you before you look
up. You know he's there because he places his hand on your
shoulder.
You turn and look and there he is, POTUS, the president of
the United States. A bit shorter than you imagined, but every
bit as authoritative. The square jaw. The deep eyes. The dark
suit. The red tie. The apron.
The what?
Yeah, the president is wearing an apron! A common kitchen
apron just like the one you wear when you work that asks, "Have
you hugged a Presbyterian today?" And, as if that isn't enough,
behind him is a dinner cart. He reaches for your bread plate and
gives you a dinner roll. "I am so glad you could come and be my
guest."
You know you should say something, but what you were going
to say is forgotten somewhere between the last "Wow" you said and
the first "What is HAPPENING" that has taken over your brain.
You thought it was shocking to get the invitation. You
thought it was breathtaking to see the White House. Your jaw hit
the floor when you saw your picture on the wall. But now this?
The commander-in-chief as a waiter? The president serving you
food? The chief executive bringing wine and bread to your table?
All those neatly prepared compliments and carefully rehearsed
accolades that you had prepared are suddenly forgotten and you
blurt out what is really on your mind: "Wait a minute. This
isn't right. You aren't supposed to be doing this - I am. You
aren't supposed to be serving me. I'm the dishwasher. I work at
the diner. You're the top dog. Let me have the apron and let me
put the food on the table...Sir. "
But he won't let you. "Keep your seat," he insists. "Today
I honor you."
I warned you this was a flight of fancy. This kind of stuff
doesn't happen...does it?
It does for those who see it. It happens every week, in
banquet halls around the world, the king honors the common.
Regular folk right out of the kitchens and car pools of life, at
the table. The honored guests. VIPs. Hosted and served by the
one in charge of history. "This is my body," he says as he
breaks the bread.
And you thought it was a ritual, just an observance. You
thought it was a memorial to something that was done way back
when. You thought it was a re-enactment of a meal he had with
them. It is so much more. It is a meal he has with you.
When you read Matthew's account of the Last Supper, one
incredible truth surfaces: Jesus is the person behind it all. It
was Jesus who selected the place, designated the time, and set
the meal in order. "My appointed time is near. I am going to
celebrate the Passover with my disciples at your house."
And at the supper, Jesus is not a guest, but the host. "And
[Jesus] gave to the disciples..." The subject of the verbs is
the message of the event: "he took...he gave thanks...he
broke...he gave..." Jesus is not the served, but the server. It
is Jesus who, prior to the meal, had put on the garb of a servant
and washed the disciples' feet. Jesus is the most active one in
the room. Not one who reclines and receives, but the one who
stands and gives.
He still does.
What's that? Just a minute. Oh. There is someone at the
door for you.
Amen!
1. Adapted from Max Lucado, "Served By the Best," And the Angels Were Silent: The
Final Week of Jesus, (Portland, Or. : Multnomah, 1992), pp. 157-163
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