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Every Christmas I used to go home to west Tennessee. (Fred Craddock tells the story.) An old high school chum of mine, I called him Buck, had a restaurant in town, every year it was the same. I'd go to the restaurant, 'Merry Christmas Buck,' I'd say, and he would give me a piece of pie and a cup of coffee for free. Every year it was the same.
I went in, 'Merry Christmas, Buck.'
But this year he said, 'Let's go somewhere for coffee.'
'What's the matter? Isn't this a restaurant?'
'He said, 'Sometimes I don't know. Sometimes I wonder. Let's go.'
So we went for coffee. We sat there and pretty soon he said, 'Did you see the curtain?'
I said, 'Buck, I saw the curtain. I always see the curtain.'"
Now what he meant by curtain was this: they have a number of buildings in that little town that are called shotgun buildings (we saw them in New Orleans). They're long buildings with two entrances, front and back. One is off the street, one is off the alley. In Buck's restaurant and other restaurants in town, the entrances were separated by a curtain, with a kitchen in the middle. If you were white, you came in off the street. If you were black, you came in off the alley.
"He said again, 'Did you see the curtain? The curtain has to come down.'
'Good, bring it down.'
He said, 'That's easy for you to say. Come into town once a year and tell me how to run my business.'
I said, 'Okay, then leave it up.'
He said, 'I can't leave it up.'
'Well then, take it down.'
'I can't take it down.' After while he said, 'If I take that curtain down, I lose a lot of my customers. If I leave the curtain up, I lose my soul.'"
I don't know how you do a moment of silence on paper. But I do know that a moment of silence is called for after this story. So we need to sit with it, just for a spell.
I've known this story for years, but have been reluctant to use it for a Sabbath Moment. How can I do justice to a story that lays bare a wound in our history that has not been healed?
But that's what makes for great stories. Great stories don't make things tidy. They tend to make those who are comfortable, uncomfortable. And they comfort those who have known both sorrow and heartache. Great stories engage us--because they challenge the presuppositions and prejudgments we carry, about ourselves and the world in which we live--and invite us to personal and honest responsibility.
At the heart of this story, a man is torn. A decision faces him (most likely, his decision had already been made, it's just that it takes awhile for many of our decisions to find the light of our daily life). We all know what it is like to be torn. So where is the reservoir that allows us to make life-giving and compassionate choices?
"The world is full of walls. Everywhere we go, there are fences, gates, partitions and other ingeniously constructed barriers--all aimed at keeping something or someone in and keeping something or someone else out. We need walls: walls in our homes to protect us against wind and rain; walls to keep livestock safely in and predators out; walls to help us separates spaces and improve organization and efficiency. But walls, both literal and spiritual, can lead to grief, division, and even violence. All walls serve a purpose, but not all walls serve the purposes of God." And I will add. . .nor do walls or curtains serve the purpose of Grace, or healing, or compassion, or the soul.
After re-reading this story, I began making a list of the many reasons for curtains in my own life. Lord only knows whom I'm trying to please. Or what I'm afraid of. I do know that when I am torn, I live anxious, and restless, and exhausted. And I do my darndest to keep that curtain up, even though I can't explain why.
Yes, this is story about moral responsibility. It's also about the ways that we preclude or prohibit ourselves from living soul-full. Human. Alive.
As long as there are curtains, I cannot receive.
As long as there are curtains, I cannot give.
As long as there are curtains, we cannot connect.
All of this is good in theory. I like things in theory. There is the story told of the eminent philosopher who died and arrived in heaven. He stood at a crossroads. One sign pointed, "This way to the Kingdom of God." Another sign said: "This way to a Discussion about the Kingdom of God." I'm thinking that the discussion group sounds pretty good right now.
I wish it were all easier. I can think of areas in my life where I need to take the curtain down--the curtain of suspicion, or anger, or public opinion, or fear, or old hurts and grudges unforgiven, or an unwillingness to trust, or simply the energy required pretending to be someone that I am not. So in the end, the curtain gets in the way of letting our light shine, of seeing those around us with compassion, of loving our neighbor--whoever they may be.
At some point we have to decide how conscious we want to be, how much truth we can take. Because there will be a price to pay living this open or truthful or alive. Speaking personally, I don't know if I'm willing. . .to be that open or vulnerable or exposed.
But here's the deal: taking the curtain down is not about impressing anyone. It is bigger than that. It is about choosing what our heart calls us toward. I cannot tell you what will happen. But I can tell you that if we choose to follow our heart--to let more of life in--we will create the space to remember that love is what we are born with. Fear is what we learn.
My continuing passion is to part a curtain, that invisible shadow that falls between people--the veil of indifference to each other's presence, each other's wonder, each other's human plight. Eudora Welty
(1) Curtain story from Craddock Stories, Fred Craddock
(2) The world is full of walls. . .Kevin Baker in Christian Century
(3) Some insights on the curtain story from Rev. Eugene N. Nelson, Jr., The Community Church of Sebastopol
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