Growing Up Evangelical: What Happens at the Table Part 2

What Happens at the Table

When you are a pastor's kid, PK as they call us, it's easy to become irreverent. First off, the PK lives with the pastor, sees (in my case) him in all seasons and knows for certain by age two that the man is definitely human. Not that human is essentially bad. Yes, humans are the ones with sin issues and all, but that doesn't change the fact that we are created by God, bear the image of God and are loved by God as human beings. That said, many people with whom a PK goes to church think their pastor to be a step or two above human. I helped rehabilitate that notion while I was growing up evangelical.

Some of the irreverence has to do with the behind-the-scenes stuff. Because the church building is familiar to PKs having by age 5 attended hundreds of worship services and Sunday school sessions and having, for various reasons, spent some hours at large in the building during the week, we know where the communion juice and bread are hidden. As a result, the mystery of the sacred meal loses some of its mystery. My Catholic friends would be horrified to know that the bread and juice (1) at our church are that available and not under lock and key. But then we evangelicals also write in our Bibles.   

In What Happens at the Table Part 1 I explained the disconnect (for me) between the communion table at home and the one at church--how long it took me to realize that, despite the tiny portions, our communion was really and truly a meal, just as central to our lives together at church as the dinner table was to our family. Wherever eaten, the elements of communion signify, after all, a remembrance--being re-membered--because eating any meal together is an act of inclusion. The meal Jesus instituted invites us all to look around and acknowledge that the meal is about belonging--that we have been found and have found each other. This gift is, for me at least, best exemplified by the following story.

During Christmas break of my junior year in college, Dad off-handedly shared--probably while we were sitting around the table-- that his spring travel schedule would bring him to Poughkeepsie, NY, a few miles from my school. He suggested I join him there. Three months later I called home to check details and Mom, in a tone of worried surprise, told me that he had decided to take a train and was already on his way; that he was due to arrive at Penn Central the next morning. She added, however, that there had been no recent conversation about me meeting him.  No worries, I said. I'll surprise him! 

Only one problem: you don't meet trains in the same way you meet planes. I didn't realize that. Though my sister Julie might disagree (2),  it's hard to miss an airline passenger when she arrives, provided you have the right time, flight and airport. Meeting someone who arrives by train doesn't work like that. Multiple train cars mean multiple exits, and Penn Central is an enormous complex with multiple levels connected by multiple escalators from the platform to concourse, and multiple exits opening to various streets. In New York City. The surprise was mine as I discovered that, upon arrival to the station, Dad could exit his train and the station from any portal and in any direction. Given the enormity of the station itself, I had about a 99.9% chance of missing him. 

As if that situation was not alarming enough--

His train arrived 10 minutes before the departure/arrival boards announced it. Though I trekked up and down escalators, visiting every level and exit he may have chosen, I had to come to terms with the fact that I would probably never find him and that my surprise meeting had only ended up surprising me. Standing alone and bewildered, I made a five-word prayer: "What do I do now?" 

Just then, a man in a conductor's uniform walked by. Nearly tackling him, I explained my dilemma as best I could and pleaded with him to make an announcement over the PA system to alert my dad that his daughter was in the building. I got the sense from the man that making announcements for lost fathers was not something he did every day, but he took my dad's name down and ordered me to "go stand over there," pointing towards the information center. I obeyed and stood. The man lumbered off, in no hurry at all, and I watched as he reached for what I took to be a microphone from a hook on a nearby wall. I peeled my ears for the announcement. 

The sound that came through the loudspeakers was loud enough; unfortunately none of the words were discernible. Should Dad by some miracle have still been in the building, I thought, he would never have known the garbled announcement was meant for him. 

Just as I was beginning to fantasize about ripping the mic from the conductor's hand and making my own announcement (3), I noticed a familiar figure walking very quickly and determinedly across the football field-sized terminal and headed, not for me, but for the door leading to 8th Ave. Launching myself from the information center, I teleported towards him, yelling "DAAAAAAAAAAAD!!!!!!!!!" all the way.

If the volume rolling towards him wasn't terrifying enough, the force of the surprise body-slam nearly knocked him off his feet. After a moment absorbing what had to be for him some shock and awe, he put down his suitcase and laughed. And there simply is nothing to compare to dad's loud, raucous laughter any time or anywhere, let alone in the middle of the Penn Station concourse. 

We did the usual things lost people do when they have been found, whether or not they realize they have been lost. We explained to each other what had just happened, what probably shouldn't have happened and what almost didn't happen. Dad said that the only reason it happened that he was still in the building was because after he de-boarded the train, he immediately sat down to write a letter of complaint about some unpleasantness he had experienced during the trip. Had that not been the case, he said, he would have been long gone. I told him my side of the story, adding how relieved I felt to have found him since I had no money for transportation back to my school. He raised his eyebrows. "That's right,  Dad." I said. "No contingency plan." 

After a few more minutes of such exchanges, Dad picked up his suitcase again and we began the next leg of our journeys, but now together.

All the excitement, of course, made us hungry. Dad, familiar with NYC restaurants, directed us to a place where he had eaten once before. Seated at a small patio table surrounded by large and small green potted plants and spring flowers, we ordered salads. As an afterthought, Dad asked for two glasses of red wine--a surprise to me as I felt myself very new to adulthood and also under the impression that we were still evangelical (which of course we were).

While we waited for our food, we caught up a little. Dad told me how the family at home was doing and I shared a little about a special relationship that was in early stages of development. We kept returning to wonder over our meeting at Penn Central--a planned and chance and maybe miraculous meeting, all at the same time. 

Artfully arranged salads finally arrived, each accompanied by a basket of steaming rolls. I braced myself for the grace I expected to follow (4), but Dad instead reached for one of the baskets, lifted the white linen napkin and took out a roll. "Jesus tells us to remember him whenever we eat or drink; so here's bread," he said, tearing the roll and offering me a half. "And here's wine." He lifted his glass and I lifted mine. "The body of Christ, given to us," he said. 

On a spring day in New York City over wine and bread and salads, that table stands as the most memorable communion meal I've ever shared with anyone. That which was lost had been found, and neither of us argued whether the lost was Dad or me.  

1. We're evangelicals so the "wine" served as communion in church is usually juice. But we like to call it wine.

2. All I will say here is, I do not know where at Midway Airport I was standing after leaving the baggage area. Evidently it was not in a place people are normally picked up. Julie still insists I rode the conveyor belt to get there.

3. Julie again. She learned to get the complete attention of ER personnel for her middle son's frequent visits by yelling "Somebody help me!!" as she entered the doors. I was considering making the same kind of announcement with or without a microphone.

4. A reference to Dad's prayer at Disney in the first part of Growing Up Evangelical: What Happens at the Table.