"May I Sit Here?"

By Debie Thomas

Dear —

           I'm not sure how to address you.  "Brother or Sister in Christ" sounds stilted, somehow.  And false.  After all, how long has it been since we treated each other like family?

           Would "Dear Friend" work?  No, who am I kidding?  I haven't been a true friend to you in a long time.  "Fellow Christian?"  Maybe.  But we're so partisan these days, we hardly even consider each other Christian.  My God.  Have we really fallen so far?

           Okay, enough.  Let's go with "Fellow Traveler."  Surely we can agree on that much, can't we?  Agree that we're each on a path we deeply care about?  Agree that the journey matters?

           I'm writing because I'm tired of judging you.  Tired of hiding from you, tired of fighting you, tired of mocking you.  Most of all, I'm tired of dealing with you through the fog of my self-righteousness. 

           And yours.

           Here's a story you can maybe relate to: when I was twelve, my parents bought a house in the suburbs, and I had to leave the school I'd attended since kindergarten, to become the new kid at a school that wasn't particularly friendly.  I'll never forget the first time I had to walk into the cafeteria at that strange school.  I'll never forget how the walls of the already huge room seemed to recede into the distance as I hesitated in the doorway. 

           I remember that the miles of tables, chairs, and chattering kids made it difficult to breathe, and impossible to think.  To this day, I have no idea how I forced myself to navigate the room, look people in the eye, and whisper the lonely question no kid wants to ask.  "May I sit here?" 

           I was shy and awkward.  I dressed funny.  I had weird hair.  I probably had a blazing zit or two.  For weeks — or at least, it felt like weeks — the answer to my lonely question was no.

           See, I'm kind of big on belonging.  It's an immigrant kid thing, partly — I grew up displaced, so I long with all my heart to fit in.  I want a home, a homeland, an identity, a language — all these vital things to call my own.

           But it's a Christian thing, too, wouldn't you agree?  Most of our important metaphors are about belonging — we're members of one body, branches of one vine, children of one Father.  We're supposed to be fellow guests, sitting together at one abundant Table.

           So why is it that we can hardly stand each other?  Why do we organize our lives in such a way that we barely interact at all, much less sit side-by-side to share a meal?

           I'm writing because I fear two things.  I fear that if I ask you my lonely question — "May I sit here?" — you'll say no.  I fear even more that if you ask me, I'll say no, too.

           Here's why: I know who you are.  You're my fellow traveler, my sibling, my neighbor, my friend.  You're the one I'm supposed to love as dearly as I love myself.

           But you're also the pastor who shunned me when I wouldn't cover my head in church.  You're the friend who left when I told you I believe in evolution and support marriage equality.  You're the Sunday School teacher who prophesied my kids' doom when I traded certitude for mystery.  You're the small group leader who rebuked me when I asked one dangerous question too many about the historical Jesus.

           You're also the priest who winces when I (still?!) use male pronouns for God. The brainiac who insists I'll get over it when I profess belief in miracles.  The friend who's appalled by my uncertainty regarding abortion, other religions, the death penalty, and hell.  The sister who considers my feminism insufficiently feminist.

           I won't put words in your mouth, but I wonder a great deal who I am to you.  Am I the one who hurt you when I abandoned the church you love?  The one who rejected you when you stuck to your guns on Biblical inerrancy?  Complementarian gender roles?  Seven day creation?  The one whose judgment shrinks you each time I deem you too radical, too liberal, too Republican, too elite, to enter my inner circle?  The one who turns you into a conversion project every time you rub against a belief I hold sacred?

           Who are we to each other?  Believers or deserters?  Family members or imposters?  Intimates or enemies?

           It's an astonishing thing — an appalling thing — that when Jesus commanded us to love our neighbors, he really meant, "Love the one who is most unlike you."  Love across the barriers, love across the divides, love across every conviction you love more than love.  NPR: love Fox News.  Taize: Love Hillsongs.  Marcus Borg: love Rick Warren.  Praise band: love genuflection.

           I'm writing because I have no idea — no idea at all — how to obey this commandment.  I'm writing because most of the time, I don't want to.

           And yet here we are together, invited guests at this Table of thanksgiving, suffering, sacrifice, and remembrance.  There is bread and wine here.  There is mercy and justice here.  There are empty seats here, waiting to be taken.

           May I sit here?

           I don't know how to love you.

           May I sit here?

           I'd like to learn how.

           May I sit here?

           I'm angry at you.

           May I sit here?

           We have work to do.

           May I sit here?

           Our Host, who loves us both, is waiting.