(a Steve Orr Bible reflection)
To my knowledge, I had never eaten at a 100-year-old barbecue place. I had mixed feelings about what to expect. Still, I met my friend on the broken sidewalk out front. The thing to do, he said, was to do it the old way, at least for this first visit. He carefully described what we should get (“the full order") and how we would eat it ("You fork the chopped brisket onto a slice of the white-bread, roll it up, and then dip it into the drippings. Heaven!").
We went inside. On the chalkboard I saw several combinations and plates, along with some sides. Gesturing at the board, my guide explained—with some humor, but some true disdain, as well—that all "this other stuff" was relatively new. None of “that” had been available when he first started coming here several decades back. We would be doing it the "old way." I don’t think I would have been wrong to interpret that as "the one right way."
I asked for “the full order” as he had advised. It was just as he had predicted: heavenly.
During our lunch—surrounded by tables, chairs, floor, and walls reflecting a century old legacy—I heard reminiscences of time gone by, the way things had been back in the day. The location, the food, and the way we ate the food: all contributed to my friend’s nostalgia. Clearly, there was a lot of love for the old days and the old ways.
Familiarity: the hooks on which we hang our memories. Not just the obvious food memories, but memories of people encountered, successes achieved, insights discovered. All of it tied to the "old way." It can be a good thing, especially when enjoying barbecue. But there are times when the old way is not the best way.
Something like that is happening in this week’s scriptures, particularly in the Luke passage. Jesus, visiting his hometown, went to church. As was common on the Sabbath, he stood to read from a scroll. It was a well-known passage from Isaiah prophesying the coming of the Messiah. Then, he told the congregation that the prophecy has been fulfilled that day, in their hearing.
By the time he finished explaining what he meant, they were furious.
They had fallen into the habit of longing. It was familiar, comfortable. Having one of their own claim that the longing was over, that they no longer needed to wait, was abrupt and disruptive. They looked at him and likely recalled all sorts of memories from all the years they had been coming to that synagogue: weddings, deaths, newborns, children at shul, year after year of reading about the coming Messiah. And here was Joe's boy, Mary's son, upending their world with his claim that said, as surely as if he had uttered the words aloud, He was the Messiah!
The old way was gone, the new had come.
We can be just as resistant to change. Sure, we're not looking for the messiah the way they were. But we must still reorient or we will never understand the message God is sending us. When Isaiah wrote that passage, it was a prophecy, something that would happen "someday." When Jesus read those words in his hometown synagogue, it was no longer a prophecy, no longer residing in some unknown future. He was describing himself to people who thought they knew him, but only really knew their memories of him.
It’s hard to release the old way. It holds our memories like a treasure box, and we fear we will lose them if we accept the new. Have no fear. That’s your longing talking. It’s true, allowing ourselves to know the real Jesus could well mean we must let some things go. But not the things that truly matter.
We mustn’t let our old ways, comfortable as they are, keep us from receiving the message Jesus is sending us. It is, truly, good news.
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