“Have you dined with us before?”
This has become the pro forma opener for most servers in American restaurants. Anything less than a firm “yes” will unfurl a litany of explanations, anecdotes, and carefully rehearsed stories about everything from the chef’s family history to, literally, how the sausage gets made.
In a recent article hilariously subtitled “When did dinner out start to feel like a TED Talk?”, Elazar Sontag recounts a recent visit to a new, fairly casual D.C. restaurant, where the server “pointed to the lime garnish on a plate of chicken wings, telling the table ‘the chef recommends squeezing the lime over the chicken wings.’” Going deeper, Sontag reflects on what can be lost through the use of too many explanatory words.
I wish diners were given the chance to make small mistakes, to explore, to come to our own conclusions. In a culture of so little friction between us and everything around us, restaurants remain a vital way to experience the confusion, sensory overload and deep meaning of a complicated, imperfect world. The urge to direct diners through every bite of a meal runs counter to what I love about dining out, one of just a few cornerstones of American life that have not yet been optimized into oblivion.
Forgive us if we are moved to think of worship and other communication venues in faith communities, where everything, it seems, is explained to within an inch of its life. Clarity and helpfulness in communication are essential in church — they express care and hospitality. But how often do our explanations get in the way of what people are there for … namely, deep meaning and relational connection? We could swap out a few nouns in Sontag’s piece and get straight to the point. The urge to direct churchgoers through every step of a service runs counter to what we love about worship, one of just a few cornerstones of American life that have not yet been optimized into oblivion.
Moving now from a restaurant table to a theater seat … Ben Brantley opens his review of a new production of “Oedipus” with this observation about the sound in the room during Lesley Manville’s monologue:
The most thrilling of responsive noises that you can hear in a theater isn’t the thunder of a standing ovation. No, the most exciting sound of all is, in fact, no sound at all — a silence so profound that it seems to vibrate. It’s the deep quiet of an entire audience listening to a single performer speak as if everyone’s lives, on and off stage, somehow depended on what is being said.
Like Sontag, Brantley is paying close attention to the experience of meaning in a roomful of people (in this case, a theatre rather than a restaurant). Out of his close attention comes this beautiful description: the profound sound of silence, when people listen to every word spoken as if their lives depend on what is being said.
Surely the Church formed by following Jesus Christ has the most important news in the history of the world. This is news of the deepest meaning. This is a word on which our lives depend. It is not a set of instructions, a recitation of ingredients, a string of clever stories, an explanation for choices made. It is not noise, but news meant to move us to wonder, to awe, to deep listening and silence.
Frederick Buechner once observed the way that a forest could move children to awe:
I remember seeing a forest of giant redwoods for the first time. There were some small children nearby, giggling and chattering and pushing each other around. Nobody had to tell them to quiet down as we entered. They quieted down all by themselves. Everybody did. You couldn’t hear a sound of any kind.
There was a stillness and stateliness about the trees that seemed to become part of you as you stood there stunned by the sight of them. They had been growing in that place for going on two thousand years. They made you realize that all your life you had been mistaken. Oaks and ashes, maples and chestnuts you had seen for as long as you could remember, but never until this moment had you so much as dreamed what a Tree really was.
Following Sontag’s and Brantley’s and Buechner’s examples, tune your ear to the sound of your church board meeting sometime. Or tune your ear to the sound of worship. What do you hear? What is the sound of people experiencing deep meaning — and what words might be getting in the way of their finding it?
When have you experienced powerful silence in your life?
In what way, according to Sontag, is confusion a good thing for restaurant diners? How about for churchgoers?
What is the balance between helpful explanation and helpful exploration in a church board meeting?
What do the trees communicate to the visitors in Buechner’s story? What helps the visitors to hear?
When have you been moved to an experience of awe?
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