February 21, 2013
Trailer Trash
At one of the recent funerals I attended the Hispanic pastor was the
grandson-in-law of the deceased. Apparently 29 years ago there was some
reservation on the part of a few to accept a Hispanic into the family, but he
recounted Grandma Rice’s stamp of approval when she laughed and said, “Well, he’s better than trailer trash!”
We all had a chuckle, but then the pastor wove the same anecdote into the
service two more times. I began to wonder if his intent was to show that Grandma
was all inclusive, or was he still healing from some age old discrimination wounds.
I suppose he could have been taking a potshot at someone, or even
subconsciously elevating himself above others. Regardless of the intent or
motivation, there is a distinct possibility that there were people in the
audience who, at one time or another, lived in a trailer park. I suppose there
are shades of Pharisee in all of us and in this case a paraphrase might be, ‘Why does your teacher eat with tax
collectors and sinners…and trailer trash?’
(Matt 9:11)
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2 comments:
nice blog...keep it up
Gail;
-----I suppose you are right; there are shades of Pharisee in us all. In fact, I soundly believe that. I think the best place to begin looking for who and what we are and how we fit is in our personal worst. This limits our own over glorification and establishes a realistic basis for improvement. The danger is that it can be so ugly we will loose heart and resign. Then, many people won’t go there, which is how many wind up being there.
-----On the way to work this morning I was listening to Red Eye radio program’s discussion of our lovely new sensitivity training courses. They played an audio clip of a sensitivity class for USDA employees. (I refuse to denigrate my neighbor by calling him a “worker”. Slaves can be called "workers", too. But slaves can not be called "employees".) The trainer was leading the group in several chants, “We have discriminated against black people. ‘We have discriminated against black people.‘ We have discriminated against Hispanics. ‘We have discriminated against Hispanics.’ We have discriminated against Native Americans. ‘We have discriminated against Native Americans.’ We have discriminated against...” The only chant I think he left out was, “We are being reduced to overcooked oatmeal.”
-----I’m beginning to catch wind in the news of a state whose genius has turned out a new law requiring its citizens to affirm another’s choice of sexual identity. The Red Eye program pondered this new law before serving the oatmeal. They conjectured a situation in which a girl complains to the school principal because she found a boy having come to sit in the bathroom stall next to hers. Such complaint would make her guilty of not affirming the boy’s “transgender” sexuality. She is now accused of bullying. But then, not quite the same form of bullying as this state has done to her perception of sexual propriety. Who cares? We are all soon to become oatmeal workers.
-----The reason being is that for everyone ranting a truth there is someone else raving a love. But there are too few understanding that truth can not be without love, which is not love at all without truth, and neither are limited by anything so small as a single human mind. It is better that oatmeal has lumps, because lumps form around minds, limited as they might be. And it is better yet that it is left uncooked. As such, the bowl of it does not nullify the individuality in it, for all of its individuality together makes what the bowl of it is.
-----God’s word tells us to love in truth. Each situation must be attended according to its own circumstances by each heart involved. As a piece of oatmeal, I am responsible for only my effects upon the other pieces I touch. Yet this is a giant responsibility, for each of those in turn touches others with some accord to how it has been touched. I know not the whole bowl. Nobody does. But in every one of us there is some ambition to cook the whole bowl into what we ourselves are. Against that we should be on guard, for many of us sit in places of authority.
Love you all,
Steve Corey
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