I first started to learn something about being cultured, as we would call it, around the Sumpter dinner table; this is what I remember as a young kid.
Later my experience—again speaking practically with an example—involved eating at a dinner table. I’m thinking of remembering and heeding that flatware, fairly finely arranged spoke of being cultured. The forks set on the left, spoon and knife on the right, and so on. I was scared at the home of Dick Stites, my coming, future father-in-law. The forks were noticeably on the left. I thought—but when do I pick it up? Do I use my knife to help get the peas in place? As a high school boy, I was scared because my home resembled 60-70% of the time the dinner table in the movie Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. It was be a hog or get hogged—I was reared with three other big, knuckles-dragging-to-the-floor older brothers. We were nasty boys and squeaky fat. So I was scared when I was invited to the Stites home. Likely, as I remember, it was not on the very first dinner with the Stites family, that I boo-booed a biggie by keeping the Pork Chops serving fork at my plate. Bad move and embarrassing—and not cultured. I showed irresponsibility around the table, an absence of table mindedness. My wife remembers. Yes, now a family joke; but I remember it as a want of art.
How does a kid growing up in this experience interpret the world around him? Fear it. Resist it. Resent it. Make fun of it. Harden myself against it. Decide that it’s for sissies.
The Gospel has grabbed me by the lapels the past 3-4 years. For some reason, God decided to give me a lesson in art, culture, life and liturgy in a most unusual way. Last month while at the Library of Congress at the Jefferson Building in Washington, D.C., I got a lecture from Shirley MacLain. Let me mention it here.
While doing my tourist thing, waiting my turn for a tour, a library assistant urged me to meander over to the exhibit of Gershwin and Hope—George and Bob, that is. Can you spell c-u-l-t-u-r-e? Spell a-r-t (music)?—expression, rhythm, syncopation, lyrics, meter, mannerisms, an audience and context.
It grabbed me—of all things!—while surveying the pictures of Bob Hope and his dotted history of entertainment. The survey of pictures and memorabilia turned to a theological discourse. It’s Shirley MacLaine’s remark: Politics that are void of the insight of art—its compassion, humor and laughter—are doomed to sterility and abstractions. (1972)Substitute the words, The people that are void…
Substitute the words, The churches that are void…
Substitute the words, The families that are void…
MacLaine nailed me.
I have been given to abstractions—that is, there in abstractions, there is life, truth, help, hope and meaning. She got me to thinking, “I’ve been a Christian, a pastor, encompassed by the stranglehold of abstractions and it’s been a life of sterility.”
I’ll try to write more on this. But I have learned the Gospel is not about mere abstractions. Just look outside—God invites us to his art room: mountains, plains, rivers, rolling hills, hay fields, checker-board farmlands, ocean deeps—and the constellations, hosts and dancing of the shooting stars. He is the Artist. He is cultured.
Each Sunday, at my home church, we celebrate the Lord’s Supper. It’s dinner time. Flatware, words of welcome, a minster who serves, cup, bread, trays, persons to eat. The Gospel gets down to a shared meal. The abstractions of preaching become taste and see. I am so very thankful for holding, tasting, seeing, smelling, swallowing truth. The head alone can take only so much.
Teach me, Lord, teach me of the necessity of the artforms and culture. I want to be cultured.
G. Mark Sumpter
