Dr. William A. Ritter
First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
Scriptures: Proverbs 22:6, Colossians 3:1-10
When it comes right down to it, there are really only two kinds of people in Michigan….those who think that the best fried chicken in the world is served in Frankenmuth, and those who don’t. And among the pro-Frankenmuth people, there are only two kinds of people….namely, those who eat their chicken at the Bavarian Inn, and those who go across the street to Zehnders. And at either of those places, there are really only two kinds of people….those who eat their chicken with a knife and fork, and those who pick it up with their fingers. The next time you go to Frankenmuth, take your own survey. Pay special attention to the way people eat the small pieces like wings and legs. Most people concede that chicken legs are finger food when pulled from a bucket and eaten on a blanket. But all bets are off when there is a tablecloth beneath you and a waitress beside you.
Table manners are hard to figure. Most of us know they’re important. Most of us make some attempt to practice them, especially in what is called “polite society.” And most of us have enough knowledge of mealtime “do’s and don’ts” so as to be able to pass a multiple-choice test on etiquette (provided that the test is graded on the curve). But most of us would have a hard time grading our own table manners without comparing ourselves to friends whose manners are more abysmal than our own. In short, we know “gross” when we see “gross.” Those of us who are men take great pains to call such crude displays to the attention of our wives, using them as justification for doing things as we’ve always done them. “You think I’m bad,” we say. “Look at him.” Thank God for the slobs of the world. They make the rest of us look good.
Children, of course, do not care about any of this. For them, food is pleasurable. Getting it into their mouths, by whatever means, is the pathway to pleasure. And manners are the “monkey wrench” by which pain is introduced into this pleasure-system. Kids associate food with fun and manners with rules. They get confused when too many rules get in the way of having fun. Which puts mothers in an awkward position. Because while mothers make the food which produces the fun, mothers also make the rules which get in the way of the fun. This means that fathers should either make more of the food or more of the rules, thereby taking mothers off the hot seat. This is especially true, given that the same fathers who let things slide at home are the most embarrassed (and become the angriest) when the kids screw up in public.
Manners, however, are hard to correct at home. This is especially true when kids become old enough to argue that they really do know the proper way to eat, but shouldn’t have to demonstrate it when it’s just parents and siblings at the table. “We’ll know what to do when we’re out,” they say. “Don’t worry about us. Do you think we’d eat this way and make these horrible noises if there were real people around?” Which always led me to wonder why Kris and I weren’t considered “real people.” Not that I ever got anywhere when I raised that question.
But I did wonder about their basic premise….that they would be able to turn it on in public if they hadn’t practiced it in private. Sometimes, I would ask Bill and Julie: “What if you suddenly found yourself at an elegant dinner party seated next to Walter or Wanda Wonderful? Would you know what to do?” They, of course, were absolutely certain they would know what to do. They were also certain that the parents of Walter and Wanda Wonderful probably worried about the same thing. Just as my parents worried over me. And just as your parents worried over you. It’s universal.
But don’t dismiss my concern too quickly. Because the world is full of people who don’t know how to eat, but who were certain they would be able to figure it out when the time came. Except they couldn’t. Or didn’t. And part of the problem lay in the fact that such things were not practiced (day in and day out) in a way that enabled them to become “second nature.” For while practice may not make one perfect, practice will (over time) make one comfortable. And that’s the goal, don’t you see? Just as the rules of grammar are not learned for the purpose of making you a grammar teacher, the rules of eating are not learned for the purpose of turning you into Emily Post. The rules of grammar are practiced so that you can eventually forget them and enjoy speaking, just as table manners are practiced so that you can eventually forget them and enjoy eating.
If it appears that mothers are (therefore) on to something, they are far from alone. For military commanders know the same thing mothers do. So do football coaches, drill instructors, and police academy trainers. You can almost hear the litany: “Practice things until they become second nature….until they become habitual….until they become comfortable….and until you are confident you can perform them under stress.” Which doesn’t mean that one-of-a-kind situations won’t arise….for which there will have been no practice, and for which fresh thought will have to be expended at the moment. But if most responses have been practiced to the point of becoming “natural,” it will be easier to do the “unnatural” when a problem presents itself, unlike any that has been seen before.
Over the past several years, I have become interested in the subject that is often referred to as “character development.” And while the subject is immense, to the point of being overwhelming, one thought is becoming clearer and clearer in my mind….that the development of character has less to do with the correctness of any particular decision we make, than with the consistency of the behaviors we practice. In short, character development has more to do with habits than choices.
Take truth-telling. That’s a practiced behavior, if ever there was one. How does one learn to tell the truth? One learns to tell the truth by telling it over and over again, until it becomes virtually impossible to lie or deceive. Unfortunately, the contrary is also true. The first lie makes the second one easier to tell. And the first lie may even make the second one necessary to tell, given the need to cover up the first one.
Or take cheek-turning. One kid accidentally bumps another kid in the hallway at the high school. In a flash, the bumpee lays the bumper flat on the floor with a punch. Good-bye consciousness. Hello concussion. The good news is that there is no gun. There often is, anymore. People get shot for a bump, a slur, or even a look. Violence is in. But not everywhere. Consider Amish children….Mennonite children….Quaker children….who, from day one, practice methods by which aggression can be met non-aggressively. Certainly, a rare occasion might arise which would evoke a physical response from even the most polished cheek-turner, just as the habitual truth-teller might lie to the Nazi at the door to protect the neighbor’s Jewish children hiding under the bed. But how many times do such exceptions occur, really?
As concerns decision making, I don’t know whether I heard it on television or read it in some novel, but I love the line of the young lady who, trying to let her date down easy, smiled and said: “You know, I’m really not in the habit of unbuttoning my blouse in the backseats of automobiles.” What a splendid response.
Again, I submit: Character development has less to do with choices than with habits. We need to identify desirable behaviors and practice them until they become second nature. Because not all desirable behaviors are a part of our first nature. That’s what Paul says to the Colossians. He tells them that if they have really been raised with Christ, they should walk away from the way they formerly walked….putting behind them their old nature and its practices, while putting on their “new nature,” which (he goes on to suggest) is something one keeps working on, and working on, until it fits.
Which training begins young, says the collector of wisdom in the book known as Proverbs. “Train children in the way they should go, and they will not depart from it.” All of us have heard it. Most of us can sense the truth of it. Like seeds planted early, patterns practiced from our earliest years can produce a lovely foliage.
Which I can illustrate from my early days. I was eight or nine years old at the time when, on the sidewalk in front of the neighborhood grocery store, I found a $20 bill. That was a lot of money in 1948. Not just for me, but for anybody. Not knowing quite what to do with it, I pocketed it and took it home. When I told my folks, they didn’t say:
· Gee, Billy, this is your lucky day.
· How about splitting it with your old man?
· See, just like we’ve tried to tell you, God rewards good little boys.
Nor, did they begin to sing:
· Every time it rains, it rains twenties from heaven.
Instead, they said: “I wonder if somebody lost it who needs it more than you do?” Which, as it turned out, somebody had (lost it, I mean)….who did (need it more than I did, that is). Which I found out when I found him. Don’t ask me how I found him. That’s a good story, but not essential to my point. But, as a result of that experience, it has become my habit (across the years) to think about your loss first and my gain second….to the degree that it’s no longer something I have to think about. It has become my second nature….one that is more in keeping with the Gospel.
But I have an even better story for you. While at my recent seminar in Sea Island, Georgia, someone began talking about Frank and Nellie Baker. Who you don’t know. And there’s no reason you should know. But, in his heyday, nobody knew more about the history of Methodism (including the life of John Wesley) than Frank Baker. I only heard him once (ironically, in England at the rededication of Wesley’s Chapel on All Saints Day in 1978). But the man could think. And write. And remember. Especially, remember.
Which was why it was so tragic when his memory began to go. Frank was one of those people who suffered from Alzheimers for no small number of years before he died. Which is a bad enough disease for anybody. But for a scholar….a thinker….a chronicler of history….it was nothing short of tragedy. Fortunately, Frank was a relatively peaceful Alzheimers patient rather than a feisty one. Meaning that he was able to stay at home through most of his declining years. And meaning that Nellie was able to care for him with a minimal amount of help.
Shortly after Greg Jones came to be Duke Divinity School’s dean, he and Susan paid a courtesy call on the Bakers. Without apology, Nellie welcomed them in, gave them tea and cookies, introduced them to Frank, and included her husband in the circle of conversation as if he could still participate. Which he couldn’t, of course. There he was, all dressed up, sitting in his wheelchair, with friends in the living room, but there was “nobody home”….if you know what I mean. Which everybody overlooked, out of kindness….and respect. Although, on several occasions, Frank interrupted to say: “Now who did you say you were?”
At last, the pot was drained of tea and the conversation was drained of pleasantries. Leading to good-byes from all but one. That one being Frank. When suddenly he broke into the conversation, clear as a bell, to say: “By the way, if you ever need anything to eat, stop by and we’ll give you whatever we have cooking on the stove.” It was the most intelligent sentence he had said the entire hour. Heck, it was the only sentence he had said the entire hour. But it made wonderful sense. And it was warmly received.
Only later did Greg and Susan learn that Frank and Nellie Baker had opened their home….and their dinner room table…to scores of students across the years. Two and three nights a week, they had students over for dinner. And every Sunday they trolled the narthex of their Methodist church, finding strays who might like a warm and friendly place to have lunch. And every time volunteers were sought for a local soup kitchen or meal preparers were needed for the local homeless shelter, it was Frank who said: “I think Mother and I can do that.”
Long after most of his mind was gone….most of the wires had been cut….most of the connections had wafted away with the wind….Frank Baker knew enough to invite a stranger to partake at his table. It was the case of the practice becoming the person….and the habit taking over the man. When everything else was gone, that’s what was left.
All over this state, treatment centers are filled with people who have habits that need to be kicked. Would that churches could be filled with people who have habits that need to be kissed. Or blessed.
