By the time we got over our prom-like awkwardness and remembered that we live together, the meal was ready. Under those fancy shoes we symbolically washed are the feet that wear flip-flops when they scrub down the bathroom; the voices that harmonize to hymns are the same that wake us up in the morning. We know each other without fancy clothes, we're no different with them on.
Or are we?
Jesus once told a story about a banquet like ours. The original guests shredded the invitations and didn't come, so the host sent out invitations to everyone and anyone else: the lady who sleeps next to Starbucks, the man who wanders up and down Rivadavia with a backpack, maybe even the 16 students from who-knows-where all gathered in one place on Bartolome Mitre (a bit of pretention in my telling of the parable, but eh).
They came to the table, sat down, and started eating the piles of food. Torta aleman, pionono, peceto, pan, pizetas- delicious, time-consuming, and uncommon food. The host raised his eyes from the food and looked at his replacement guests: happy, belonging, and dressed up. Fancy. All, that is, except one. Conspicuous in her grimy street clothes, she catches the attention of the designated bouncer, and out she goes into the dark streets of Buenos Aires.
So, moral of the story: clothes make the (wo)man? Why is being dressed up for the banquet so important?
For once, I don't have a good answer to my own rhetorical question. But I can tell you what happened next at our banquet...read on.
Or are we?
Jesus once told a story about a banquet like ours. The original guests shredded the invitations and didn't come, so the host sent out invitations to everyone and anyone else: the lady who sleeps next to Starbucks, the man who wanders up and down Rivadavia with a backpack, maybe even the 16 students from who-knows-where all gathered in one place on Bartolome Mitre (a bit of pretention in my telling of the parable, but eh).
They came to the table, sat down, and started eating the piles of food. Torta aleman, pionono, peceto, pan, pizetas- delicious, time-consuming, and uncommon food. The host raised his eyes from the food and looked at his replacement guests: happy, belonging, and dressed up. Fancy. All, that is, except one. Conspicuous in her grimy street clothes, she catches the attention of the designated bouncer, and out she goes into the dark streets of Buenos Aires.
So, moral of the story: clothes make the (wo)man? Why is being dressed up for the banquet so important?
For once, I don't have a good answer to my own rhetorical question. But I can tell you what happened next at our banquet...read on.
No comments:
Post a Comment