All Grits, No Glory

(Note: This essay was the 2004 Gerlich Christmas Letter)

I like Waffle House.

A few weeks ago I was sitting at the local House, indulging myself in a breakfast that no doubt took a few days off my life. Those tasty scrambled cheese eggs and pecan waffles are not for the faint of calorie.

I was on my way to a class at church on the devotional classics. I had left home early, textbook in hand, savoring the thought of a little quiet time with a good book over a greasy breakfast. John of the Cross, say hello to my raisin toast. Teresa of Avila, would you like syrup on that waffle?

Waffle House is a funny kind of place. If you're from the north and/or have never travelled south, you've missed out on a rare cultural landmark. The hearty chorus of "Mornin'!" that greets everyone as they enter is so last century that it's actually kind of cool. And you always know the company is doing well when they give you two packets of apple butter without you having to ask for them.

The folks who work and eat at the House are a mixed lot, more likely than not to smoke cigarettes and live in a trailer park. My students hang out there after the bars close. It's kind of like a convention of minimum wage earners who spend most of their money at Wal-Mart.

A cross-country trucker sat behind me. He chatted with the waitress as if she had served him many times before. It never occurred to me that the House could be another man's Cheers, but she seemed genuinely interested in his exploits and the fact that he had a band on the side.
There was the young, somber looking family across the room whose kids had to suck stale air as their parents fed their nicotine jones. I wonder why they looked so sad. Maybe it was all that smoke.

And then there was the guy who intercepted me in the parking lot. He hopped out of an old Dodge van with South Dakota tags towing a decrepit travel trailer, and asked me for money. I told him I had no change (no lie), and hurried into the House. Don't you just hate it when people bum money? Besides, I needed to read that book about all those saintly writers.

The women who wait tables are a cheery group, many of whom have been there several years. My favorite is the British lady, whose accent is a pleasant alternative to the local drawl. I don't see how they could make much money serving omelets and burgers a few million different ways, but they stay anyway. They must like each other.

And then I noticed the Brit's t-shirt. It was a Waffle House official uniform issue, boldly proclaiming "All Grits, No Glory."

If you've never had grits, they are the ground up meal from dried and hulled corn kernels. They're boiled and served as a breakfast side dish. Some people add butter and sugar, while others salt them. Either way, this southern staple is low prole, and not likely to be served by Emeril.

What a cute slogan, I thought. These ladies spend their waking hours slinging grits, eggs, and hash browns (I like mine smothered and covered), refilling coffee for a menagerie of diners, automatically shouting "Mornin'!" whenever the door opens, and calling their customers "dear" as if they were family.

There's just not a whole lot of glory, though, in $1 tips.

While munching on raisin toast, I considered how easy it would be to compare Jesus to the staff at the House. After all, Jesus hung out with a rough crowd, performed a few dozen miracles, developed relationships with people, and all that stuff. As my eyes circled the room, I thought, Yeah, the Brit and her sisterhood are a lot like Jesus.

I looked at my watch, and quickly chased the last of my eggs with a gulp of coffee that warmed my soul. I had just met Jesus, and he's working at Waffle House.

Off to class I sped, with a trace of breakfast stuck on my book. Those saints were already starting to work on me. It's easy to be smug when you've got things figured out. It's even easier on a full stomach.

But it was only after the teacher told an illustration that I did a mental rewind to my 30 minutes at the House. Wait a minute. Jesus may have been at the House, but he wasn't serving tables.
I replayed the Gospel of Matthew (chapter 25) in my head. Jesus liked to speak in terms that rural poor people could understand. He told a story about sheep and goats to describe his followers. One group fed and clothed him and took him in, while the other did nothing. The sheep will inherit the kingdom, and the goats will not.

And then Jesus lowered the boom. "In as much as you did this for these, the least of my brothers, you did it for me."

Somewhere along the way, I had gotten it all wrong. I thought it was my calling to serve a big bowl of Jesus to those in need. Feed them. Clothe them. Show them hospitality. And in so doing, I would become a little more like Jesus.

No, the Brit and her friends were not a metaphor for Jesus after all, because Jesus was on the other side of the counter.

I remembered the trucker, the somber family, and the man in the parking lot. In my quest to be more like Jesus, I had missed him. The trucker spent many lonely miles on the road. The somber family looked like they may as well be alone together. And the man in the parking lot needed money for something. All grits...and no glory.

Maybe the Brit knew this all along. Jesus is not the one doing the serving as much as he is the one being served. It's all kind of confusing at times, but I do know that I'm headed back to the Waffle House. I want to see Jesus.

And I'd like a big bowl of grits.

Dr. "Bowl Me Over" Gerlich