More Than Just Tea

         Four months ago, I sprinkled a few handfuls of a hybrid sunflower seed in our freshly constructed most Northern garden box at The House. We had received nourishing, rich dirt from Memphis City Beautiful, and we added compost from my decomposed pile of used tea leaves. The garden box was ingeniously irrigated by our long-time contractor friend, Dwayne Jones’ crew, and the sun exposure was the suggested maximum on the tiny seed packet. The conditions were perfect for sunflowers to flourish, and we would not need to water or weed.

         The miracle of burying a seed that generates a small plant, unfurls a flower, and brings forth many seeds is repeated throughout the world every spring. The Parable of the Sower cautions that not all the seeds will mature, depending on the conditions. Apparently, our setting for a few of the seeds was superb.

         While we delighted in our familiar annual plantings of tomatoes, peppers, corn, and lima beans, we marveled over the fast-emerging nubs of the sunflowers that outpaced everything and began to shade the eggplants in box #2.  Within the short month of June, we saw more than we had imagined possible. We had a forest of very thick-leaved, twelve-inch-diameter sunflower trees with flowers the size of large pizzas. They had grown too tall for us to clip and bring in for decoration, and if we had a ladder to do so, there wasn’t a vase that could support a flower unless we repurposed a Home Depot bucket.  

         Did I mention above that the seeds were called Skyscrapers?

         They grew just short of the power lines on Semmes, and the utility workmen preparing for the fiber-optic cables to come stared menacingly at them and us.

         Last week in preparation for planting in the fall, Sandy, a regular volunteer for years, and I brought our personal chainsaws and began our untapped lumberjack roles of cutting down the forest in Box # 1.  We prevailed and then attacked the 15-pound root balls under each one with the same dedication.

         The 20 actual sunflowers clipped from the felled trees weighed between 3 and 6 pounds each.  My pleasure has evolved into harvesting the seeds from the cut and dried flowers and planning how we will plant sunflowers in all the vacant lots in Orange Mound.  I am not overstating that I have plucked at least two thousand Skyscraper seeds from only five of the flowers.

         I grew up singing about Johnny Appleseed, and I only need to change one word to make it fit. It begins:

“Oh! The Lord’s been good to me/and so I thank the Lord/for giving me the things I need/ the sun and the rain and the sunflower seed/Oh! The Lord’s been good to me.”

A friend challenged me to write a story, and I thought the valiant seed deserved a poem. Read below.

Sunflowers rise, bright, saucy, and bold.

Promises of Summer, as their potential unfolds.

From one empowered kernel, the Skyscraper stands, 

Fifteen feet high, reaching upward like hands. 

Summer ore, seeds gathered, rest through fall and frost, 

In spring’s warm embrace, they awaken, not lost. 

With sun and with water, the cycle renews, 

From one tiny seedling, a forest ensues. 

Tall as trees, golden petals debut to display

Beauty and joy in their vibrant parade. 

Though grass will wither, and flowers will fade, 

God’s Word endures, a foundation well laid. 

Life and truth in each season's measured return,

In the heart of a seed, endless lessons we learn.

Let us marvel at Creation’s miraculous design,

In His Garden of Faith, the Holy Spirit aligns.

“I would like to meet with you at the House today,” the text read.

I was slightly perplexed by the message because it seemed last-minute, and I knew of no impending crisis requiring my presence in Orange Mound. I replied that my day was full, but that I could meet soon.

Several minutes passed, and another text bubbled up on my phone screen.

“You’re bringing lunch to the House today, right?”

I instantly felt nauseous. Despite months of bringing lunch to the House on the fourth Thursday of every month and a conversation with my wife just a couple of days before about what I would prepare for the ladies, I forgot. It was almost 11:30 at that point.

Providentially, Carey had prepared an eggplant parmesan with our garden produce and graciously offered to bring it for lunch. I was relieved, ashamed, embarrassed, and immensely grateful for the grace I was shown.

It was no great tragedy, really. The Earth would continue to spin, the Sun would rise, and everyone at the House would have something to eat. Yet, I was grateful that not a single person at My Cup of Tea would judge my worth or ability on the basis of this mistake – or a lifetime of mistakes, for that matter.

There is no questioning the fact that I have made many more consequential mistakes in my life – mistakes that cost money, that damaged my reputation, and that harmed others physically or emotionally. I would like to believe that I have far more “good works” on my stats sheet than “mess ups”, but such a claim is dubious at best. And even if it were true, mistakes in our culture wield far more influence than successes.

The tiniest faux pas elicits a visceral response from many of us. The Starbucks barista who clocked in before 5 a.m. adds only two pumps of vanilla to our latte, instead of three, and most are not kind about letting her know. And with star ratings coveted by businesses, we are quick to rate the establishment one star, often with little or no explanation. If that barista or her coworker fails again, then that location and potentially the entire enterprise earns a tarnished reputation in our minds, and in the minds of those who will listen to us, for years to come. We are not only a “what have you done for me lately” society, but we are a “what have you done for me correctly” society.

Collectively, if we are so quick to pin on the scarlet “A” for a sleepy barista or a stressed out Dad who’s late for work and cuts us off in traffic, then how low is our tolerance for a woman who gave birth to a child in jail because she was arrested for credit card fraud? Is there any understanding in us for one who has been in drug rehab but still struggling to get clean? Can we accept a woman who engaged in prostitution to make ends meet, or another who stays with an abusive partner despite the risk to her children?

One of the most critical components of the My Cup of Tea House is that all are welcome to shop, learn, study, and, if you are an Orange Mound woman, apply for a job. However, the moment you step onto the property, you have entered a judgment-free zone. Value is not assigned based on how few mistakes you have made or how serious someone determines those mistakes were.

For mistakes that come to light while at the House, there is accountability, but not condemnation. In one instance, one of the ladies admitted to stealing diapers from a previous employer when she learned of an active warrant for her arrest. A sister took her under her wing, drove her to 201 Poplar, came back the next day to drive her home, and the woman faced a judge who mercifully granted probation. While waiting for the adjudication, she worked at The House and was joyfully welcomed back when the case was closed.

Many of us are quick to quote Luke 6:37, “judge not, and you will not be judged…” when someone calls out our mistakes. We forget the rest of the verse that goes on to say, “…condemn not, and you will not be condemned. Forgive and you will be forgiven.”

Jesus did not excuse or ignore the mistakes of the outcasts of society with whom he associated, or of the religious and political elite, for that matter. In one of the most dramatic scenes of Scripture, a woman caught in adultery is brought before Jesus by those religious elites. The law required that one caught in adultery be stoned to death. Yet, Jesus wrote something in the dirt and said, “Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her,” – John 8:7.

The story doesn’t end there with Jesus saying, “Go about your business.” Instead, he says, “Neither do I condemn you: go, and from now on sin no more,” – John 8:11.

Jesus did not determine the woman’s worth based on her sins. He assured her that she was not condemned and urged her not to make the same mistakes.

I am reminded of the teacup chandeliers that hang throughout the House. They are fashioned with broken, cracked, and stained teacups that are emblematic of all who work and serve there. They may be damaged, but they are beautiful and have purpose. And if any one of us were handed one of those cracked or stained cups full of our finest tea, it is my prayer that our senses would dwell, not on the outside of the cup, but on what is in it.

I have often quoted Dr. Michael Rhodes, author of Practicing the King’s Economy. He has enlightened many and trained more to take a cutting-edge ministry to urban neighborhoods.

 “If you want to create the kingdom potluck at the margins, you must relentlessly pursue the sort of community that makes it possible for the marginalized to bring a dish to the table.”

and

“Sharing meals together forced us to figure out how to be the body of Christ reconciled across racial, ethnic, and class lines.”           

Rhodes punctuated my mission statement in Orange Mound shortly after I began there in 2012. My call remains deeply rooted in the powerful message of Isaiah 58:6-12. I have worked among dedicated women with whom I worship, love, and serve, who have bravely shared their burdens for our city. This scripture inspires us to rise and embrace our divine purpose, igniting a passion within us to bring about transformation and healing in Orange Mound.  We are called to break the chains of injustice, to share our resources with those in need, and to shine our light brightly in the darkness.

So, we decided to do it with food.

Lunch became and has remained the anticipated “sweet spot” for all who work at the House daily. A volunteer, usually from East Memphis, drives into the inner city and dishes out a fresh, free feast for our famished friends.  The plates are filled to overflowing.

Within the ten years we have served lunches, I have adjusted my expectations and found that Dr. Rhodes may not have been familiar with the single moms we employ in Orange Mound. 

Some in our family at My Cup of Tea find it difficult to express acknowledgement of the daily fare which is given abundantly.  I question if food scarcity fosters a sense of shame for needing to accept the gift, rather than appreciation.

Most of our employees are unfamiliar with a potluck at church gatherings. On days without a designated provider of lunch, I've asked everyone to contribute to potluck lunches, fostering a spirit of giving, as it's more rewarding to give than to receive.

It seems most of the ladies interpret “potluck” as “let’s see how many items I can snag from the Kroger sale table!” We’ve had everything from half-off, half-frozen catfish to a sizable stack of canned beans.

I have recognized financial constraints can eclipse the ingredients for a simple meal to offer friends. Access to reliable stoves and ovens, and no access to time and energy to prepare, can throttle the best intentions. Cooking skills are lacking for some, and sharing sugary cereals, day-old fries, or stale pizza that works at home is embarrassing.
 
Prayerful and undaunted, I offered a new version of sharing the “vittles” this week.  Everyone harvested bushels of vegetables from our House garden on Monday. For the ladies who have mastered culinary arts, I suggested fried green tomatoes, tomato pie, and green beans cooked Southern. They accepted the challenge and combed the fresh produce on the counter.
 
For those still learning their way around the kitchen, I offered to lend a hand, and we cooked together.  Side by side, we made peach cobbler, apple pie, and sautéed lima beans with bacon. Hopefully, the experiment will be repeated at home. Two prepared cucumber salad, and another brought cucumber surprise. Printed recipes were available, and some picked them up.

According to Rhodes, “In God’s economy, everybody gets to bring a dish to the party”. This tells us two things:

First, the goal is to become an interdependent family gathered at God’s table.
Second, the potluck reminds us that some in the family struggle to bring their best dish because of their economic brokenness or inexperience. That means that if we want the potluck, we’re going to have to bend the way we work, earn, spend, invest, save, and give towards welcoming the marginalized.
 
I bent the rules, and we picked the pole beans. My hope was that every woman would participate, every plate would be filled, every tummy satisfied, and every heart encouraged. The fellowship at the table is made rich when all partake in the labor of preparation.

I have  renamed our endeavor “Mound Manna.”

It worked, and one said today that she is already looking forward to our next one.