Trust My Lead?


Unless you trust you can never lead. How tough it is to trust unless you are willing to be vulnerable.  We can all breathe easy when we see your humanity, you’re quite like us.

Generosity is the highest gift of all. Yet if you scrunch your face and give lectures on how lucky ‘we are’ as you give, how lowly we feel. Receiving without your cheerfulness is like flossing teeth, duty slides painfully over the gums, some bleeding, but we got er done!

It’s hard to be a true community when you have more to complain about than good things to say. Ideally we’d all be perfect. Realistically we drown in expectations. Gratitude becomes but platitude.

It’s hard to innovate in the midst of hungry wolves. Don’t snarl, please, or rip my reputation in pieces if I fail.  I am taking a risk by pouring new wine in old wineskins, new ideas usually rip the status quo skins.  Musty status quo wine just doesn’t upset us nearly enough, sadly.

It’s feels wrong to put on this ‘man-o-God’ stage mask just because you want me to ‘wow’ the crowd. I know it fills seats, puts money in the plate, but I want my true voice to be heard. I am being vulnerable again. Can you still trust my lead?

You can only fly when you feel trusted! “I believe in you” becomes ‘The sky is the limit’. It’s easy todance be at peace when we give our best, especially when no one is watching and evaluating. The bonds of love are strengthened when you show a little vulnerability too. It’s simple to walk in harmony when we leave our judgments at the door and see through eyes of grace. It’s easy to be real with you when you’ve been real with me.

And I want your true voice to be heard. It is easy to hear you speak truth when I know you speak it without forcing me to see it or to change.

These are the rhythms of a good or bad dancing partner.

“The Kingdom of God is like a Community Picnic in Place D’Aligre…” by Patricia DeWit


Thanks to a compulsion I have where I must read every sign I see, I noticed a poster glued to the pillar outside the grocery store. It announced, “Pentecost Day Community Lunch, May 25 2015, noon, in the public square, Rue d’Aligre, bring food for your family and enough to share with another.”

I knew we needed to be there, come rain or shine. So I tried to figure out how this would happen…

With no point of reference for how Parisians do this, I supposed we’d stand around, or sit on blankets on the ground. Since it was to be shared, we would either walk around bending over to offer the food from disposable plates to others on their own blankets with their own disposable plates, or… we would perhaps sit on our own blankets and invite a passerby to come sit and eat with us.

I prepared sensible finger foods. It would be too hard to eat with utensils, and if we were standing, surely it will need to be individual-sized sharable portions, clean and easy. I brought a tablecloth for the ground, and three pillows, one for each of us and an extra for sharing.

When we left home I felt nervous. We bumped into our neighbours on the sidewalk. “We did not hear of the picnic?” they said. Oh oh, what if I’d read it wrong? Or, what if they had cancelled and we were the only ones who didn’t get the memo? What if what if what if? With a faked confidence I walked beside Peter toward the square, each of us carrying a large re-usable shopping bag, the normal bags that locals carry everywhere, camouflaging a picnic inside. If worse came to worst, we could at least take our finger foods and blanket over to the Seine River and picnic alone among the crowd.

Approaching the square, we had no idea that we were about to get the most beautiful lesson in how to be a community.

There were tables. And chairs. Someone had to have come early to set up; three tables together in a line here, a few over there, and yet another cluster under the trees. Before the end of the meal, the tables had become connected into a horseshoe so we were all seated at the same table.

I learned that in community, as soon as that plate, that knife, or that cup or that bottle goes on the table, it is no longer mine. It is ours. People around me kept pulling food from their large re-usable shopping bags, just like ours, and placing it on the table. It wasn’t finger food. It was slow-cooked and sautéed and simmered food. Whole melons were being sliced; tarte à la rhubarbe was being lifted from an enormous clay pan. Ceramic plates clunked, metal utensils clinked; fresh juice and strong hot coffee gurgled into a pell-mell of cups.

More people arrived. Some, just passing through the square, approached with questions marks in their eyes. Since we were at the end of the table, they asked, “Excusez-moi, mais qu’est que c’est?” Without hesitation, more tables were connected, more fresh plates and utensils rounded up for them. They had to have food, and a place at the table, whether they were from the community or not. “Please, sit with us here,” as they patted the empty chair, “Have some of Anne-Marie’s famous ragu!”

People used their fingers, or their own spoons, to serve others. We wiped our empty plates with napkins in order to make room for a dessert untainted by carrot cumin puree. We wiped our hands on our pants when we couldn’t catch a napkin. Some spoke with their hands, wielding paring knives, carving the air and the cantaloupe intermittently

By now I could tell who the community leaders were. They were not dressed differently. They didn’t sit at the head of the table. No one served them or treated them with deference. Nothing distinguished them from the others except… They had brought the best wines, the most food. They were the ones pouring and serving, walking chair to chair, making sure everyone got to try those amazing muffins. They were thanking and noticing and making sure everyone knew what great skills existed in these friends sitting across the table. They were the ones spotting the newcomers and pulling up extra chairs – Always more chairs. “We must make room at the table.”

And that’s when it hit me. The Kingdom of God is like our community picnic. Most people don’t see it or don’t recognize it because it doesn’t come wrapped in Christianity. It comes to the streets, incognito, dressed in the lives of unlikely good people. I felt the Kingdom come on earth as it is in Heaven when I saw the leaders preparing heaping plates of food for the homeless who live in the square- those very same guys who spend their mornings drinking beer, their afternoons sleeping in the doorways and their evenings picking through trash. The leaders poured wine or coffee into their cups, careful to ask, “Que préféreriez-vous?”

One man made a plate of food for the Roma woman, a refugee, and not assuming to know what she would like he politely asked, “Vous aimez l’aubergine?” She didn’t know whether to smile or cry, but finally just half frowned a confused

These tables filled up quickly with people from all walks of life sharing food and love.

These tables filled up quickly with people from all walks of life sharing food and love.

as she received her heaping plate of food from kind hands. The kind man offered her a chair at the table. She declined, he insisted, but she sat on the park bench a few meters away.

When Jesus took time to eat with his friends that one last time, he said, “Let’s take a selfie.” Sort of. He asked them to remember him. When you do this eating and drinking together, this listening and exchanging of life, whenever you do this, remember me. It wasn’t that he was afraid of being forgotten. It was more about how the simple everyday acts – such as eating – could be infused with divine purposes, if we were open to catching them. He wanted us to know that God does not need the sacred vocation in the holy building in order to be seen or heard.

His Gospel is about the table, and making room, and serving. So as we walked into that square yesterday, we walked into the Kingdom of God in motion and if Jesus had walked through Paris yesterday, he would tell the story of how “The Kingdom of God is like a community picnic in Place D’Aligre…”