Exclusivity

I’ve been in a book club for about ten years. A few friends started it as a way to enjoy my wife’s legendary homemade pizza, throw back a few beers, and maybe smoke a pipe or two while arguing about the authors and books we love. We meet once a month and it’s a date we guard jealously. We’ve seen only a handful of new members as some moved away making room for new additions; but the ideal number has hovered around seven or eight guys. Which brings me to a problem that crops up from time to time.
Somehow over the years this simple gathering that sprang up naturally and flourished for love’s sake developed a certain alluring quality to those who heard about it. I would get the questions: “How can I get into your super secret book club? Do I have to perform seven feats of strength?” Funny questions. Diffident questions. Earnest questions. And many with that unmistakable please-let-me-in quality about them. This got me thinking.
One of our guiding lights has been C.S. Lewis and if you’re familiar with his work you may have read an essay he wrote entitled “The Inner Ring.” If so, you’ll know immediately what I hate about this situation. If you’re not familiar with this essay, besides recommending you read it and most everything else Lewis wrote, let me sum it up by saying I’ve always hated exclusive clubs. What attracted many of my college friends to fraternities, for example, was exactly what turned me off: a carefully cultured exclusivity. They tend to foster pride and derive much of their power by feeding off the dashed hopes of those turned away from membership. The weak sheep at the gate bleating for admission is music to the insider’s ears.
Our book club may not be a frat, but by its very nature it is susceptible to that most deadly sin: intellectual pride.
But it need not be so. At least I hope not. What saves me from throwing up my hands and killing the club is that I know that it sprang up naturally: friends who loved each other and shared a common bond. Exclusivity was (again, I hope) just an unfortunate byproduct of its existence, not its essence. Lewis’ analysis of cliques, clubs and informal coteries turns on this point.
I’m not a very compassionate man by nature and there is a significant part of me—admittedly a very ugly part of me—that simply doesn’t care what anyone thinks and has no problem turning down requests to join our club. I have done this many times over the years and have not regretted it. There are, however, many legitimate defenses for a club such as ours, perhaps the greatest of which is Jesus himself had close friends and unapologetically cultivated close friendships and even excluded some of his disciples to favor Peter, James, and John with more attention.
Still, I’m not Jesus, and I am troubled by the fact that the tendency of a club is to run counter to the grain of the Gospel. The Gospel is open to all, completely inclusive. Which leaves me contemplating changing the character and purpose of our club, and carrying on the internal debate on the legitimate bounds of exclusive friendship. I doubt there is a clear answer here; I will pray, consider options, seek counsel, and then, who knows? I hope at the end of the day our club survives for years of books and fellowship and beer.

Racism

I’m not a racist. I’m multi-cultural, educated and have embedded in my soul an instinct to defend the disadvantaged, to side with those less fortunate. If a pan handler asks me for change and I have a buck or two in my pocket, I’ll give it. I used to feel a twinge of guilt as I walked past the Salvation Army “ringers” if I didn’t contribute, until I found out that the “ringer” takes home a generous portion of the contributions. My point is I’m a pretty soft touch, which brings me to last week…

He said “Merry Christmas” as I walked up to the convenience store to pay for my gas. I smiled and Merry Christmased him back, but part of my brain said “Black guy, hanging out in front of 7/11, greeting middle aged white guy driving a nice car…I’m going to get hit up for money on my way back.”
Sure enough, as I began to pump gas I could see him approach. He made a pretense of pointing out the paper towels to wipe up any gas I might spill [Don’t give me that, I thought, just get to your real question.] I mumbled a reply but my mind was racing: “It’s 10pm and I’ve got my wife in the car. I need to get out of here.” I climbed in the driver’s seat and saw him approach and tap on the window. There was a moment of fear and a quick internal prayer as I rolled down the window.
“I’m sorry to bother you but can I borrow some money for gas? My car is right over there and I don’t have enough to get home.”
“Hey, I’m sorry. We literally just spent our last cash on this gas.” [This was true.]
“That’s OK, sorry to have bothered you. Have a good evening.”
“Goodbye.”
We drove off.
Two days later I’m out shopping with my daughter for Christmas. We came out of TJMaxx late at night and walked out to our car. A man, a young white guy, approached us. He was carrying a baby girl—she was wearing a cute pink jacket.
“Hey man, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m stranded with my car on empty. Can I borrow some money for gas?”
“What a shame,” I thought, “the face of the economy’s troubles looks like this—some poor guy and his baby girl having to beg for gas money.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t have any cash…but I’ll tell you what: if you have enough gas to get to that gas station I’ll meet you over there and put a few bucks in on my card.”
“Thanks, man!” He ran back to his car.
As I pulled out and made my way around to where he was parked I saw him jogging up to me.
“Thanks for the offer but my friend I was expecting just showed up, so I’m OK. Merry Christmas.” He shook my hand and ran off.
Later I reflected on these incidents. I realized my experience of fear in the first and compassion in the second were not based on facts but on cultural assumptions. The black guy’s plight might have been real and I was standing at the gas station where I could have put some gas in his car on my credit card; the same offer I made to the white guy—whose plight might have been totally contrived. I’ll never know.

Friendship

My friend John is divorced and he is crying on the phone. It's been several years now and the old wound aches as the holiday season advances upon him remorselessly. He's been alone before, but the pain can catch him unawares. Christmas is especially hard.
"I'm sorry, John."
In the pause while he masters himself I am reminded that my friend knows all too well that he was the main reason for the divorce.
"I'm sorry, Robert, to take up so much of your time."
He apologizes like this often.
"No problem. I'm glad you called."
What does friendship look like at this moment? Sympathy can bring a measure of warm comfort, but it can often be like the warmth of a fire of dry kindling: momentary and fast fading. My friend needs substantial comfort.
I touch upon the familiar themes that we all so easily forget: God knows you, he chose you, your sins are forgiven. We talk for a while as he wrestles with the consequences of his failures and the reality of God's grace. Time to apply truth:
"What can you do now, this season, to serve others? What about making a meal for a family in the church?" John likes to cook.
John wants to belong but so often has put his demands for relationship above disinterested love for others.
"Serving is good, I agree. But that's not developing deep relationships."