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The invitations were elegant. They announced a hunger banquet. And as soon as people began receiving these invitations, I began getting calls. They were excited. Which made me smile. Because I knew they didn’t know what a hunger banquet really was.
For those who are unfamiliar with a hunger banquet, it’s not your regular dinner. People are invited to gather and eat, like a regular dinner. But not everyone is served the same things. In a hunger banquet, a hierarchy is established such that some get more than others. Just like our society—and our world. Some get a lot. Some get enough. And some get not enough.
I arranged for all invited to be assigned to one of three tables based on some arbitrary characteristic. I chose eye color. The objective was to make it something people had very little say in—like how we have no say in what family or what class we are born into.
The brown-eyed folks got to sit at the first table—the privileged table. This table was placed on the risers where the choir sat, a little bit above the congregation. They had a floral arrangement, matching china, polished silver and ruffled napkins. Two bottles of wine, sparkling cider, crystal pitchers of ice-water, candles and silk table-cloths sprinkled with little daisies. The table was arranged banquet style, like you’d see at a wedding, where guests sat all on one side looking out over the room.
The green or hazel-eyed folks were placed at the second table, below. It was somewhat less elegant. Real dishes went with paper napkins, a pitcher of water and juice.
The third table, for the blue-eyed folks, was placed around the corner by the entrance to the kitchen next to the big trash cans. They had paper plates, plastic forks, Dixie cups and water. Their location was such that the privileged table couldn’t see them. But the middle table could. Interestingly, 10 of the 14 people at the middle table chose to sit facing toward them, with their backs toward the privileged table.
To provide an indication that some system was in place, I had asked two of our newest—and relatively unknown—members to stand as “guards.” I asked them to dress “officially.” One surprised me by coming in combat fatigues, army boots, sunglasses, with a beret and a nightstick. When the poor table saw him at parade rest, watching over the room, they began referring to him as the man. The guards were given almost no instruction, except to maintain order and civility, which at a friendly invitational dinner might seem unnecessary. But, after all, we were dealing with hungry Unitarian Universalists encountering injustice.
When the dinner was served, the privileged table received the greatest care. They started with tossed salad, fruit salad, bread and butter, carrots and onions, rice and finally, chicken divan.
The second table was served after a few minutes and received the green salad, bread, plain carrots, rice and chicken.
The third table received only rice. And there was an extensive delay before that came. By the time it did arrive, some had grown tired of waiting and sent one among them who was intimately familiar with the children’s religious education program on a reconnaissance mission to liberate half a box of Triscuits and a bag of Smarties from the snack cupboard.
This surprised me a bit. But, I confess, I really didn’t know what would happen. I had fully expected that the artificial groups I set up would quickly dissolve, food would be shared between tables almost as quickly as we set it out, and the evening would be spent talking about the gross inequity in the world.
But I was intrigued to see that this was not what happened. There was a hesitation. And what happened during this hesitation was what taught us the most about our goal of oneness and the work of justice required to move us there.
The people at the privileged table had two kinds of responses. The first—and I will clarify that this was said in jest—referred to how appreciative they were that the superior nature of the character had finally been recognized and that it was about time they were given the treatment that was their due.
The other half of that same table did not seem so proud. They did express discomfort upon realizing that, while they were going gourmet, others were going without. Yet there was also a strong sense of confusion about what the guards would do if they challenged the system. They were reticent to do anything to create a scene. And that reticence held the status quo in place. All in all, it reflected some truth about the privileged group in our society—justifying some entitlement while issuing vague discomfort about the state of affairs and slow to take any action to change their position of privilege.
The second table was, to my mind, the most interesting. One member of the table reported, matter-of-factly, that he knew what we were attempting and considered it old news. Consequently, the conversation turned toward the details of one another’s lives. All in all, a fairly true picture of the middle class: generally intelligent people who work hard, are aware of the dynamics and problems of the world around them, but are too preoccupied with their own lives and those of their friends to effect much lasting change on systemic conditions of poverty.
The third table also seemed very adept at capturing the essence of the group they represented. They were pissed. They were hungry. And they minced no words about it being unfair. They weren’t angry at the guards, who were just doing what they were told. They also weren’t really upset with the other tables—they were just playing their part in the game. But they were, without question, pretty unhappy with me.
They came to see me as the instigator. The maker and the keeper of the system. For all intents and purposes, I played the role of God. A figure whom the privileged throughout history have cited as the source of the privilege they enjoyed, God has always been an ambivalent figure for the middle class, sometimes treated with confusion or indifference. And God is a figure the poor have often felt promised them more. And the poor have been dining on empty promises for a long time.
None among us can deny the tragic inequality in our world. Unfortunately, pinpointing the ultimate cause behind it isn’t as clear in real life as it seemed to be in our simulation. One of the truest statements made during the evening was during the discussion afterward, when someone pointed out that the experience that we simulated that evening was too simple. They pointed out that the roots of all oppression are far more complex and entangled in well-meaning endeavors than is ever initially perceived, and it is hard for any congregation to know how to do the good they so desperately want to do.
Trying to find oneness or navigate our way toward justice isn’t always straightforward. We want to help, but we don’t want to upset others in the process. We want to empower others, but we don’t want to take power from those who have earned it. We want others to have a place at the table, but we hope it is not at the expense of our own. This can lead to paralysis, and eventually, despair.
But beyond despair, beyond the tangled details of cause and effect, beyond the many reasons why it is impractical to work for change, there is something else: a realization that when any in the world suffers, we all suffer. As our inner cities are assaulted with strife, our suburbs are assaulted with fear. As the poor, the Black, the Asian, the Jew, the gay, the disabled and the disenfranchised are denied their due, we all feel the hunger of living on empty promises. And none of us—not the rich or the poor—ever get to know what it would be like to live in one world, where bridges are built and peace is possible for all people.
If the situation in my church had remained at a stalemate of confusion and inactivity we might have all gone home that night in despair. We might have demonstrated the reasons why 1% of the world’s population owns 99% of the combined wealth. We might have justified why prisons are over-represented by the poor and minorities. We might have accepted the inevitability that guards will always be threatened by plastic utensils because crime is the only hope for the poor. And we might have lost hope for the kind of communion we all crave—the kind that says that all differences and all fear can be bridged by love. If the situation in my church had remained the way it began I might have lost hope.
But I knew my community. And I knew deep down that they would get indigestion dining on fear and injustice. That is why I invited them—to show how it is possible to overcome paralysis. And I was not disappointed.
As I was talking to some of the folks at the privileged table, I began hearing the echoes of rebellion coming from across the room. Voices from the underprivileged table started singing. Slowly at first. Softly… “We Shall Overcome…” Some started to join hands or link arms. Then, the people at the privileged table saw their opportunity. They rose above their hesitation, elbowed their way past the guards, and carried food across the room. When the guards feebly attempted to stop them, the middle class quickly surrounded the guards and handcuffed them in debate about prolitarian morality in postmodern capitalistic systems. They were quickly overpowered. The lower class, seeing the privileged people coming toward them with food, unlinked arms and welcomed them into the group. Everyone began to sing louder. Then it was only a matter of a few minutes before we were all—guards and cooks and people of every class—sitting at the same table discussing what happened and in complete agreement: it was all the minister’s fault.
The way out of paralysis came when we heard the voices calling for action and heard the confusion within our own voice—and realized it was the same voice. The difference came when we recognized that all that separated us, whether authentic or artificial, did not, could not, would not divide us in our common humanity. The difference was made in recognizing that the good within us is as powerful as the complexity and the confusion of the system around us.
We will only work for others in their efforts to escape the yoke of bondage and oppression when we see ourselves inextricably linked to them. When we understand that their story is our story, their opportunity is our success. Coming together on the Side of Love is everyone’s reward.
Since that evening, I’ve helped organize hunger banquets at four different congregations. On no occasion have we ever ended hunger or oppression. But I have seen six-year-olds stuffing rolls in their shirt to deliver them to their parents at the poor table. I’ve seen 75-year-olds loading up their walkers and cussing out guards on their way to bring dessert to children. And every single time, I’ve come to know a communion of people who never thought about the poor—or the rich—in quite the same way again.
Attached media: https://web.archive.org/web/20211110004746/https://www.questformeaning.org/podcasts/19_05/02.mp3
