Lessons in divinity may happen to you in Church, but for me they happen when I am eating. Last week I was sitting in an Applebee's in one of those neighborhoods that surrounds and caters to a large metropolitan airport. In other words, a culinary wasteland. With one hour between commitments at a continuing education course, and hunger pulsing in me like a wild animal, I determined to make the best of a pedestrian situation.
To my left, three uniformed men having a lunch meeting. Above me, a television blaring CNN. Under my hand, a notebook of the classic black and white variety. In front of me, a Pecan-Crusted Chicken salade composee with the ubiquitous Honey Mustard Dressing. "Excuse me..." I stopped the lovely waitress as she walked by. "I thought this came with a Garlic Cheddar Biscuit?" "Oh, it does," she replied, "but my manager told me to wait until the customer asks for it." Interesting, I thought. Advertised, but not delivered until you ask. "Yes, please. I would definitely like my biscuit."
As I finished my salad, and my biscuit, which was actually a small bite of heaven held together with cheese, I thought about how important it is to ask for what you want, and wondered how many people read about that biscuit on the menu, but don't ask for it, and then wonder why they don't get it, and go home disappointed. To open the door of Heaven, you have to ring the doorbell.
The surface of us is but a minor matter. The things that separate us, centrally define us, are not whether we are democrat or republican, Catholic or Protestant, Muslim or Jew, male or female. The central difference in human beings is, do you let words and wine roll around on your tongue until you taste them, do you lick your fingers, do you let the olive oil and butter run down your chin in appreciation? Do you taste, do you savor, can you meet me there? The thing that separates human beings is this: Do you ask for your biscuit?
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