Next-Wave Ezine > church & culture

Book Excerpt, Divine Nobodies: Waffle House Theology (Wanda the Waitress)
By Jim Palmer (published by permission)

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[For the past couple of weeks Jim Palmer has been my pastor. No, not in the way you might think, but through his excellent book, Divine Nobodies, Thomas Nelson, (October, 2006). I've been reading it, about one chapter a day, and soaking in the lessons that Jim learned on his journey from successful senior ministry leader to "just Jim---flawed, imperfect, maybe a little crazy, just a guy who wants to know Jesus better himself." I emailed Jim and asked him if we could "reprint" a chapter from the book and he graciously said, "Yes!" Enjoy this chapter, but by all means, buy the book and enjoy Jim Palmer's pastoral letters about the divine nobodies who populate our daily lives and who will show us the way to Jesus if we will just stop, wait, notice and listen. --- Charlie Wear, August, 2007]

SOME THINGS YOU LEARN KICKING AND SCREAMING ALL the way. I never knew “called” people worked as cooks, cashiers, or carpet installers and reckon it would have remained lost on me if it weren’t for becoming one. The kicking and screaming began one frigid morning huddled in my car enjoying a few last puffs of heat while watching and waiting at Lot 93.

Like clockwork, the crew of Hispanics was already hard at it. One mixed mortar while another wheeled it across frozen mud, filled a large bucket, and hoisted it up with a makeshift pulley. Meanwhile, the sturdiest one of the group squatted down and in one fluid motion picked up six bricks pressed tightly together between both hands and heaved them blind high to another, who caught the stack, amazingly still pressed perfectly together. He set them down, replenishing the supply of his partner laying the brick with spade and mortar. This was a well-oiled bricklaying machine.

© Photographer: Photoclicks | Agency: Dreamstime.com

How did I get here? A Master's of Divinity in hand and on my way to a doctorate. Staff member of the largest and most cutting-edge church in North America. Founder and pastor of a growing and innovative ministry. Executive director of an acclaimed inner-city nonprofit agency. Nationwide traveler, speaking out on international human rights tragedies. Now about to start yet another day of de-nailing lumber, hauling heavy sheets of plywood, tearing down wet, putrid drywall, and filling Dumpsters with construction debris strewn tornado-style all over the place. How . . . and why?

Glaring headlights prodded me back to reality. Danny was driving in with his battered ’90s model S-10 pickup; he’s the one bossing me around all day. I was already pondering my first handful of ibuprofen. Once esteemed for theological knowledge, wise counsel, speaking, and leadership, my value now was doing grunt work nobody else wants to do. No longer hobnobbing with movers and shakers of contemporary Christendom, my world now was rife with four-letter words and beer-drinking, chain-smoking, NASCAR-watching, deer-hunting Shania Twain fans. Feeling sick to my stomach, I hopped out into the bitter cold and pulled on my grungy work gloves for another day of meaninglessness. One more day of this and I might throw myself into a Dumpster.

Little did I know construction cleanup was just one stop on a long, winding road taking me seemingly farther and farther from “my calling.” After divorce booted me from pastoral ministry, I began wandering around in a vocational wilderness, taking on executive leadership roles in the nonprofit world but never satisfied they were it. In order to find it, I decided to walk away from demanding positions to devote time and energy to searching. Thinking every person is born to do something: A-Rod, baseball; Bono, music; Gates, computers; Warren, purpose-driven guru; I was Jim Palmer, To Be Announced. In the meantime, my plan was to work odd jobs on the side until it emerged.

As time passed, the odd jobs got odder and the journey took unfamiliar and undesirable turns and paths. After the construction gig, I became a carpet salesman or, as the management insisted the position be called, “flooring specialist sales associate.” In order to get that badge, I attended Carpet College in Dalton, Georgia, a one-week crash course on floor coverings including field trips to carpet manufacturing plants.

© Photographer: Allein | Agency: Dreamstime.com

In case you’re wondering, people have long transformed the ground on which they tread. Rugs and carpets have covered floors in virtually every part of the world since records began. Mechanized looms developed in 1841, Boston revolutionized carpet production. The three most widely available types of machine-made carpets are woven, tufted, and bonded. Research and use found carpet with a pile blend of 80 percent wool and 20 percent nylon offers the optimum balance of comfort, color retention, and wear. Whatever you do, remember, your selection is an expression of your individuality, although you must also consider the issues of warmth, sound, durability, traffic, maintenance, cleaning, and safety.

After receiving my carpet diploma, I considered adding the suffix PhC to my name: Jim Palmer, PhC. Surely it would impress someone too fainthearted to ask what PhC means.

The next stop was CJ’s Café, a full-service cafeteria-style restaurant (meat and three, grill, salad bar, sandwiches, etc.) situated downtown inside a government building. I was hired to work the register, something I had never done—but how hard could it be? Well . . . ringing people up in lines on both sides, I was also responsible for making coffee, refilling silverware, and keeping the dessert tables full of fresh pies from the cooler. The cash register itself was a train wreck, with mismatched labels like the button reading “Chicken Club” now meaning the Meatball Sub. Receiving a busy signal when processing credit cards meant sprinting to the back office and yelling at Jeff the dishwasher to get off the phone with his girlfriend. I’d return to impatient stares and the surreal world of Ms. Ellie, who always accused me of giving her the wrong change, and Marvin, who couldn’t fill out a check in less than five minutes if his life depended on it.

Clocking in daily at 5:30 a.m. required my rolling, and I mean rolling, out of bed at 4:30. I did morning prep (unloading the dishwasher, filling the hot chocolate/latte machine, cutting lemons, slicing bagels, arranging pastries, etc.) and ran the register during the breakfast stampede. We had thirty minutes to turn it around for lunch (cleaning tables, making iced tea, setting up the salad bar, filling Coke machines with ice, etc.), when the mayhem turned the picturesque salad bar into a war zone. At 2:00 p.m. we cleaned up the joint in a flurry of wiping, vacuuming, mopping, disassembling, stacking and wrapping. We then locked it up and crawled to our cars, hopefully beating the early rush hour. After a long week on my feet at the cafeteria, I realized how overrated sex is compared to the ecstasy of a foot massage.

My next tour of duty was Kohl’s department store. The back half of the store, which included housewares (appliances, vacuum cleaners, luggage, etc.), domestics (towels, bedding, table linens, rugs, etc.), and seasonal (framed art, candles, seasonal items, etc.), became my world, or “sector” as they called it. Retail department store work simplified my theology in several ways. In seminary there was much debate over the nature of hell. After working the Christmas season, I am satisfied I could do a doctoral thesis on the “weeping and gnashing of teeth.” I might spend twenty minutes properly folding and restacking bath towels, only to have some lady with too much time on her hands shake out two of every color, hold them up to the light!?!? . . . and toss them back in a pile without a thought. She would eventually end up over in seasonal, pulling out the picture frames and cramming the mess back on the shelf for me to organize . . . again. Given enough time, she would find her way over to domestics, where she would probably throw rugs in the aisles without picking them up.

Retail can get to you. Once, while in vacuum cleaners, I reasoned spending several years in prison would be worth silencing one man who wanted me to explain the pros and cons of every model. It’s a freaking vacuum, for goodness’ sake. How did I know? I went to carpet college, not vacuum cleaner academy! I was going crazy. I’d be on the ladder in the stockroom putting away merchandise and thinking to myself, How many grill designs can George Foreman come up with? I also wanted to give that Laura Ashley chick a piece of my mind! Once the architect of strategic plans for organizational growth and worldwide mission, I couldn’t make heads or tails of the schematic giving proper shelf locations for each style of coordinating bath rugs and toilet seat covers. It could have been worse, which crossed my mind every time I walked past shoes; that section was anarchy.

With each sheet of plywood, carpet measurement, pot of coffee, and folded towel, I was sinking deeper and deeper into confusion and discouragement. I was barely able to pull my aching body out of bed for my construction job; how was I supposed to have my morning quiet time with God? My retail work schedule changed weekly but was mainly nights and weekends, leaving little time and energy for extracurricular (read church) activities. Once the pastor who chided people dozing off in services, I was now experiencing life on the other side. I was finding Christianity in the real world had all sorts of challenges I never experienced in my vocational ministry world.

I made a nice living in ministry-related positions with great insurance benefits. It was a rude awakening when my two hourly-pay jobs supplied half my previous salary without medical insurance. The day-to-day financial struggle was taxing, but the real struggle was the sense of failure I associated with my working in this “nonprofessional” world. It was humiliating when someone asked Pam, “So what’s Jim doing now?” “Well, he’s, ahhh, selling carpet.” “Oh . . . really . . . that’s nice.” Working the restaurant register, people looked down on me like the scum of the earth, and retail shoppers treated me like a little servant boy. Didn’t they know who I was? At Kohl’s, my pride had me scurrying to hide among curtains or hurrying to the stockroom to avoid being seen by someone from my previous life. The day came when I was called up to run the register, and one came through my line. I died a slow death, carrying on painfully awkward conversation with someone who didn’t know quite what to say to a spiritual guru now ringing up early-bird specials.

Perhaps any of these jobs would have been acceptable for a student working himself through college or as a part-time job to supplement family income, but not full-time employment for a grown man as educated, gifted, and called as I was. Wellintentioned Christian friends told me it was a shame and I should take a “step of faith” to get back into “ministry.”

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The first time I ever walked into a Waffle House was during this time of downward mobility. I often escaped to the one near the carpet store for a quick bite and perhaps a chapter or two of whatever book I was reading. Waffle House was my oasis; cheap, strong coffee and no chance of anyone I knew being there (they were all Cracker Barrel types). I don’t ever remember knowing a “Wanda” before then. Living in Nashville by way of Gary, Indiana, Wanda was a talker who waited on me that first visit and practically every time I was in after that.

Though a petite and slender woman, Wanda had a sense of durability evident mostly in her strong forearms and hands. Her wiry auburn hair brushed her shoulders, and as a matter of course, she wore it tucked behind her ears and out of her dark brown eyes. Her fair face showed the wear of a difficult life, which included an abortion in her teens, alcoholism in her twenties, and an abusive marriage in her thirties, now struggling to piece it all back together pushing fifty.

I never met the manager, but for all practical purposes, Wanda ran the joint. Often balancing a large tray loaded with food on one hand while pouring coffee refills along the way with the other, she would continue her friendly, albeit opinionated banter with the guys sitting at the counter. She could declare you were full of it, which she often did to the regulars who enjoyed prying into her love life or the lack thereof, and you’d still want to give her a big hug. Calling me by name and genuinely interested in making conversation, she routinely patted me on the shoulder, making me feel she was glad I was there.

Waffle House Waitress

One afternoon after I took a table, Wanda appeared and noticed I was absorbed in one of my Christian books. “Must be good, Jim?” “Oh, hi, Wanda.” Pointing to my book, “This? Yeah, it is good actually.” Squinting at the cover, “What is it?” “Oh, it’s just one of those spirituality books.” “Really. Honey, I read all that stuff. Started back in my AA days. Ever read those Conversations with God books by what’s his name?” “No, I’ve never read those. Are they good?” “Oh, honey! Couldn’t put ’em down. You gotta read ’em.” Suddenly, the two programmed proper evangelical questions for this sort of thing popped into my mind: Do you know Jesus? and Do you attend church regularly? I decided on the easier of the two. “Do you go to church anywhere, Wanda?” “I work Sundays, hon.” A voice rings out “Order up!” and off she goes.

A while later she was back topping off my coffee and offering in an exacting tone, “Besides, I tried all that once and it never worked for me. I guess it does for some people. I could never be one of them.” Pausing to fish creamers out of her apron, she said, “They don’t want people like me. That’s what I found out. Anyway, this is my church right here.” Then she zipped away, giving me no opportunity to respond. This was the first time I had ever seen Wanda visibly rattled. Feeling terrible, I said, when she returned with my check, “Wanda, look, I’m sorry if . . .” “Jim, honey, now don’t you go being sorry.” She stole a corner of the seat across from me, put her hand on mine, and said, “Listen, hon, I just never seemed to fit in at church, you know? I’d sometimes be in my uniform, and folks stared like I was some kind of prostitute. I ain’t no whore! I’m a waitress. Never finished high school, Jim. That preacher was way too smart for me. I ain’t afraid to admit it. Let’s just say all them fancy words don’t mean much at Waffle House. Now, don’t you think another thing about it, hon.” Standing to gather up my plate and silverware, she offered these final words with a wink to console me: “Shoot, I might go back yet. Teach ’em a thing or two.”

I don’t know if Wanda ever went back to church, but she taught me a thing or two, some of which I could have gone without knowing. She talked about how over the years Christians were often her worst customers. They would come in all cheery and blessed after Sunday morning service, running her unmercifully with a table of eight and leaving loose change for a tip on a large bill. She remembered on one occasion coming upon a group to take their order and finding them in prayer. She respectfully waited until they were finished, but minutes later they complained their baked potatoes were too hard and iced teas too icy, which she gladly remedied. At the end of their meal they left only an evangelistic tract, which did little to pay Wanda’s heating bill that month. For years, I prided myself on having right theology, but Wanda got me thinking about whether any theology can be “right” if it doesn’t motivate you to treat people with love and respect. Let’s just hope on Judgment Day that God doesn’t leave it in the hands of waitresses, cashiers, and all the other invisible people in our world who are on the receiving end of what’s truly in our hearts.

Out of the spotlight of “professional ministry,” I was now fully immersed in a world of nobodies. I refused to accept this and reasoned with God that I had endured this trial long enough and needed to be back in “ministry.” What sense did it make to be pining away somewhere folding towels, wasting my gifts, and abandoning my “calling”? When it became apparent God didn’t share my way of thinking, I just flat-out got angry and enjoyed being miserable to show God just how horrendously he was treating me. I can be pretty dramatic and even tried the whole life-is-no-longer-worth-living-justplease- take-me-now thing.

Yet unnoticeably along the way, I was also getting to know, enjoy, and care about this cast of characters who were now part of my life. During breaks on the construction site, I talked sports with Michael, the drywall/painter guy, once a local high school sports megastar but not star enough to play college ball. To Michael, every general contractor was the enemy. He would continually threaten to walk off the job. I would calm him down, insisting he couldn’t abandon me, because I hated painting. At CJ’s, the other cashier, Candi, and I looked out for each other. We didn’t mind picking up the slack if the other one was slammed or just having a crappy day. Sometimes she came to me for guy advice (couched in hypothetical scenarios) in her on-again, off-again, on-again, off-again relationship with her boyfriend, who first wanted to be a country singer, then a race-car driver, and then a realestate tycoon like those midgets on TV, all the while working at Blockbuster.

Then there were Judy and John at Kohl’s, married with grandchildren. Judy ran seasonal and domestics while John oversaw the cleaning crew. Well beyond retirement age, it killed me that they both still worked full-time trying to build their nest egg. Thankfully, as full-timers they had medical insurance when John had a stroke. He still managed to return to work a couple of months later. I would have long before quit Kohl’s if it hadn’t been for Judy, who practically worshipped me for being one of the few in her department who actually worked. I never told her, but in many ways she was the mom I’d always wished for. My soft spot for her still produces an excuse to go shopping there with hopes she’s working so I can hug her.

These nobodies—Michael, Wanda, Candi, Judy, John, and many others—were now friends I cared about . . . and who cared about me. The notion began growing inside that perhaps I was “called”—to them. Maybe this way of living is “ministry,” and God ordained these very connections and relationships. Side by side in the ebb and flow of daily living and working, God wanted to bless us through our knowing one another. Sure, it might not seem like much through the eyes of my graduating seminary class, but it sure mattered to them and to me. I felt I had discovered a missing link, experiencing meaningful relationship with God through others amid the wear and tear of real life. It all sounds nice in church on Sundays, but can you really know God and walk in his kingdom waiting tables, cleaning out dressing rooms, and framing houses? Maybe Jesus came as a poor common laborer to supply to all the ordinary of the world the resounding answer, “Yes, you can.” The truth is, if it doesn’t work there, it doesn’t work anywhere.

God has been trying to free me from the burden of doing something spectacular for him. It has a way of distracting you from the opportunities to be salt and light right where you are. I’m starting to see that the “cup of cold water given in Jesus’s name” sometimes means running the register by yourself during lunch so your heartbroken coworker can cry in the break room, or volunteering to reshelf all the returns in your area so a worn-out coworker twice your age won’t have to. A kindness shown here, a listening ear offered there, a caring hug as you go might be the case for Christ a cynical waitress most needs. I’m starting to recognize that I am immersed in a sea of hurting people every day. If I simply pay attention and follow the promptings of the Spirit in all these little ways, my life is “ministry.” One of my spiritual gifts is teaching, but I don’t need to stand on a stage before a crowd to use it. God uses it in conversations with people like Wanda to help unravel the complex, far-off, unattainable version of Christianity she heard at church.

The other day I received a glossy brochure to attend a national pastors’ conference in California. Opening it, I was suddenly staring into the eyes of an old buddy of mine I served with years ago on the staff of a megachurch in Chicago. Reading the caption under his picture, I learned he had become the pastor of a megachurch himself and was one of the main speakers for the conference. Feelings of sadness and regret fell over me. What had I accomplished with my life? What great thing had I done or would I ever do for God? All this time I had been searching and seemingly not finding it. Then the words of one of those divine nobodies entered my mind. Speaking as if he were God, he would say, “I AM what you are looking for.” I’m starting to realize it begins and ends with knowing Jesus.

The next afternoon I went to the store to buy a new coffeemaker. I had busted the little spring contraption on the filter basket, making my old one worthless. Surprisingly, I found one on sale for only $9.99. (Of course, at home I could see why, when the plastic cup thermometer thingamajig popped off as I pulled it out of the box.) In the checkout line, things weren’t going too well. The stressed-out woman working the register was waiting for someone in kidswear to check the price on a coat, which the customer was irately refuting. Meanwhile, the line grew longer and the people angrier. Giving the cashier drop-dead stares, people started mumbling hateful comments just loud enough for her to hear. “This is ridiculous.” “Idiot.” “How stupid.” Finally, the miffed customer laid into the cashier with a piece of her mind and stormed off, leaving a mountain of merchandise for the gal to clear off.

After a manager came and cleared the register of the lost sale, the cashier continued ringing out customers. Her apologies were met by cold, hateful silence and bags snatched away in disgust. Finally, I was next in line. “Sir, I apologize for the wait today.” Seeing her name tag, I replied, “No problem, Nancy. You’re fine. I’m in no hurry.” As she stared at her screen, a lone tear slowly creeped down her face. Why? Was it because of the beating she had just taken? Maybe she was like me back at Lot 93, at the end of her rope. Taking my bag, I said something that surprised me since it was a little uncharacteristically bold for me. I looked her dead in the eye and said, “Nancy, I’ve been there, and it’s going to be all right.” She thanked me—not one of those quick, customary thankyous, but a deliberate, heartfelt one.

On my way to the car, Nancy’s tear was still in my mind. I wondered if it was a tear of gratitude or hurt. Like me, Nancy was looking for Jesus. Maybe she experienced him in our brief encounter. I did. Knowing myself all too well, I know I was capable of being just as uncaring as the other customers. It was Christ living in and through me that enabled me to reach out to Nancy.

Jim Palmer offers guidance as a pastor, speaker, writer, blogger, and conversatonalist to people seeking to know God in deeper and more expansive ways. he is the founder of the Pilgrimage Project, an initiative encouraging the freedom to imagine, dialogue, live, and express new possibilities for being an authentic Christian. Jim lives in Nashville with his wife, Pam, and daughter, Jessica, and can be contacted at www.divinenobodies.com.

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