The Church of the Hot Waffle
Matthew 11:19 & Mark 2:15-17
The Waffle House is to restaurants what little league baseball is to the Major leagues. The Waffle House serves food and that is where it’s comparison with other restaurants stop. It features, waffles, of course, Bert’s Chili, Omelets, and hash browns. Don’t ask for french fries and don’t try to use an American Express Card. The Waffle House stands as a monument to a different era. As you might guess I find the Waffle House fascinating.
When going to the hospital in Mobile I had to leave bright and early. You know you are leaving early when Hardee’s isn’t open. I usually waited until I arrived in Mobile to eat breakfast and the only thing open was this Waffle House near the hospital. The first thing that strikes me about the Waffle House is the mix of people who come there to eat. I can’t think of any other place where this crowd would be together. To my right as I walk in are four bikers. Their leather jackets and bandanas gave them away. It’s the Harley-Davidson Men and the Marlboro ladies. They are loud, who knows they may be winding down after a long night. At the counter two men sit. The hats and the pants, and the bass boat in the parking lot tell me these guys are going fishing. Before dropping their boat they’ve decided to consume some groceries. In a booth in the back there’s a man and a woman talking quietly. She looks young enough to be his daughter but she may be a date, it’s hard to tell. His better days are behind him and she could do better but they have found each other at least for now. In the booth next to me another couple sits. After listening in for a minute it appears they have left the hospital, where they have been waiting by their father’s bedside, for a short break and breakfast. In the parking lot I see a Ford truck with a bass boat, four motorcycles, an Acura, and an El Camino. Where else but a Waffle House
The Waffle House’s customer profile is most unusual. Ruby Tuesday’s has a certain market, McDonalds has the kids market, and the health conscience are heading for Subway. The Waffle House is made up of an eclectic mixture of people. People who are drawn together not because of their common economic background or their marital status but they are together because they are hungry.
Last Christmas we left Greenville headed for Birmingham on Christmas day. We figured since we would have a big meal when we arrived we would try to eat light earlier in the day. We didn’t plan on stopping on our drive home we were going to put some snacks in the van in case we got hungry. It was somewhere west of Atlanta when we decided that trail mix wasn’t
enough to keep our hunger at bay.
So we exited the interstate looking for an open eatery or gas station. The Burger King was closed, the Shell was closed, and the only thing open was the Waffle House. The Waffle House was overflowing, people were standing and eating. We placed our order to go and I waited. The holiday cheer was being spread at the Waffle House. Some of the customers looked to be travelers, like us. Others though looked to be at home. As in a few hours my feet would be under my mother’s table, some of these folks were sitting with their family around their kitchen table right now. They had found a home, they were among friends, it just happen to serve omelets any style. In a world that divides us into clans and families, the Waffle House gives those without family a place to call home.
My first encounter with the Waffle House goes back to a Waffle House near Samford University. Whenever I had a major mid-term test or an early final exam I would rise early and go to the Waffle House to study. The library wasn’t open so the Waffle House became a place to study and review for the upcoming test. It was awkward at first but in time I became one of the family. I may come only once a month but somehow they remembered. I was “college boy.” The fry cook would see me when I came in and holler, “Hey college boy, got a test.” I’d answer, “Sure do, this one is in Psychology.” He’d reply with something like, “Better stay away from that psychology, can’t be good if it teaches you to hate your mother.” I’d politely sit down and order my breakfast. While I did not know all the morning patrons, all the staff seemed to know their stories. It was ironic, as I was receiving a formal education from Samford, the Waffle House crowd was educating me in a different way. The wit of my fellow Waffle House connoisseurs came straight from Lewis Grizzard and the wisdom sounded like Merle Haggard.
I once wondered why we all came to this place. The service was friendly but not very professional, sometimes the waitress would take your salt to give to a person at another table. At other times the smoke so thick it looked like fog was rolling in. Then of course there was the health rating, which was never over ninety. We want even talk about how the waitresses handled your food and poured your drink then became your cashier and handled your money (the most germ invested item in our possession). Nevertheless in spite of all this we continued to come back, why? The only thing I can come up with is sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name and they are always glad you came.
One final thing about the Waffle House is that it is politically incorrect. For instance, while everybody takes checks and charge cards, the Waffle House still insist on cold hard cash. It’s politically correct to make things easier on the customer and offer them the convenience of using credit. The Waffle House is not concerned with doing what is en vogue. That explains why there is not a “no smoking” section. At least not one that is definable. They may call a particular booth “no smoking” but that doesn’t mean you want smell smoke during your meal, and the smoke want be coming from the grill. Ironically smokers and non-smokers peacefully coexist in the same Waffle House. I don’t know why they Waffle House chooses to chart it’s own course. I don’t know why they don’t get their cooks real chef hats instead of those paper ones, I don’t know why they don’t turn the lights down like other restaurants, I don’t know why they have that loud juke box instead of soft elevator music, but for some reason they have chosen to do business successfully without hiring a consultant.
If you ask folks on the street which restaurant the church of God resembles, McDonalds, convenient and fast or Ruby Tuesday’s, hip and trendy or The Waffle House, a welcoming place, I don’t know which one would be 1 or 2 but I have a feeling The Waffle House would be the last choice. Yet, when you look at Jesus a friend of publicans and sinners you have the feeling the people he is looking for are at the Waffle House. When you see this man who has the time for soldiers and tax collectors you think of The Waffle House. When you consider the people of heartache and pain Jesus associated with you don’t think of caviar and Champagne you think of waffles and coffee. If Jesus made his home with such can we reasonably believe that the church should not be a place for the sinner, a place for the struggler, a place for the person who hasn’t gotten it all together yet.
The church of Jesus Christ on its best day looks like a Waffle House. It looks like a place for all people. A place where suits sit next to blue jeans. A place where republicans break bread with democrats. A place where there is no “you” and there is no “me,” there is only “us.”
The church should be a place where Jesus’ blood is thicker than our blood. Where we become family even though we are not kin. A place of refuge when no other place will have us. A place where we can anchor deep to ride out the storms of life.
At our best we are a place where we know each other and like one another. We are a place where we try to know each other’s name and we are always glad you came.
The church, like the Waffle House is not politically correct. We don’t cater to the latest fad and we cannot break away from our language of faith. We still use unfashionable words like sacrifice, repentance, sin, forgiveness, and grace. At our best we comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.
In heaven there will be no “me” and “you” there will only be “us.” Suits will stand next to blue jeans and sing praise to the lamb upon the throne. The church should be the prelude to heaven
Thus when the church becomes such a welcoming place, a home for the struggling sinner and a house of prayer for all of us stained saints then earth will begin to look like heaven. “Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”
