For conversation starters at gatherings, I much prefer “What brings you here?” over “Tell me about yourself.”
For one thing, I prefer someone asking me a question rather than giving me a command, even if the person doesn’t intend to be intimidating.
The thought of it takes me back: I’m sitting in a graduate seminar at Princeton, and I’m the guy from Texas, far away from my environs. Professor E.A. Dowey, Jr., aging handsomely with his gray hair, looking Ivy Leagueish in his wool sports coat, peers over his half-rim glasses and says, “Well, Mr. Whitlock, tell us about yourself.”
What was I to say?
“Well, uh, I just drove up here from Texas, where people are friendly, and the apartment I was stupid enough to agree on over the phone turned out to be in a ghetto, so when my wife stepped inside with our suitcases, she had a meltdown. Then, when I demanded my security deposit back, the landlord laughed and then tore up my lease—threw the tiny pieces of paper in my face—and told me he would see me in court. So here I am: homeless and wondering if this seminar is too much above my level of academic expertise, anyway.”
But of course, that’s not what I said.
I told them how I was originally from Oklahoma and had graduated from Baylor and was so glad to be in New Jersey where I could take advantage of this delightful opportunity to learn in this beautiful academic environment. Of course, I was struggling, like a wounded butterfly trying to regain flight, straining to impress with words, knowing they were sizing me up, even as I was them.
Now, had the professor asked me, “What brings you here?” honesty might have had a chance. I might have said I was there to study but was having a challenging time getting situated, as our housing arrangements hadn’t met our expectations and that I was feeling a bit insecure, academically, that is.
For most of us, our modus operandi is to put up a wall that effectively hides the truth of our authentic selves, thus shielding us from being vulnerable, exposed, and possibly rejected, in other words, from being real.
If you could have been there on the day Jesus entered Jerusalem, and had you looked over your shoulder and asked one of the bystanders there with you, “Tell me about yourself,” you probably would have gotten the graduate seminar answer: “I’m from the tribe of Levi, the clan of Kohath, son of Eli, so glad to have this opportunity to join in this parade. ” It’s all verbiage intended to legitimize one’s status and impress the other.
But had you asked, “What brings you here?” you might have gotten some truth.
And the truth is, the people gathered there that that day were giddy, pulsating with the pride of nationalism. The vast majority were there for purely selfish reasons: they had for years felt left out and oppressed. Now, this Jesus might be The Guy to turn it all in their favor, so, yes, they would hail him, king, hoping he who would make them (Israel) great again. That’s why it took less than a week for them to turn on Jesus, for the kind of king they wanted, Jesus the Nazarene, was not. Their manner of dismissing him (the cross) was consistent with the depth of their disappointment.
Like me on that introductory day in that graduate seminar, we want to measure up, be respected and be admired in all manner of appearances. And when we are disappointed in the response of others, we sometimes respond with anger and resentment.
So, it’s a bit intriguing, (don’t you think?) that the one whose life we come to celebrate this Sunday did not cling to so much of we hold so dear: the respected appearance, the reputation for knowledge, the desire for dominance.
It could lead some of us to ponder, as more people gather on this Sunday than have in over a year, what we would say if Jesus himself stood at the church entrance and asked not, “Tell me about yourself,” but “What brings you here?”
Of course, he knows the answer to that last question.
But the real question is,
“Do we?”