Hunger and Poverty Lesson

I was excited: it was the first week of seminary and various activities had been planned for us by older, returning students.  This was in the fall of 1970 at Pacific School of Religion, Berkeley, California.  Pacific School of Religion (PSR) is a non-denominational seminary with a proud history as the first seminary founded west of the Mississippi River back in the mid nineteenth century.  It is on the hill immediately north of the UC Berkeley campus with beautiful old buildings and a quadrangle that overlooks San Francisco Bay.  The school offers coursework in common with twelve or so other seminaries located in the immediate vicinity.  Together the schools are known as the Graduate Theological Union.  A pacific location, no doubt; however, even seminaries had been affected by the cultural revolution of the 1960s.  The previous year, students at PSR had insisted on a student-driven curriculum and open air, free classes focused on issues such as racism and the Vietnam War were the order of the day.  And my first year, returning students had offered to help initiate new students into the life of the revolution in creative ways.  The second day of orientation found us in a large open room, probably a church hall, adjacent to a church in San Francisco.  We gathered in the hall and had small group discussions and various activities aimed at helping us get to know each other.  We had not been offered breakfast.  Meanwhile, a meal was being prepared for us in a kitchen whose counters were open to the large room.  A huge turkey with all the trimmings baked in the oven and wafted heavenly scents that promised joy and satisfaction.  But large turkeys take a long time to cook, and the cooking for “lunch” really hadn’t gotten underway until mid-morning.  So by mid-afternoon, to say that we were famished and ravished by the smells of the turkey is an understatement of colossal proportion. 

Finally the good news that we are about to break our fast sweeps the room.  Our mouths water in anticipation.  Our leaders parade out from the kitchen ceremoniously led by the steaming, beautifully browned turkey and followed by platters of side dishes.  They place the entire meal on the floor in the middle of the large room and proceed to sit down on the floor encircling the dinner and then to fill their plates and begin to feast as if we, the innocent naifs, are not even in the room.  At first we are so stunned we just gape with incredulity at our tormentors.  Then murmurs of protest are heard that merge with shouts of irritation and demands to be fed.  But the “feast” continues and our elders only seem to huddle in a tighter circle around the turkey ignoring the rising hubbub about them.  Finally the revolution begins in earnest as we begin breaking into the circle, meeting resistance and dragging feasters out of the way.  A melee ensues.  Drumsticks are snatched and handfuls of potatoes are wolfed hungrily, until finally the charade that had ended almost violently is called to a halt and we reassemble to eat the dinner in peace and to discuss the meaning of the experience.

I mark this lesson in my memory as the moment when I first truly understood the meaning of being fed or unfed and how it must feel to be poor on the outside of a feast.  I also understood the dynamics of class struggle and why processes of sharing and justice must be built into society if we aren’t going to devolve into animals fighting over scarce resources.  Thank God for big turkeys, peacefully shared.