Exclusive

 It was an interview, almost 75 years ago, back when television was young. They put a poet on CBS News and asked him to sit for an interview. The poet was no ordinary wordsmith. It was Carl Sandburg, three-time winner of the Pulitzer Prize. He was a man who loved words, who juggled words, and who adjudicated words. Edward R. Murrow was the interviewer, an ever-present Camel cigarette in his hand. After a bit of small talk about Sandburg’s work, Murrow gave him this question: what is the ugliest word in the English language? Sandburg looked him over, then started working over the question. “The ugliest word, what’s the ugliest word?” He rolled the question over his tongue. “Ugliest? Ugliest word? Hmm…the ugliest word.”

Then, rather abruptly, he gave his answer. “The ugliest word is exclusive.” Edward R. Murrow blew a bit of cigarette smoke, then asked the question, “Why? What makes that the ugliest words?” The reply: “That word ‘exclusive’ shuts out a large portion of humanity from your mind and heart.”

It is a word that has often been used to make people feel special. We live in an exclusive community. We vacation in an exclusive resort. We are inducted in an exclusive society. We are offered an exclusive deal. It’s not so ugly if you are one of the insiders, if you count yourself among the brightest and the best, the richest and the most privileged. You might be tempted to boast, “I am a member of an exclusive club.”

Yet, that, precisely that, is why the poet named it the ugliest word. Because it separates you from the rank and file. It presumes to lift you above everybody else.”

Is there anybody in the dominion of God better than all the others? No, not one. All of us drink from the water of Christ’s mercy. All of us. That’s why we need to work together.

One of my teachers told the story of growing up in Appalachia. “We didn’t think we were poor,” he said, “because there was always somebody worse off than us.” It made him feel better, a little better. One day, his church group announced they would make up fruit baskets and deliver them to the poor families in town. Fred felt good about that. It would lift his spirits to do something kind for somebody else.

The fruit baskets, mostly apples, were put together. The group split up in a few different cars and headed out to the poor sections of town. Fred held his basket on his knee. He knew what he would do. He would sneak up to the front door, put down the basket, knock hard, and then run away. It was guerilla charity, he said. Unload the basket and leave.

So, he approached a run-down clapboard house. Lawn was overgrown. One of the bedroom windows was broken. A single lightbulb on inside the home. He thought to himself, “Oh, these poor folks are really going to enjoy this bruit basket. I’ll bet nobody has done something nice for them in a long time. I’ll drop the basket on the porch, knock on the door, and run away. Good plan.

He leaned down to place the basket when the front door opened abruptly. He stood up, shocked. This was not the original plan. A grizzled sharecropper took the basket in his wrinkled knuckles. He brightened in a broken smile, then said, “How kind of you! Thank you ever so much.” Then he paused, held out the basket, and said, “Would you like one of these apples? They look delicious.”

The kid froze. This was definitely not in the plan. He was supposed to give away the apples, not take one. The old man stood there, waiting. So, Fred took one of the apples. Took a big bite. Indeed, it was delicious. “Ever since that moment,” he said, years later, “I realized we all eat from the same basket. All of us, from the same basket.” Just as God intends for it to be.