Here is the full text of Episcopalian minister Tracey Lind’s talk titled “How I Met God in a McDonald’s” at TEDxClevelandStateUniversity conference.
Listen to the MP3 Audio: How I Met God in a McDonalds by Tracey Lind at TEDxClevelandStateUniversity event
Best quote from this talk:
“I believe that the voice whom we call by many names and hear in many languages and meet in many places, even a McDonald’s, lives inside of each and every one of us.”
Thirty years ago, I met God in a McDonald’s.
Really. It happened at five o’clock on the afternoon of January 31st, 1984. It was the day before my second semester of seminary.
I’d entered divinity school to wrestle with two questions that had haunted me for years: my religious identity and my vocation.
Like nearly 40% of all Americans, I come from an interfaith background — my father was a Reform Jew; my mother, a skeptical Protestant — and my upbringing was a rich blend of both traditions with a very healthy dose of secularism.
To this day, I joke about lighting Hanukkah lights under the Christmas tree and hunting for Easter eggs at the Passover Seder.
As a child of the ’60s, I had a passion for justice, and I wanted to be a religious leader who would change the world. I just wasn’t sure whether I should become a rabbi or a minister.
I loved to be in a house of God, and I would often play ‘Friday go to temple and Sunday go to church.’
To this day, I remember setting all of the chairs up in our family room and lining up all of my stuffed toys and dolls and preaching to an inanimate congregation. Some days I wish I still had them.
By the time I was in 9th grade, I was attending synagogue on Saturday mornings and I was playing my guitar for Sunday folk masses at the local Episcopal Church.
And while everyone was kneeling for communion, I sang Gordon Lightfoot’s words:
“I’m standing at the doorway, my head held in my hand,
Not knowing where to sit, not knowing where to stand.”
Took a long time for me to figure out where to sit and where to stand. And there are still days when I feel like a rabbi in a clerical collar.
By my mid-20s, my quest led me to the Union Theological Seminary in New York City, right across the street from the Jewish Theological Seminary, because I was still hedging my bets.
And my first semester in seminary was this prolonged interrogation of God: “Who are you? Do you really exist? What’s your relationship to Jesus, Muhammad, Buddha, and all of the rest? And why are so many bad things done in your name?”
You know those questions. You’ve probably asked some of them yourself.
And as I struggled with God, I was also trying to sort myself out, trying to figure out what I was supposed to do with my life.
And while I believe that vocation is the intersection between one’s passion and the world’s need, I just couldn’t figure out how to reconcile the contradictions of my mixed religious identity and my gender and being gay with ordained ministry and any faith community.
And so, I sought out one of the sacred shrines of modern American life: the therapist couch. Every week, I would go and I would sit for 50 minutes with someone whom I considered to be older and wiser than myself.
And on my way to my weekly session, I would often pass this fortune teller’s office. And I would wonder maybe a psychic reading would be time and money wiser spent.
By January, I was utterly exhausted from taking on someone bigger and stronger than me. And so I found myself walking down 42nd street one day, on my way to this weekly session, asking God to let me go and to let me get on with my life. And that’s when it happened.
As I was crossing Madison Avenue, a voice called out to me from withinside of me, saying, “I’m not going to let go of you.”
I tried to ignore the voice. I kept walking. I went into my appointment. I didn’t say a word about it, because I didn’t want anybody to think that I was hearing voices or that I was crazy.
And an hour later, when I walked out, it was as if the voice was leaning on the doorpost waiting for me.
“Why me?” I asked.
And the voice said, “Why not?”
“What do you want with me?” I inquired.
And the voice said, “Your life.”
Well, at that moment, I realized that something was going on to which I’d better pay attention. So I did what anyone would do: I walked into the nearest McDonald’s. I ordered a cheeseburger, French fries, and a small coke. I sat down at a table. And I started writing out the most remarkable and memorable conversation that I’ve ever had with anybody in my entire life.
Scribbling as fast as I could, I wrote “M” for “me” and “G” for the voice.
For the next 30 minutes or so, the voice called me by name, identified itself as God, confronted me with my own issues and my own private wounds, contradicted my newly articulated seminary theology, answered a lot of my questions, called me to ordained ministry in the Episcopal Church, and reassured me when I protested.
In the course of the conversation, I asked, “So, why are you talking to me?”
And the voice responded, “Well, you’ve been asking for it.”
It’s true. I had been asking and begging and praying and even challenging God to get clear with me, to give me some direction in my life.
And so here I was, sitting in a McDonald’s in the middle of New York City on a winter afternoon, having a private conversation with an invisible voice.
At the end of our time together, I asked, “Okay. So if you’re inside of me, then how can you be God?”
And the voice replied in words that I will never forget as long as I live: “What’s so special about me is that I’m inside of each and every person, and if everyone would hear my voice and follow it, then my realm on Earth would come.”