You’re a Christian, you gotta take it!

The Diplomat Hotel was one of the flagship Miami Beach resorts during the 1970’s. Though actually located in Hallandale ten miles to the north from the crown jewels of the Doral, Eden Roc, and Fountain Blu the Diplomat drew the same clientele and possessed the same prestige.
At 19, I parked the cars of the wealthy and famous an all winter long, snowbirds from the northeast. Currently this service is usually called valet, but back in the day, we were called “runners”. Our outside lot at the Diplomat was enormous, parking over 1200 cars. Another 800 could be parked in the garages below the hotel. Some would be more than a quarter-mile away from the entrance which was ramped to the third floor displaying the opulent foyer widening to hold three lanes of traffic above the main beach road – A1A.
My best friend had been “running” cars there for about a year and through him I was hired. That was the good news, because in the mid-70’s a kid could make a lot of cash hustling tips. However, the bad news was that I would need to prove myself on the day-shift. This not only meant working in the South Florida heat, but also with the head door manager – Eddie.
Imagine of a combination between Louie from the TV show Taxi and a senile Yogi Berra put into a weeble-wobble toy body and you might begin to visualize Eddie.
I can still hear his squeaky voice – something between a transmission whining out and nails on a chalkboard – calling me. “Ritchie, Ritchie, let me tell you I’m the quarterback of this team, now go and hit me a homerun.” Oh, and as he spoke to you he had this habit of squeezing the muscle on the top of you shoulder with two fingers as his hand twitched, but enough of my fond memories.
To call my fellow workers on the day-crew slackers would be too high of praise. Their idea of running for a car was to toddle down the ramp until just out of sight and then stroll for the car.
During this time, I was participating in competitive cross-country races and saw the job as a way to be paid for interval training. Also a strong work ethic had been instilled in me so working hard was not an issue. The result, conversely, was that I ran for far more cars during a shift than my fellow runners. That by itself would not have really been a problem but we “pooled” our tips and they were happy to have me take their turns.
Eddie waddled around the lavish entrance of the Diplomat as a king in his own court. He generally had one runner who was in the “dog-house” upon whom Eddie spewed verbal abuse. This lasted until someone else messed up and would then become recipient of Eddie’s verbal wrath. Easy to figure out this system – don’t mess up.
This was not a problem for me since I not only worked hard but was able to consistently write down the correct location and description of the cars I parked. (Don’t be too impressed, I was in college and not hampered by chemicals that were either smoked or ingested.)
Nevertheless, a day came when Eddie realized he had been negligent in his attention of me, and since there had not been a damaged car or a lost set of keys in several days he decided to ride the kid from the Bible College.
The tropical sun was high in the sky. There were no clouds and even less breeze to temper the humidity. But the heat I was feeling had nothing to do with the tropics. Slowly with deliberateness, Eddie began his badgering.
He seemed to enjoy pushing, tormenting until a runner exploded in anger. Perhaps he gained some level of control that way, I just don’t know.
Well, I resolved to take what he dished out and to keep my mouth shut. My fellow runners worked like they had never before. They were uncharacteristically efficient in parking and retrieving cars. I rarely escaped to the lot for a few minutes respite. After several hours, I had held my tongue but was boiling inside, Eddie went for the throat.
Though I don’t recall his exact words, he could tell I was at a breaking point. I do remember, as if it happened five minutes ago, Eddie laughing as he moved closer and squeaked, “You don’t like this do you, Ritchie, You don’t like this at all. Well, you’re a Christian; you have gotta take it.”
He was right, but he did not understand that the idea of turning the other cheek was about freeing the downtrodden and changing the social order. Turning the cheek is not about masochism but power and authority.
I told him he was correct, I did have to take it, and then smiled and said, “But I don’t have to work for you.” Turning I headed to personnel to clock out.
Funny thing, Eddie began to squeak and ask me to stay, waddling after me down the ramp and into the parking garage. I couldn’t, at least not then.
A couple of weeks later the night manager contacted me through a friend and asked me to return and work the night shift. I did.
I am curious about why I was able to act with restraint and also so decisively. Upon reflection I believe it has to do with moralism. Moralism: the curse of the Christian witness on the public square. Eddie hoped to bind me with moral chains, not of his beliefs, but those he assumed were mine.
Moralism operates in a characteristic way. Grace is first removed, put aside from the conversation like an unwanted little sister. The issue then becomes only of moral dos and don’ts.
Followed close behind by the attitude of superiority which becomes the accepted moral judge, a weapon of choice to attack and keep others in their place. In other words: a weapon of mass distraction, keeping the grace of God hidden behind the illusion of moral correctness. The sadness is that in the end it reinforces hostility to God, who is blamed for the moralism dispensed in his name.