You have heard it said that Baptists do not gamble. But I tell you the truth, unless you have played the odds at a Baptist potluck, you have risked nothing.
That’s right, Baptist gambling may not involve cards, dice, or a roulette wheel, but at the believers’ buffet, you can hit a jackpot, or you can bust out.
It’s four o’clock on a summer Sunday afternoon. It has been a full day of fellowship and feasting at the smorgasbord of the saints. Though the lunch plate was filled to the rim, twice, it was followed by a rousing round of horseshoes. That means it’s time to head back to the potluck table to polish things off.
There are six potato salads on the table. You know that four of them have probably been out there all afternoon; three have the wrong kind of pickle (sweet if you like dill, dill if you like sweet); two have potatoes over- or undercooked, and one was put out twenty minutes ago by Widow Baker. Hers never fails to delight.
You may have noticed that I have stated more than six possibilities. The odds are not in your favor. Choose the right one, and you’re in gustatory paradise. Chose the wrong one, and you face, at best, a foul taste in your mouth that will take a gallon of sweet tea to wash away; at worst, gastrointestinal evacuation and a sleepless night.
The more Calvinistic among us will say that it is God’s providence as to which number that die is going to land on. A good salad is God’s favor, and a bad one is either a means of sanctification or final divine judgment. The Arminians would ask you to choose this day which you will serve. Either way, best to pray that you don’t end up with a straight flush.