11.3 // Potlucks

As a kid, I remember how our church would meet in the sanctuary/gymnasium/fellowship hall during the annual missions week potluck, and we would sit around tables with long rows of casseroles, vegetable-free salads, punch, and layered pudding desserts.
Kids ran around and dipped their fingers into the whipped cream toppings.
Parents sat with friends from their Sunday school class and talked about everything other than church doctrine and theology.
And the after all the dishes were washed and the Tupperware was returned, everyone left tired and satisfied.

Do you know what potlucks are like today?
They are exactly the same.
Potlucks may be the single, unchanged pillar in our society.
No kale. No keto, paleo, fat-free, vegan hoopla.
Because, as the saying goes: if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
And potlucks don’t need fixing; they are the fixings.

So today, we had a potluck right after our worship service at church. When I dropped off food in the fellowship hall early this morning, I saw every outlet in the entire room powering Crockpots.
Creamy baked potato soups and hearty chili and dumplings.
And my heart rejoiced.

Indeed, our time together was downright wonderful. Rows of homemade soups and breads and desserts piled high. Olivia gorged herself on Ms. Jean’s famous cheeseball, and Benson ate eleven rice crispy treats. John Taylor was passed around to all the church ladies while Jackson and I actually ate our food hot and had conversations with adults.
Oh, sweet, sweet, potlucks.

It would be easy for me to end the day with a trite thought like, “Oh, the lunch went really well today” or “It was good to see so-and-so.”
But the examen allows for more gratitude— to slow down and see the miracle that was taking place all around us, a divine work that I so often hurry by and miss.

You know what is miraculous about potlucks?
Everything.

And that may sound dramatic, but think about it:
Today, forty people sat down and ate together.
Staunch Republicans and vocal Democrats sat next to each other and laughed.
Kids and teenagers held conversations with our older people.
Engineers and business owners shared stories with couples who never finished high school.
Poor families laughed alongside couples with massive retirement saving plans.

When have I seen that kind of grace, that kind of peace lately?
When have I given time to others who are so, so different from me and my preferred way of being?

Yes, this is divine work, to be sure.

But then, consider the food for a moment.
Each person ate food that another person prepared in his/her kitchen. Every participant trusted the unknown chef who made it. We consumed the food, put it inside of our actual bodies, and were thankful for it.
It was all a practice of trust and vulnerability and generosity.

In our increasingly violent and divided and paranoid society, these meetings rarely happen, if they happen at all.
Coming together like this counters our need to have personal preferences, to live into our “likes and dislikes.” There are no menus or ordering. There are no assigned seats. There are no prerequisites.
No, meals like this are an open invitation to anyone just as they are.
Each person can both give nourishment to others and receive nourishment from others.
We all belong here and belong to each other.

There was one moment, too, that was particularly beautiful.
In our service today, we had two ministry students visit from a college several hours away. One young women led our church in music, and the other shared a message with us. As the lunch was wrapping up and they were headed out the door to trek home, a quiet, older gentleman stopped them quickly. This man is an rural Arkansas farmer and grew up in the Southern Baptist Church. (And if you’ve been following Christian conversation over the last few weeks, you know the how many Southern Baptists feel about women preachers, teachers, and pastors.)

But here is the miraculous thing: while everyone else was slurping soup, every divisive or hierarchical distinction had evaporated. With vulnerable tears in his eyes and his gentle hands on their shoulders, this kind man thanked the ladies for their ministry to him. He especially thanked the petite, soft-spoken, sophomore for her message about God’s calling and plans for our lives.

I couldn’t help but wonder:
Here is an old man, certainly nearing the end of his life, moved to tears by the story of a young girl just starting her life. Could he be considering his calling even now? It isn’t too late to be called, is it?
And what humility, to show emotion? For him to share his gratitude to these women preachers? To honor them in their youth? To receive from students who are still so inexperienced?

The power structure is dismantled in an instant.
And it is in spaces like this where healing can actually begin.
Because breaking bread breaks oppression and loneliness and despair.

A few years ago, Jackson was interviewing to be a pastoral candidate in a denominational conference we really wanted to be a part of. Every time we met with the superintendent and the staff, we were incredibly nervous. How desperately we wanted to belong!
During one of his interviews, the board asked Jackson to describe his “vision for ministry.”
And Jackson, nervous and struggling to find words, simply stated, “More potlucks.”

Needless to say, we never got the chance to serve in that conference, and Jackson kicked himself for months for that answer!

However, looking back now, I think he was actually right after all.

Within the church (and within society at large), we spend so much time and effort talking about missional strategies and growth goals and tactics. Everyone wants to see healing and Kingdom work, but so often we approach miracles like we do business models or some kind of marketing strategy.

But the Kingdom comes through Presence and our own presence:
to show up,
to sit down with those who are both like and unlike ourselves,
to share our hearts and our bodies and our substance,
to listen and receive the same from others.

So yes, I think the answer really is “more potlucks.”