On a recent Sunday after worship, I made a beeline for the van that was parked on the walkway leading from the parking lot to our fellowship hall. It's the Tibetan Buddhist van, driven by a monk, that arrives at our church every Sunday morning carrying the fruits of a trip to Trader Joe's.
I'm not sure how many churches have Tibetan Buddhist Trader Joe's Delivery Time as part of their Sunday ritual, but one of the spiritual gifts of little congregations is our idiosyncrasy. The small church can be delightfully, beautifully weird.
We've been partnering with a local Buddhist temple for years now, as their desire to feed the hungry and our desire to feed the hungry have coalesced. Their colorfully decorated van picks up food from Trader Joe's (thanks, Trader Joe's!) that would otherwise go to waste. They bring it to us, and we set it out in our Little Free Pantry. A significant portion of the thirty-five tons of food we together offered up to the food-insecure in our town this last year came from that fruitful partnership.
The thing is, this all now happens during our fellowship hour, and it's changed the dynamic of that event.
The drop off used to be on Wednesdays, mid-day, and a small group of church folk would gather to help unload. But for the last little while, it's been on Sunday, immediately following worship, right at the very start of the hallowed social hour. It's a question of timing, because the good folks at the nearest Trader Joe's set out their pallets for the community at 10 AM Sunday morning.
Change in the small church happens differently. It’s an organic process, as a community encounters a new thing and adapts, embraces, or resists. It’s less a question of formal processes of decisionmaking, and more a question of how the qualitative character of the congregation is impacted. Can this change be joyfully integrated into the ephemeral “us,” or will it tear us apart? This means that small churches will both fight imposed change to the death and, simultaneously, can turn on a dime. Like I said, we’re weird.
That first Sunday, I will admit to having felt a little bit ill at ease.
Is this an intrusion? What impact is this having on our life together? Does this change serve a clear and evident purpose?
The answer was immediately apparent. People were still socializing. But they were doing so while moving, sorting, weighing, and stocking shelves. We were still gathered around food, just...differently. One can talk over a meal, but one can also have a good chat during the shared preparation of a meal, and that is precisely what we were doing.
There were other things I noticed. Like, say, the visitors to our church who, coming into the social hour, immediately found their place working side by side with long-time church folk, as the bucket-brigade of souls moving boxes of food for the hungry opened for each new participant.
Or, just as notably, the children of the church, who took to the unloading like ducks to water, eagerly working side by side with the grownups. A task done joyously and together feels a whole lot like play, after all.
This last Sunday, it was two of the little boys of the church, rambunctious little buddies, who were eagerly and voluntarily taking point in the process. One arrived grinning wide with his faceful of new adult teeth, at the helm of a push cart. We piled it high, and the smile never left his face as he pulled away.
The other...much smaller...wheeled up with a handcart that was as tall as he was.
"Are you sure you can handle this box," I said to him, seriously. "It's very heavy." "Very heavy," he nodded, just as seriously. "I got it." He repeated those words like a mantra of encouragement as he wheeled the box away.
Back and forth they went, until the job was done.
All of us, young and new and old, can appreciate a clear and self-evidently good purpose, and the blessings of a new and gracious thing.
Particularly if afterwards, we know there will still be snacks.
I'm not sure how many churches have Tibetan Buddhist Trader Joe's Delivery Time as part of their Sunday ritual, but one of the spiritual gifts of little congregations is our idiosyncrasy. The small church can be delightfully, beautifully weird.
We've been partnering with a local Buddhist temple for years now, as their desire to feed the hungry and our desire to feed the hungry have coalesced. Their colorfully decorated van picks up food from Trader Joe's (thanks, Trader Joe's!) that would otherwise go to waste. They bring it to us, and we set it out in our Little Free Pantry. A significant portion of the thirty-five tons of food we together offered up to the food-insecure in our town this last year came from that fruitful partnership.
The thing is, this all now happens during our fellowship hour, and it's changed the dynamic of that event.
The drop off used to be on Wednesdays, mid-day, and a small group of church folk would gather to help unload. But for the last little while, it's been on Sunday, immediately following worship, right at the very start of the hallowed social hour. It's a question of timing, because the good folks at the nearest Trader Joe's set out their pallets for the community at 10 AM Sunday morning.
Change in the small church happens differently. It’s an organic process, as a community encounters a new thing and adapts, embraces, or resists. It’s less a question of formal processes of decisionmaking, and more a question of how the qualitative character of the congregation is impacted. Can this change be joyfully integrated into the ephemeral “us,” or will it tear us apart? This means that small churches will both fight imposed change to the death and, simultaneously, can turn on a dime. Like I said, we’re weird.
That first Sunday, I will admit to having felt a little bit ill at ease.
Is this an intrusion? What impact is this having on our life together? Does this change serve a clear and evident purpose?
The answer was immediately apparent. People were still socializing. But they were doing so while moving, sorting, weighing, and stocking shelves. We were still gathered around food, just...differently. One can talk over a meal, but one can also have a good chat during the shared preparation of a meal, and that is precisely what we were doing.
There were other things I noticed. Like, say, the visitors to our church who, coming into the social hour, immediately found their place working side by side with long-time church folk, as the bucket-brigade of souls moving boxes of food for the hungry opened for each new participant.
Or, just as notably, the children of the church, who took to the unloading like ducks to water, eagerly working side by side with the grownups. A task done joyously and together feels a whole lot like play, after all.
This last Sunday, it was two of the little boys of the church, rambunctious little buddies, who were eagerly and voluntarily taking point in the process. One arrived grinning wide with his faceful of new adult teeth, at the helm of a push cart. We piled it high, and the smile never left his face as he pulled away.
The other...much smaller...wheeled up with a handcart that was as tall as he was.
"Are you sure you can handle this box," I said to him, seriously. "It's very heavy." "Very heavy," he nodded, just as seriously. "I got it." He repeated those words like a mantra of encouragement as he wheeled the box away.
Back and forth they went, until the job was done.
All of us, young and new and old, can appreciate a clear and self-evidently good purpose, and the blessings of a new and gracious thing.
Particularly if afterwards, we know there will still be snacks.
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