On the Power of Pancakes…

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community, dignity, feast, homeless, humanity, Jesus, meal, normal, pancakes, parish, profound, Shrove Tuesday, simple

Photo credit:  https://stpauls-exton.com/event/shrove-tuesday-pancake-supper/

Last night we had our annual Shrove Tuesday Pancake Supper at Hickory Neck Episcopal Church.  In some ways, the evening was just like every other year:  pancakes, sausage, and cake were in abundance, people donned their beads, and festive music was in the air.  But this year there was one big difference.  We shared the evening with some special guests.  You see, we signed up to host a week of our community’s emergency winter shelter – but without checking the liturgical calendar.  So, we had two options – invite our guests to join us, or find an alternate location for our festivities.  The decision was not an easy one.  We talked for months about the theology of hospitality and service.  We talked about the realities of life for our guests, who are often tired and usually want to get some sleep as soon as possible.  We talked about privacy, fellowship, and discomfort.  In the end, we decided sharing the evening was the most authentic, hospitable way forward, not being entirely sure how the evening would go.

In my mind the evening had two potential outcomes.  The first one I imagined was of a typical middle school dance – the girls on one side of the room and the boys on the other, neither being bold enough to get out there and dance.  I worried that our guests would feel awkward or put on the spot to socialize.  I worried that our parishioners would feel uncomfortable and would avoid contact with our guests.  The other outcome I imagined was a profound evening, where guests and parishioners would mingle with ease, where deep conversations would be had, and where God would be palpably present.  In that scenario, we would see God in the faces of each other, and we would be deeply transformed.

The reality of the evening was neither of my scenarios came to fruition.  Luckily, no one behaved awkwardly or made anyone feel uncomfortable.  But there was also not a sense of deep transformation last night.  Instead, the evening was simple, authentic, and real.  Some of the guests and parishioners kept to themselves or stuck with those like them.  Some of the guests and parishioners shared in conversation over the feast.  Children played with parishioners and guests alike, serving as a great equalizer.  Jokes and laughter were shared, a meal was had in relaxed community, and the evening ended with the goodbyes of old friends.  The only thing profound about the evening was that it was profoundly normal.

As I reflect back, I suppose that is the best outcome we could have had.  Jesus sat with all sorts of people over meals, not necessarily to have contrived, poignant encounters, but to serve as an equalizer with people who were not treated equally.  Jesus knew the power of food to move people toward honoring the dignity of every human being.  That is what we did last night.  We had fun, we feasted until we could feast no more, and we honored our baptismal covenant by seeking and serving Christ in every person, loving our neighbor as our self, and respecting the dignity of other human beings.  Not bad for a Shrove Tuesday Pancake Supper!

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Sermon – John 13.1-17, 31b-35, 1 Corinthians 11.23-26, MT, YC, March 23, 2016

Tags

change, communion, disciples, foot washing, intimate, Jesus, love, Maundy Thursday, meal, Sermon, tangible

As I was writing the sermon for tonight, I realized that maybe we have structured our evening all wrong.  We actually started off on the right foot.  We gathered over a common meal, assembled by dishes from each of our homes (or from the deli you swung by on the way here).  Our meal was a feast made by many hands, and completely organic – shared out of the varying gifts we bring.  In fact, we even did things in a way that was more in line with what Paul wanted for the Corinthians.  The passage that we read tonight from First Corinthians is mostly just the familiar text that includes Jesus’ institution of Holy Eucharist.  But in the verses before what we read tonight, Paul admonishes the Corinthians.  Instead of a true Eucharistic meal, where bread and wine are shared equally and intentionally, the Corinthians have gotten into the habit of having communal meals, but everyone fends for themselves.  In other words, their meal would be like if Kathleen had made a homemade casserole, Kim had grabbed Chinese takeout for her and the kids, Lois had brought the finest filet mignon with a glass of wine from a local fine dining establishment, and I showed up empty-handed.  Except in Corinth, you eat what you bring.  If you show up empty-handed, you leave hungry.  Unlike the Corinthians, at least we got that part right tonight.

But if I had been thinking, instead of coming up here to our beautiful worship space, we would have stayed downstairs.  Mid-meal, I would have taken off my jacket, rummaged around for a towel and bowl from our kitchen, and started washing your feet.  As I moved from table to table, we would have talked about what I was doing, and why Jesus did the same for his disciples.  You see, tonight, we hear the story that is only found in John’s gospel about how Jesus teaches the disciples to love and serve one another and their neighbors.  In order to love, which is going to be their primary mission, they will need to be able to get down on the floor among the crumbs and the remains of the festivities, and tenderly care for one another.

And further, had we been feeling really countercultural, I would have grabbed a loaf of bread that someone got at Stop-N-Shop, and some wine sitting on the beverage table, and we would have talked about how on the night before Jesus is betrayed, he breaks bread with his friends, telling them that the bread is his body, and the wine is his blood – given for them.  We would have passed the loaf around, tearing the bread into bite-sized pieces, dropping blessed crumbs everywhere, and looking into each other’s eyes as we pass the bread, reminding each other that this is the body and blood of our Lord.

If I had been thinking, that is what we could have done tonight – because that is what happens on this last night for Jesus:  a downhome, shared, messy meal, with uncomfortable, intimate moments, and a meal that does not necessarily feed our bellies but feeds our souls.  But Jesus’ words and experiences that night are not just for the disciples.  His words are words for the future.  He knows his death is coming.  In the face of death, he longs to remind the disciples what they will need to do after his death.  This last night is all about Jesus’ final instructions to the disciples.

That is why we call this day Maundy Thursday.  Maundy comes from the Latin word for mandate.  On this night we remember Jesus’ mandate to love one another as he has loved us.[i]  We remember Jesus’ mandate to serve.  And we remember Jesus’ mandate to eat together, feasting on the holy meal.  Where we remember that mandate does not actually matter – whether we remember among the old stones of a Cathedral, in the cozy, board and batten sanctuary of St. Margaret’s, or in the bustling, laughter-filled, sometimes messy Undercroft.  The location matters much less than the intentionality with which we listen to Jesus’ words.

Tonight I invite you walk through the last night of Jesus experiencing the tangibility of this night:  a meal with fellow believers, the washing of feet, Holy Communion, and the stripping of the altar as we head into the night watch.  But I also invite you to remember Jesus’ final mandate:  to love as he has loved us, to serve others, and to sustain our work through the holy meal.  The actions of this night are important, but even more important is the way that this night changes us tomorrow.  Amen.

[i] Mike Graves, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 271.

Comfort food…

Tags

church, comfort food, Eucharist, God, meal, nostalgia, senses, taste

Courtesy of https://www.flickr.com/photos/lorikay/172625272/

Whenever my family and I travel to familiar places, there are required food-related stops.  When we go to San Diego, it is El Indio, Rubios, and In-N-Out.  When we go to Delaware, it is Capriotti’s and Rita’s.  When we go anywhere South, it is Krispy Kreme, Chick-fil-A, and Waffle House.  Somehow our trips do not feel complete until we have made it to our special food establishments.  In fact, in San Diego, the very first stop after the airport is not home – it is straight to El Indio.  We look forward to the food for weeks before our trips, and we make sure that whatever agenda is planned, those food stops are figured into the master plan.

Not only do we make the stops because the food is amazing (because it is!), we also make the stops out of a sense of nostalgia.  Because many of those establishments have not expanded to where we currently live, there is a way in which the food brings us back to other times in our lives.  The sense of taste overwhelms the mind with memories, and we find ourselves savoring not just the food but the treasured experiences as well.  Food has a tremendous power to create a sense of home – sometimes even more so than a particular house.

I have often felt that same way about the Eucharistic meal.  Though I celebrate Eucharist multiple times per week now, every once in a while, powerful sensory experiences overwhelm what could be the mundane.  The flavor of the host (yes, those bland wafers actually do have a taste), whether or not the host is stale or crunchy in your mouth, the sharp taste of communion wine at a time that would not normally be acceptable for consumption of wine – all of these sensory experiences can make communion powerful over and over again.  And sometimes, the familiarity of the taste and texture is also comforting.  When all else in my world seems out of control, that moment of receiving the body and blood of Christ is centering like nothing else can be.

I wonder what you have done lately to connect on a sensory level with God.  Maybe you have missed church these last couple of weeks (or months, or years).  Maybe you come to church, but you disconnect during the familiar Eucharistic prayer because it is just too familiar.  This past Sunday at St. Margaret’s, we sang “Taste and See,” one of my favorite communion hymns.  The words are based on Psalm 34.  Like a familiar dining establishment, whenever I read the psalm, I think of the song.  And whenever I think of the song, I am reminded of the many powerful times that holy meal has shaken up my senses in fresh ways.  I invite you reconnect with God this week on a sensory level.  Perhaps you will remember another place you call home.