Sunday our congregation held its annual meeting, but first we ate. Stretching before us were tables laden with baked spaghetti and wild rice casseroles and platters of ham and chicken; salads of every kind, followed, of course, by cookies and bars (Or do you call them "squares?").
Earlier we had gathered for worship, always a highlight of my week. Dear friends sat in front of us and how grateful we were for their presence. Just a week ago he had had a stroke affecting his speech, but he is well on his way to full recovery. There he was, exhibiting his usual good humor, and I know how much it meant to both of them to be there in their usual Sunday morning spot.
A woman I know, but not well, who also was sitting in front of us, cried during much of the service. We shared the peace, and she told me she is mourning the loss of her mother. After the service I asked her to tell me about her mother, and she said how much her mother had loved this church and how she loves it too. We talked about the healing nature of tears and how sometimes church is the best place, maybe the only place, where we are comfortable crying.
As part of this week's service we welcomed new members--families with young children, couples past the time of raising their families, singles, couples, young, old. We cheered their decision to make this commitment, and I wondered to myself about their stories, their lives, and in what ways we will come to support and know one another.
Eventually, after many more conversations, we made our way to the Fellowship Hall where we stood in line, awaiting our turn to fill our plates. We chatted about the significant nighttime snowfall. "Have any trouble getting to church this morning?" We reminisced about ice skating when we were kids and commented on this perfect day for sledding on the big hill across the street from the church. We checked on each other's health, and several people asked how our daughter and granddaughter were doing, following their recent surgeries. How happy I was to give good reports.
As I ate, I glanced around the packed room, for we are a large congregation, and marveled at the number of people I have come to know over the past few years --the privilege of hearing their stories, their pain and their joys.
We worship together, and we eat together, and isn't there something so intimate about that. And for some reason a potluck is even more homier. Perhaps it is because we all share in the hospitality. I feed you, and you feed me.
My husband and I are part of two small potluck groups that gather every few weeks. The food is always good, but even more than that, the conversation, the listening, the learning, the willingness to go beneath the surface, the openness and vulnerability, and yes, the laughter, too, are what keep us returning to each other's company.
We have formed community, and that is certainly what I, also, felt as we gathered Sunday in the Fellowship Hall. When we gather in community we not only create sacred time, but we also become ambassadors and models of reconciliation in a fractured world.
A community is more than casual chumminess, although that can lead to the formation, the depth, of community. Community reinforces the bonds that lead us to wholeness. Community reminds us that we are all one.
Being in community is a kind of spiritual practice, and, therefore, I appreciate Stephen V. Doughty's outlines for a "Covenant of Practice" (p. 79-80) in his book Discovering Community, A Meditation Community in Christ.
* Pray for one another.
* Speak with honesty.
* Offer encouragement.
* Be present.
* Name and claim the goodness.
Such wise practices to carry with us wherever we are and even better when we eat together and enjoy the gifts of a potluck.
An Invitation
When have you experienced community? Is there a way you can build community in your life? I would love to know.
