The best thing about growing up in the ’70s in a tiny Iowa town was the freedom to roam unsupervised from dawn until long past dusk. My best friend Laurie and I spent most of our time looking for places to waste our babysitting money. Our options for stimulating the downtown economy were limited; Lucy’s Garden of Eatin’ was full of crusty bachelor farmers, Marita’s bar was off-limits, and Lewis Variety was owned by my dad, who wouldn’t pass up a chance to offer commentary on our prodigal habits. That left the IGA or Pronto, where we usually spent our money on baking supplies and managed to kill two birds with one stone—unburdening our pockets and giving ourselves something else to do.
But where to do it? Laurie’s house was no good for baking. Her dad worked the night shift and irascibly struggled to sleep during the day, so we’d have to tiptoe around the kitchen or incur his wrath. My house was no good, either; my mom loathed cooking and she kept our kitchen strategically ill-equipped. So we usually headed to Laurie’s church to do our baking. The first time Laurie strode through the unlocked door and made herself at home in the church kitchen, I was a bit scandalized. Was this really OK? I hung back while Laurie pulled out pans and bowls as if she owned the place. Before long, I felt at home, too, and learned the pleasure of working with serious kitchen equipment (whisks! giant mixing bowls!) on endless countertops. While our treats were baking, we cranked our tunes – our tastes ran from Meatloaf to Air Supply – and choreographed our baton twirling and figure skating routines in the wide open spaces of the fellowship hall. Our interpretation of the Star Wars soundtrack was stunning.
Laurie and her family weren’t pillars of the First United Methodist Church of Fayette, and my parents were saved, so my family worshipped at the Wesleyan Methodist church across town (who says small towns are homogeneous?). We weren’t insiders, but somehow we felt we belonged in that place of hospitality and common ground, even if our pursuits were a little less holy than the mission of the church ladies who used the kitchen for Circle meetings and funeral luncheons. I hope we cleaned up our messes and always left the church kitchen as tidy as we found it. I hope we left behind some delicious treats for coffee hour. I can’t be sure; I was 11 and wrapped up in dramas of my own. Despite attending a number of funerals there, I remember nothing about the sanctuary at the UMC, but I could still draw you a map of their kitchen. I remember the excitement of feeling welcome down in the church basement, a space that somehow felt public and intimate at the same time.
There are few places in our culture that feel both open and intimate, where a visitor is invited to feel the same sense of belonging as a long-time member. From our first day at St. Matthew’s, this community’s impulse toward hospitality shone through in the warm welcome we received. Since that day, many of our family’s most meaningful milestones have been marked in the parish hall at St. Matthew’s: celebrations for our children’s baptisms and birthdays; our son Charlie’s funeral reception; our son Liam’s graduation party; a wedding feast for Paul’s sister. In some ways, it feels as if the place belongs to us and we belong to it. But in a deeper way we know that the space belongs wholly to God and we are all called – old-timers and newcomers alike – to share it in ways that show forth God’s coming and eternal kingdom.
Last week Senior Warden Judy Johnson invited us to a spiritual exercise in hospitality, walking through the building as if we were newcomers. As you walk around the space, what helps you feel welcome? What opportunities might we be missing? Please share your insights on the display in the parish hall or on The City, and join the important conversation on hospitality at our annual parish meeting this Sunday.
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