Today is Palm Sunday, for those of you who keep track of these things.
Today, at my church, we consecrated a small plot of land that is going to turn into a community garden. J & I are really excited about this. We look forward to joining together with our community, learning from the wisdom of those who’ve been gardening much longer than we have, digging in the dirt alongside the joy and abandon of the children of our children’s ministry, cultivating relationships with the youth. And, of course, we look forward to the harvest, to building community and sharing grace with folks who otherwise might not have access to fresh fruits and vegetables.
Before our consecration service this afternoon, we shared a meal together after the morning worship service. If you didn’t know, potlucks are pretty common occurrences in Baptist life (in low-church Protestant life in general, actually). Today, because we’re part of the small group of folks working to get the community garden project started at our church, we were also more involved in the set-up and take-down of the potluck: the tables and chairs, the plastic-covered tables, hauling dishes and silverware, etc.
But here’s the thing–there are folks who do this all the time. In fact, there’s a whole committee just for this at our church. And those folks cook lots of food, wash lots of dishes, cut the desserts, get the drinks, order the fried chicken… they do it all. And they do it often. And most of the time, nobody even knows it’s going on in the background.
Every church has got these folks. They’re behind the scenes, making the work of the church look like non-work. Sometimes they aren’t your conventional church folks either, or at least don’t seem like it, because they’re not up front singing in the choir or passing the offering plate.
These are the folks I am thinking about this afternoon.
Today’s Sabbath meditation is a poem I came across recently in GENERATE magazine that captures what I’d like to convey. It’s called “Restless,” and is offered to you with permission of the author, Mike Stavlund.
restless in every church I've seen there are people in the wrong places: the kitchen, the parking lot, the lobby, the coffee pot cooking, cleaning, talking, smoking they are pacers, millers-around, baby-whisperers and malcontents sometimes, they look like they're avoiding 'church' but when I squint and look again I see that they're doing the thing itself
I encourage you to visit Mike Stavlund’s website for more information, to contact him, or to read more of his poetry.