There is a particular sound that belongs to the Church, and it is not the organ, the choir, or even the boiler coughing into life at precisely the wrong moment. It is the unmistakable scrape of folding chairs being dragged across a parish hall floor.
That sound is theology.
It usually begins just after someone has confidently said, “I think we have enough chairs.” Within minutes, more people arrive — friends of friends, cousins passing through town, neighbours who heard there might be pie. Suddenly the tables look smaller, the room looks fuller, and someone says the holiest phrase in parish life:
“We’ll make it work.”
This, I am convinced, is how the Kingdom of God actually arrives — not trumpeted from the clouds, but quietly ushered in by someone unfolding an extra chair and squeezing it between the cranberry salad and the mysterious casserole.
Jesus spoke often about banquets and feasts, about guests invited from highways and hedges, about tables where the expected seating plan collapses entirely. He never once mentioned matching place settings or colour-coordinated napkins. The miracle was never the menu. The miracle was the room.
Potluck meals are, in this way, deeply sacramental. No one arrives knowing exactly what will be served. Some dishes are beloved classics; others require a leap of faith and a very small first helping. Everything is offered, nothing is ranked, and all of it somehow becomes enough.
At a potluck table, hierarchy dissolves. The CEO sits beside the retiree. The child with sticky fingers negotiates space next to the elder with careful hands. Everyone eats the same bread, even if some of it is gluten-free and slightly perplexing. This is not chaos. This is communion with elbows.
Making room is not always elegant. It involves lifting, shifting, counting plates again, and occasionally realizing that someone has taken your chair and you are now standing awkwardly with a fork in your hand. But it is holy work nonetheless.
Because the gospel does not ask us to curate perfect tables. It asks us to open them.
The Kingdom of God looks suspiciously like a parish hall where no one is turned away, where there is always one more chair to unfold, and where the question is never, “Do you belong here?” but rather, “Have you eaten yet?”
And if we run out of chairs? Well. Someone can always sit on the edge of the table. We’ll make it work.
A Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
you who set tables in the wilderness
and welcome saints and sinners alike,
teach us the ministry of making room.
Give us generous hearts,
strong hands for folding chairs,
and joyful patience when plans overflow.
May our tables be wide,
our welcome sincere,
and our trust deep enough to believe
there is always enough when love is shared.
Through Christ,
who invites us all to sit and be fed.
Amen.