Like my father before me, I have always been built rather close to the meal table. There are few things I enjoy more than pulling up a chair among friends to share food, laughter, and the sort of fellowship that requires a second helping. With that confession now shared, I must tell you that during my recent period of incarceration — or, as the hospital insists on calling it, “recovery” — it dawned upon me with deep and genuine chagrin that I had missed both the parish community supper and the October potluck lunch. I confess, this realization wounded me more deeply than the plethora of IV needles and Phlebotomists needles that have taken blood multiple times each day. There I was, lying in bed, while somewhere in the parish hall the saints were spooning out scalloped potatoes and the holy aroma of ham and baked beans was ascending to heaven as a pleasing offering..
There are many mysteries of the faith — the Incarnation, the Trinity, the miracle of forgiveness — but none, I am convinced, quite as mysterious as the church potluck supper. It is a rite that appears in no official liturgical text and yet, mysteriously, every congregation knows how to do it. No priest is ever trained for it in seminary (though perhaps we should be), and yet the first time it happens under your pastoral watch, you realize you are in the presence of something deeply sacramental — or at least deeply baked in Campbell’s soup.
I have long held that the church potluck is the true eighth sacrament — an outward and visible sign of an inward and digestible grace.
Let’s begin with the theology. Every potluck is, in a sense, a small act of the Kingdom. It takes many ingredients — a dozen kinds of lasagna, seventeen bowls of salad (six of which involve Jell-O), and one mysterious casserole that defies both naming and identification — and weaves them together into something holy. It’s the culinary equivalent of Pentecost: everyone brings their own dish, and somehow the Spirit translates it all into nourishment and joy.
I do remember one potluck lunch at St. Thomas the Apostle in Cambridge that hadn’t, shall we say, been organized according to any known principles of menu coordination. Somewhere between divine providence and human forgetfulness, the entire congregation managed to bring desserts. The result was less “parish luncheon” and more “Great Anglican Bake-Off.” Tables groaned under the weight of trifles, tarts, and towering cakes. The only green thing in sight was the icing on a batch of cupcakes. My treasurer at the time — a man of formidable conviction and an even more formidable sweet tooth — was entirely unbothered. He always made a beeline for the dessert table anyway, insisting in his perfectly polished English accent that “it would simply be a crime to fill up on casseroles and not have room left for the afters.” That day, he was vindicated as a prophet. We all dined gloriously on the “afters” alone, and not one soul complained. I daresay the angels joined in.
And consider the eucharistic echoes! The breaking of bread is replaced by the spooning out of potato salad. The passing of the peace gives way to the passing of the macaroni and cheese. The priest who stands at the altar now stands at the end of the buffet table, offering a blessing over devilled eggs and hoping the line moves quickly before the congealed salad congeals any further.
Of course, no potluck would be complete without a few minor disasters — the stuff of legend that binds us together for decades. There is always the parishioner who brings something “experimental,” like curried tuna loaf, and then stands watchfully to see who takes some. There’s the eternal debate about whether it’s acceptable to take dessert before salad, and the quiet scandal when someone sneaks out the back door with all the good brownies. These are the trials that purify the soul and teach us, painfully and repeatedly, that grace is not earned, but received — sometimes with indigestion.
And yet, for all its comic chaos, there is something profoundly theological happening beneath the surface. The church potluck is the great equalizer. It doesn’t matter whether you are the bishop or the one who just wandered in off the street — everyone gets a plate, everyone stands in line, everyone gets fed. There is no reserved seating at the potluck table. It is the living parable of the heavenly banquet, only with more casseroles and fewer angels.
I remember one particular potluck at St. David’s, years ago. We’d had a glorious liturgy that morning, the choir had sung like the heavenly host, and I was feeling quite priestly and accomplished. Then, as I reached for the serving spoon to dish out some pasta, it broke clean in two and launched a perfectly aimed glob of spaghetti sauce across the front of my white clerical shirt. The parish burst out laughing — and so did I. In that moment, my clerical dignity took a well-deserved tumble, and grace came rushing in, red and tomatoey.
It struck me later that this, too, was part of the sacrament. The potluck humbles us. It reminds us that we are not saved by polish or performance, but by participation — by showing up with whatever we have to offer, even if it’s only a store-bought pie or a slightly singed casserole.
When we gather around those long tables — folding tables covered in vinyl cloths, plates balanced precariously, conversation humming — we are tasting more than food. We are tasting fellowship, belonging, and the wild hospitality of God. In a world that tells us to consume, to compete, and to curate, the potluck dares to say: just bring what you’ve got, and there will be enough.
So yes, I stand by it — the church potluck is indeed the eighth sacrament. It may not appear in the Book of Common Prayer, but it shows up in every parish hall where love is served warm, grace is ladled generously, and laughter is the sound of the Spirit stirring the pot.
And if you ever find yourself worried about what to bring — relax. The Lord has already multiplied the loaves and fishes; you’re just responsible for the potato salad.
A Prayer for the Potluck Table
Gracious God, you feed us not only with bread, but with laughter and love.
Bless the hands that bring casseroles, the hearts that bring welcome, and the souls that find You between the Jell-O molds and the slow cookers.
May every shared table remind us of your eternal banquet — where no one goes hungry, and everyone has a story to tell.
Amen.