This past Sunday was the first Sunday in September. It was the beginning of a new Fall season in our parish, and — as we do to celebrate such momentous occasions in the life of many a parish, we began that season with a potluck lunch to bring people back together. I love potluck lunches, not only for the great variety of foods, or even because of the great fellowship. I love those lunches, because they are holy.
It may surprise you to learn that some of the holiest ground I have ever stood upon is not paved with marble, nor covered in stained glass, nor lined with pews polished by generations of faithful backsides. No, it is tiled linoleum, sticky in spots, with the faint aroma of coffee percolating since 1978. Yes, I speak of the church kitchen.
If you’ve ever tried to navigate a church kitchen, you will know that it is a spiritual test of faith. Forks are never where forks should be, tea towels breed like rabbits in mysterious cupboards, and there is always that one drawer that contains everything from twist ties to rubber bands to a spatula older than the Reformation. And yet—this is sacred space.
Why? Because here, in the clang of pots and the hum of dishwashers, community takes flesh. Here is where potluck casseroles (of varying degrees of digestibility) are set out in love. Here is where the mountain of dirty dishes at the end of a parish supper becomes a sacrament of service. I remember a wise priest I once knew who insisted that the most pastoral conversations he ever had weren’t in his office, but standing elbow to elbow with parishioners, hands in sudsy water, washing plates together. The sink became his confessional, and the dishcloth his pastoral stole.
Now, I will confess, potluck dinners are a theological adventure all on their own. You never quite know if that mystery casserole is tuna, turkey, or possibly a relic of last year’s Christmas potluck making a reappearance. And yet, no matter the offering, it is received with gratitude and joy—reminding us that God’s economy is not about gourmet presentation, but about abundance and sharing.
The Letter to the Hebrews reminds us, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.” (Hebrews 13:2). I am fairly certain that if angels ever do show up in disguise, they will be found carrying a dish to the church kitchen, and probably staying after supper to help with the dishes.
So let us reframe the church kitchen for what it truly is—not just a utilitarian space where food is prepared and cleaned up after, but a holy place where hospitality becomes ministry, where laughter echoes more loudly than the clatter of plates, and where the Kingdom of God quietly breaks in between the casserole and the coffee urn.
So the next time you find yourself on dish duty, remember: you are standing on sacred ground. Take off your rubber gloves, for the place where you scrub is holy.
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A Prayer for the Sacred Kitchen
Gracious God,
You meet us not only in sanctuaries of wood and stone,
but in the hum of the dishwasher and the clatter of dishes.
Bless the kitchens of our churches,
where casseroles are offered in love,
where hands are plunged into soapy water,
and where laughter mingles with service.
May the work done there remind us
that hospitality is holy,
and that every shared meal is a glimpse of your Kingdom.
Teach us to see even the dishpan as an altar,
and the tea towel as a stole of service.
Through Christ, who broke bread and washed feet,
we pray.
Amen.