On rummage sales, pancake suppers, and the quiet holiness of community service
It has often been said that if you really want to know the heart of a parish, don’t start in the sanctuary — go straight to the basement. There, amid the aroma of coffee that has been brewing since the Trudeau era (the first Trudeau, mind you), you’ll find the living, breathing Gospel enacted with aprons, folding chairs, and a tin cash box that never quite balances at the end of the day.
Some people imagine that the “holy work of the Church” is found only in lofty prayers or grand sermons. But in truth, the real theological wrestling happens when two parishioners argue, with the passion of Aquinas and Luther combined, about whether the pancake batter should be thick or runny. (I once saw a disagreement escalate to the point where someone threatened to bring in a crepe pan—an act considered practically heretical in our context.)
The Rummage Sale as Eschatology
Take the rummage sale, for instance. On the surface, it appears to be the simple redistribution of household clutter — lamps missing shades, half-sets of china, and enough fondue pots to fuel the entire disco decade once again. But hidden in this chaos is an echo of the Gospel: nothing is wasted, everything has potential, and what one person discards, another receives with gratitude. It is a kind of eschatology in miniature: the last shall be first, and the broken vacuum cleaner shall be raised in glory — though only if someone has the right replacement bag.
Pancakes, Pews, and Perseverance
Then there are the pancake suppers. Ah yes, Shrove Tuesday, when the faithful gather to fortify themselves with carbohydrates and syrup before the lean season of Lent. To the outsider, it might look like mere flapjacks on paper plates. But to those who know, it is nothing less than a Eucharist of community. Children run sticky-fingered between tables, seniors balance cups of orange drink with stoic courage, and someone in the kitchen flips pancakes at a rate that would impress a Michelin-starred chef — though he or she will never be canonized, unless it’s by the Altar Guild.
I once heard a parishioner say, “This isn’t just about pancakes. This is about fellowship.” To which another added, “And sausage.” Both were right.
The Quiet Holiness of It All
What I love most is that these seemingly ordinary events reveal the extraordinary holiness of service. They remind us that faith isn’t lived only in sermons and hymns, but also in the washing of dishes, the setting of tables, and the counting of nickels from the bake sale jar.
It’s easy to overlook these things as “small.” But when Jesus said, “Whatever you do for the least of these, you do for me,” I like to think he included pouring coffee for visitors, selling sweaters for fifty cents, and frying up pancakes by the hundreds.
Now, if I may confess: I do used sneak downstairs not for deep theological reflection, but for the sheer joy of a good butter tart. (when I could still have such things.) But perhaps that too is a form of grace — sweet, flaky, and entirely necessary for the journey of faith.
So the next time you find yourself at a rummage sale or a pancake supper, don’t just see a fundraiser. Look closely, and you may glimpse the Kingdom of God breaking in — right between the gently used toasters and the maple syrup jug.
Prayer
Gracious God,
we thank you for the simple holiness found in our church basements —
in rummage sales, pancake suppers, and quiet acts of kindness.
Bless the hands that serve, the hearts that welcome,
and the laughter that binds us together in fellowship.
Teach us to see your Kingdom in the ordinary,
and to recognize Christ in every cup of coffee poured,
every dish washed, and every neighbour welcomed.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.