Most Saturday nights, a dozen of us get together in the church basement. Two or three people bring the meal. Mostly comfort food. Someone from the family that brings the meal thanks God for the food and the time together. And then we eat, gathered around a long table. We take an hour or so, conversations merging into one and then splitting apart again.
We laugh. We ask about the visit from out of town, the emergency room call, the job search. We go back for seconds. We share life.
We move our circle slowly to a cluster of sofas. We talk about how we can help a couple people who need help with a porch, with getting to college. And then we dig into the implications of the sermon we heard the week before. We wrestle with how to make something a habit, with what Jesus really meant when he said that, with why we feel so trapped by perfectionism when God talks about grace.
It takes about ninety minutes to exhaust the handful of questions in front of us, ninety minutes to let others see our struggles, our souls, our dilemmas, our faith. And then we take another twenty minutes, after we are officially done, to finally say goodbye. And we go home.
The next morning, most of us are in the same building. We see each other with a smile, aware that Sunday actually started Saturday night, that church isn’t just what looks like a concert and lecture, it’s the life we shared on Saturday night. And the projects we’ve done for other people.
We started a couple years ago. Just for six weeks. Now we can’t stop.
It’s not complicated, by the way. It starts with “you hungry? For supper and God?”
And goes from there.