![]() If there is anything that churches know how to do well, it is to feed people. We do this well metaphorically, and we do this well literally. Today I want to talk about ways we can use our skill at feeding people to support the resistance. There are so many opportunities to feed people! Start with some local gathering where your neighbors are talking about how best to support immigrants, or trans people, or democracy--show up at the meeting with food! I suggest that your church be represented by two or three people. Bring easy to eat finger food to meetings: cookies, grapes, a pitcher of water or lemonade. Don't bring too much, bring the simplest of paper goods, and adjust what you bring next time based on whether it gets eaten. Home made is a delight of course. Meetings are better with food; food helps to create connections. First Congregational Church in Rindge, NH funds dinner for the local Bridging Differences group. A volunteer orders from a black owned business in town; students at the local university are more likely to join the conversation when dinner is provided. If you are showing up at town meeting or an controversial discussion, your congregation should send a delegation rather than and individual. And bring brownies and/or tangerines. Connect with folk over the snacks before the meeting starts, making it easier to feel like you are talking to friends, not adversaries. My congregation brought granola bars and lemonade to people standing out at election time--we brought them to both sides, introduced ourselves and then went on our way. It was tense, but some of the people we think of as "against" us showed up at our active bystander training later in the year. We provided food for that, too! A bag of jelly beans, or candy canes, or valentine hearts, and certainly almost always chocolate might be good for when your church delegation visits with an elected official. If you already have a meal or pantry, add some posters, table cards, or other markers to make it clear it is open to people regardless of their immigration status, and that LGBTQIA+ people are welcome. I heard of a church that had one table reserved at their dinner for discussion about how to stay safe. If you have the capacity consider adding events specifically for a group that is being attacked. In the early church, the evidence that the Kingdom of God is at hand was the existence of dinner every night, open to all regardless of their status as poor, female, or slave. The image of going from being a beggar to someone who was welcomed into the church family dinner still fills me with awe. It is the simplest of tasks to feed people, and it is the greatest as well. You can subscribe to Act! Be Church Now and receive these blog posts in your email.
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![]() MANNA (Many Angels Needed Now and Always) is a leadership organization working with people who do not have homes. Read more about MANNA in my book Five Loaves, Two Fish, Twelve Volunteers. I recently attended their Monday worship at The Cathedral Church of St. Paul in Boston. The quiet of MANNA's Monday Lunch provided respite for many after a night of protests for Black Lives Matter in Boston. Jennifer McCracken, the priest for this congregation, checked in with me frequently during lunch, but didn't have a minute to spare as one person after another wanted to share their stories with her. She knew, she understood, she was there. She looked tired as worship began. We sat in a large circle, each chair six feet from the next, a couple chairs in the center, also appropriately distanced, and in front of the altar, two more chairs. The hand painted altar cloth was a little lopsided, and all the animals from Noah's ark had been carefully placed, along with Terry Dactyl, the plastic dinosaur, sitting on one arm of the cross. This is a time of pandemic; the Eucharistic elements were missing. As worship progressed our group of six grew to ten or twelve, some sitting in the far corners of the sanctuary. Each person had a backpack or bag at their feet, the hosts at the back entrance offered hot lunch to the latecomers, along with hand sanitizer and masks. Outside the Cathedral's glass doors two more volunteers continued to offer bag lunches to people who didn't want to come inside. Inside was a hushed. People talked, quietly, to others or themselves. The slouched shoulders expressed a sense of rest. The meal had been quiet, but tense, now we began to let out that tension, to share our unrest with God, to let go. The service is familiar and yet specific to the day. “I love this Psalm,” Jennifer hands out a paper. “It's a lament. Today we are going to cry out with all of the pain of the racism, the violence, the pain of last night, and of our lives." Together we read the words of Psalm 13.” “How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart?” We sit a moment in the pain. Jennifer invites a parishioner to create a Gospel Alleluia and he does, mournfully, quietly, it fills the room. His head drops as he finishes. Members of the congregation read the gospel, first in Spanish, then in English. Jennifer calls up a parishioner to preach. He is tall, dark, and devastated. He speaks in spurts, as if God fills him up, he pours it out, and then the next message arrives and gushes onto us. Struggling to hold his body in the chair, clenching his hands in frustration, wiping tears from his face, he preaches confidence God wants something different. As his message dies down Jennifer mentions the scripture we have read and he starts again, more words of God piling on us. Some us look away, I look away, it is so much pain, so much trust, so much power. There is silence. There is peace that passes all understanding. We shuffle in our seats. We wait for the words to flow through us. We wait some more. At lunch one of the volunteers told me to stay for worship. "They do a blessing that is amazing." I had no idea. Jennifer begins by turning to her right, to the preacher, sitting there, and blesses him for his words. She encourages him to bless the woman to his right, and her to bless the man behind her. One by one, the priest naming each person in turn, we each bless the next. Everyone has some little contribution. Everyone is blesses; everyone is blessed. Over the physical distance required by the virus, we pull together in blessing. Over the spiritual distance required by our nation's racial divide, we pull together in blessing. Over the social distance separating people with homes from those without we pull together in blessing. This is church. You call your ministry “outdoor church” rather than a food service ministry. What is the difference?
The term “outdoor church” literally described the church I pastored for years in Worcester, Massachusetts. We didn’t have a building. But more generally it describes the coming together of people you usually find inside a church with people who live outdoors, the homeless and food insecure. In Worcester, on Sundays we “indoor church” people provided a meal, a Bible study, and a worship service outside. We also held other programs outside during the week. In that church, our program developed to where those who need food became the volunteers for the pantry and meals. In the model I describe in the book, people get to know those who need food by serving and eating with them and invite them into leadership of their programs. Click here for the rest of my interview on the Collegeville website. |
My ThoughtsFor my organized thoughts, see my book Five Loaves, Two Fish, Twelve Volunteers: Developing Relational Food Ministries. In this spot are thoughts that appear for a moment--about food programs, mission, church, building community, writing, and whatever else pops into my head. History
February 2025
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