Our House

The email went out about a month before Easter:

Was there anyone available who might be able to care for and prepare the church sanctuary and alter for Triduum services? 

The list of duties ranged from the tall to the small: vacuuming, dusting, placing flowers, folding or arranging altar cloths, sweeping up the floors, cleaning windows. 

That’s nice, I thought absently.  I assumed at the time that the call was for a particular group of people, perhaps a committee, or an unusual request for extra volunteers.  At every church I’ve attended there have either been staff or volunteer committees to deal with the routine demands of church upkeep: groups of people devoted to the particular.

Then other emails came.  Never very frequently, but now and again, to the entire congregation: who would help set up the preschool for new arrivals?  Who would volunteer to water the plants in the church garden over the summer?  Who will prepare food and arrange the sanctuary for the funeral of a beloved member?

Again, in every church I’ve attended these matters have belonged to committees, or to the organization and management of particular individuals or groups.  There have been Benevolence Committees to see to food and hospitality matters, House and Grounds Committees to tend to outside affairs, housecleaning services or volunteer or part-time staff dedicated to some of these causes. 

So I was surprised over time to see that these requests were open for fulfillment by anyone in the congregation: member or not, new person or not, experienced or not.

One of our congregants, known for being The Only Man Tall Enough To Get Spiderwebs Out Of Corners With A Broom, chuckled when I mentioned this.  “We’re very democratic about it,” he told me.  “After all, this is God’s house, but it’s given to us—and why shouldn’t we all be taking care of it?”

I’ve found a wonderful coziness in this.

This is, indeed, our house.  And the act of taking care of it, together, is deeply communal.  It is a reminder that the responsibility for the care of this place does not belong solely to the pastor, or to its established members, or to a particular set of people, but to everyone who comes in the doors.  We are invited to the church not just to listen and to be nourished but to caretake it.  To be its stewards.  To prepare this place, in ways large and small, for the work of Christ.

I’ve long admired the sense of warmth and hospitality found in many monastic communities: one that first exists within the community but expands out to envelop and welcome others.  This can only grow from a sense of attachment, of indebtedness, to a place and to its people.  This can only really stem from a sense of belonging, and a sense of embodied community that lives in and emerges from a particular place, and a particular people, at a particular time.

I wonder if this is what I’ve been looking for when I’ve been looking for “fellowship.”

It is deeper than friendliness, although friendliness exists here.  It is more purposeful, and longer-term.  We all belong to and own this project, so in our shared ownership and understanding we love and serve each other—sometimes in spite of our own temperaments and preferences.  Spiderweb Bob and I may not be people who would choose each other’s company, but we belong to God and this church has been given to us, and we recognize each other as fellow servants, and we serve and care for each other as we serve and care for it. 

There’s also, to my surprise, a more profound integration that occurs through this approach.

At previous churches, caretaking duties fell largely along gendered lines.  The women served on the benevolence committee; the men served on house and grounds.  Never purposeful so far as I could tell: it just sort of happened, even at churches that professed to be egalitarian and ordained women.  Women in the kitchen and with the babies; men in the gardens and fixing pipes.

At the church I attend, whoever does the work is whoever gets there first.  I watch men vacuum down the hallways, a woman wrangles the hose in the garden, and it’s a wild guess as to who has to corral all the children.  Sometimes the men gather in the kitchen to cook the pancakes, and sometimes the women organize the lectern.  Whatever hand might do the work does the work.

And this reminds me of the early church, and of how the best quality for service is sometimes simple availability.  Here am I, Lord—send me.  The work is here, our house is here, and the Holy Spirit has given us the hands and feet to accomplish it.  Whose hands and feet do what is left to us, and in the doing we gain a sense of ownership and community among ourselves that serves to further grow and hone us for God’s work.

This community belongs to us; we also belong to it.