The overwhelming smell of a roast, potatoes and carrots in the crockpot accompanied only by the sweet scent of my mom’s hot rolls…that’s what floods my mind when I think of Sunday lunch as a little kid. I know we had other things to eat, but the memory of opening the kitchen door to that specific aroma is the overwhelming memory of the Sunday lunches of my early childhood.
Then we began to go out from time to time after church on Sunday if my mom didn’t have time to cook or if we were eating with some of our church friends. I remember that Sunday “spot” too. It was Picadilly. I always ordered the “dilly” plate complete with one piece of fried chicken, mashed potatoes & gravy, a hot roll, and a slice of chocolate pie. My grandma always got liver…and it always grossed me out!
But we moved away from our close friends and family when I was in elementary school and Sunday lunches changed. It seems like we almost always went out but rarely with anyone else. Sunday lunch was all of a sudden unremarkable, unmemorable, and just another meal. Nothing stands out other than the fact that we ate out and it was just my immediate family.
I moved off to college and Sunday lunch was the sacred day to eat at some restaurant, usually a buffet, with all of my friends after church. Two locations stand out more than any others; a pizza buffet called Double Daves, which served some amazing pepperoni rolls, and a Chinese buffet that was dirt cheap and spectacular. On a tight budget, it was the one day I was guaranteed to gorge myself on delicious food. But more than that…Sunday lunch was remarkable again because it was about genuine fellowship with friends. We would actually discuss the sermon. (Of course, it didn’t hurt that our pastor was an amazing and quite challenging teacher.) We would be daring enough to discuss what God was teaching us and how our Sunday school teacher had addressed each of us at the very heart of where we were. We discussed other things, of course, but Sunday lunch became a time where spiritual conversations were guaranteed to take place. I still cherish some of those conversations…
Then I got married and my husband took a job at a small country church as their youth minister. Sunday lunch remained sacred though because of the godly example of hospitality provided by our pastor’s wife. Every Sunday, she would prepare lunch for all of the young couples and families in our small country church and open her house to be flooded with people, usually 15 to 20 of us. There were a lot of things she did wrong, but I have never again experienced the sweet hospitality that she so effortlessly offered week after week. Never once did she complain about having to clean the house before we got there or after we had wrecked it. Never once did she complain about having to get up early, stay up late, or spend Sunday afternoon doing dishes while we all napped. Never once did she complain about the cost of the food or the amount we inhaled. It was her gift and she used it to the fullest.
She served more than food though. Something special happens in homes that can never happen in a restaurant. It’s personal, vulnerable, and exposed. By opening up her home, she knit a group of disconnected young adults together as a family. It was this group that gathered around me when I became inexplicably ill and later diagnosed with a rare, incurable kidney disease. The members of this group would not only offer us prayers, food, and physical help but would offer their very own kidneys if necessary. We appreciated the meal at the time but it would take years for me to truly grasp the depth of what she had done for us and as a result in us.
We graduated and moved to serve in other places. While we have had good friends that would occasionally invite us out to Sunday lunch with them or even to their house on special Sunday celebrations, we have NEVER again experienced the sweet fellowship and community that Sunday lunch can and should offer. It hit hardest when we were living hours away from our family in East Texas and ate Sonic for lunch by ourselves on Mother’s Day and Easter because no one thought to incorporate us into their family.
Now we have a 2 year old of our own and live near family so Sunday lunch is either a rushed meal on the way home or a chance to see our parents …but God just keeps stirring in my heart and mind that it should be so much more.
As I sit at the restaurant (or go through the drive through), I cannot help but ache over the reality that my lazy habit of eating out may be keeping those who are serving me from worshipping with their own body of believers. If you look around on Sundays during lunch, it’s all “church” people. We are the ones making it necessary for people to work on Sundays immediately after complaining that they aren’t at worship…And there is a discomfort in my spirit.
I complain about disconnectedness within the church body (in general) and our church body specifically. As my family rushes home to scarf down food and get into our comfy clothes, my mind questions the depth of my resolve since I’m not making any genuine effort to connect…And there is a discomfort in my spirit.
And I realize one thing, Sunday lunch is unremarkable mostly because I am selfish and focused primarily on what makes my life easy…But that is NOT what Christ has called me to.
Christ has called me to a life of sacrifice, service, and connectedness. So, what does that mean in a practical sense?
It means that I should value the Sabbath and the opportunity for others to worship as much as I value it for myself and my family. So, I shouldn’t eat out anymore and I should encourage others not to as well.
It means that I should follow the example of our pastor’s wife from that small country church and offer genuine, sweet hospitality. I need to clean my house, cook a Sunday lunch, and serve those with whom I worship and those who are in need.
It means that I should push conversations past the comfortable, casual and superficial and into the difficult, spiritual and meaningful. Only then will we truly connect with one another.
None of these things will be easy for me and I make no promises that I will be perfect in keeping them…But, in the process of becoming not me, I am realizing that I must let go of my comfort and convenience because there is something greater at stake…and I want that which is greater.
