The Least of These
On Saturday night, I had the privilege of volunteering at Community Night at my church. Community Night is basically an evening when the church is opened up to the community. We serve a meal, open up our clothing and food bank, and often there is even a nurse available to provide some basic care. At the end of the evening, we have a little church service for everyone who would like to stay.
To me, Community Night is in many ways the epitome of what it means to be a Christian, what it means to follow Christ. Jesus said, "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind." In this blog, I have spent a lot of time talking about I love God with my mind. But at Community Night, I can love God with my strength, by using my hands and my feet in ways that honour Him, I can love God with my soul, by praying for the staff, volunteers, and community members, and I can love God with my heart, by loving and caring for those who come.
Every time I go, I am in awe of how much the church is able to do with limited resources. Nearly every corner of the church is used on Saturday nights. The main room is filled with tables. At the back there is a table where an assembly line of people makes hundreds of sandwiches, and stores them on trays in the offices behind them. The closet in the hallway (only one of two in the whole church) hosts the food bank, the two classrooms host the clothing bank, their back walls lined with bins and bags full of donated clothing. The nursery becomes a prayer room, and the youth room and office becomes the nurse's station. The kitchen is transformed into a dishwashing station, and the hallway is lined with crockpots filled with soup or chili or stew, depending on the week.
This week was maybe a little bit quieter than I'm used to (since I normally help out the last Saturday of the month, when money is tightest for many). But still, they needed to set up extra tables in one of the clothing rooms in order to make room for everyone to sit and eat.
This time, my assignment is to serve. We start with the sandwiches, because they're quick and the people are hungry. Some are high, or struggle with mental illness, or just haven't eaten all day, so may not be so good at waiting patiently to be served. We load up trays with sandwiches and send them off to the tables. Then we start on the soup. The bowls disappear as quickly as we can fill them up.
We pass around some cookies for deserts--a woman stands at the table and snatches up all the chocolate ones, a few at a time, until they're all gone, despite our best efforts to get her to ask us to serve them to her.
Most of the people trickle away, and most of the dishes are cleared away. One of the pastors, Andrew, walks to the front, and begins to play his guitar.
Maybe a quarter of the people stay for the service. One man is asleep by the door, and a woman who arrived late is sitting by the wall, shovelling down her third bowl of soup. But most who remain are listening, even singing along.
After a few songs, the pastor puts his guitar away, arranges his notes, and starts talking. He begins with the story of how he got hit by a car the other day while riding his bike--flying clear across the intersection--and escaped with nothing but bruises and sore muscles. The people express their astonishment and ask questions, but as he moves on to the sermon, they settle in and listen respectfully. Some weeks there is someone who has trouble sitting still and keeping quiet, but this week, there is none of that. The only disturbance at all is some of the volunteers who are a little too eager, perhaps, to begin cleaning up.
This week, we served Communion. The pastor calls me up to help serve it. The people who wish to participate line up. There are volunteers and community members alike in the line, old and young, well dressed or shabby. Some of them are homeless, some of them aren't. Some are limping so bad I am scared they will spill. Andrew offers each one a cracker: "The body of Christ broken for you," and I offer them a tiny cup of grape juice, "The blood of Christ spilled for you." And each one takes a cup, saying "Amen," or "Thank you," or "Praise the Lord." And I am struck by how we are all the same before God.
Community Night doesn't need me. I've missed weeks because I was sick, or with family, or just because I didn't sign up to go, and they hardly even notice I'm missing. But going changes me. It teaches me humility, and it reminds me that every single human life is valuable and worthy of dignity.
To me, Community Night is in many ways the epitome of what it means to be a Christian, what it means to follow Christ. Jesus said, "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind." In this blog, I have spent a lot of time talking about I love God with my mind. But at Community Night, I can love God with my strength, by using my hands and my feet in ways that honour Him, I can love God with my soul, by praying for the staff, volunteers, and community members, and I can love God with my heart, by loving and caring for those who come.
Every time I go, I am in awe of how much the church is able to do with limited resources. Nearly every corner of the church is used on Saturday nights. The main room is filled with tables. At the back there is a table where an assembly line of people makes hundreds of sandwiches, and stores them on trays in the offices behind them. The closet in the hallway (only one of two in the whole church) hosts the food bank, the two classrooms host the clothing bank, their back walls lined with bins and bags full of donated clothing. The nursery becomes a prayer room, and the youth room and office becomes the nurse's station. The kitchen is transformed into a dishwashing station, and the hallway is lined with crockpots filled with soup or chili or stew, depending on the week.
This week was maybe a little bit quieter than I'm used to (since I normally help out the last Saturday of the month, when money is tightest for many). But still, they needed to set up extra tables in one of the clothing rooms in order to make room for everyone to sit and eat.
This time, my assignment is to serve. We start with the sandwiches, because they're quick and the people are hungry. Some are high, or struggle with mental illness, or just haven't eaten all day, so may not be so good at waiting patiently to be served. We load up trays with sandwiches and send them off to the tables. Then we start on the soup. The bowls disappear as quickly as we can fill them up.
We pass around some cookies for deserts--a woman stands at the table and snatches up all the chocolate ones, a few at a time, until they're all gone, despite our best efforts to get her to ask us to serve them to her.
Most of the people trickle away, and most of the dishes are cleared away. One of the pastors, Andrew, walks to the front, and begins to play his guitar.
Maybe a quarter of the people stay for the service. One man is asleep by the door, and a woman who arrived late is sitting by the wall, shovelling down her third bowl of soup. But most who remain are listening, even singing along.
After a few songs, the pastor puts his guitar away, arranges his notes, and starts talking. He begins with the story of how he got hit by a car the other day while riding his bike--flying clear across the intersection--and escaped with nothing but bruises and sore muscles. The people express their astonishment and ask questions, but as he moves on to the sermon, they settle in and listen respectfully. Some weeks there is someone who has trouble sitting still and keeping quiet, but this week, there is none of that. The only disturbance at all is some of the volunteers who are a little too eager, perhaps, to begin cleaning up.
This week, we served Communion. The pastor calls me up to help serve it. The people who wish to participate line up. There are volunteers and community members alike in the line, old and young, well dressed or shabby. Some of them are homeless, some of them aren't. Some are limping so bad I am scared they will spill. Andrew offers each one a cracker: "The body of Christ broken for you," and I offer them a tiny cup of grape juice, "The blood of Christ spilled for you." And each one takes a cup, saying "Amen," or "Thank you," or "Praise the Lord." And I am struck by how we are all the same before God.
Community Night doesn't need me. I've missed weeks because I was sick, or with family, or just because I didn't sign up to go, and they hardly even notice I'm missing. But going changes me. It teaches me humility, and it reminds me that every single human life is valuable and worthy of dignity.
“Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’
“Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’
“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’" (Matthew 25: 34-40)
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