Phil Kniss: A Never-ending Thanksgiving Dinner

Worship at the table
BRINGING CHURCH BACK to the TABLE
Luke 22:14-23; Acts 2:42-47


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As my time starts to wind down at Park View,

occasionally I ponder what marks I’m leaving behind.

I figure, after 28 years with a congregation,

that are a few tangible things I can point to and say,

“I had at least something to do with that.”

This morning I’m thinking of something specific.

And what it is might surprise you.

It’s having communion every month,

instead of two or three times a year.

I’m not particularly proud of this,

because frankly, I started talking about it at least 25 years ago.

But I never got around to it.

I didn’t want to complicate worship planning,

or recruit more volunteers,

or hear complaints about having it too often,

or . . . I don’t know what.

Maybe I was just too lazy to change a long tradition.

But then the pandemic happened.

And all our worship rituals were stretched to the point of breaking.

We stayed at home and watched six people or so on a live-stream

go through familiar-looking activities of worship—

four people sang in harmony,

one person at a time prayed, or read scripture, 

or preached, or played an instrument.

And those at home could worship in front of a screen,

passively,

individually,

and invisibly,

They could even doze off, or wander off, and no one would know.

Our worship was hard to embody that way.

It took place in our brains, but nowhere else.

We heard sounds and saw pictures—two out of five senses.

But we never touched, tasted, or smelled anything.

So I decided we had to at least encourage

people to worship with their whole being, even if we were apart.

So I brought it up to the other pastors and elders, on Zoom of course,

and we started offering communion once a month.

We at least invited everyone

to gather your bread and juice at home and have it ready.

And we ate and drank together,

the church at an imaginary table across the miles.

If you participated—you didn’t have to, but if you did—

you felt, smelled, and tasted reminders of who we were in Christ

. . . together . . . at the table.

At a time when everything else seemed strange and otherworldly,

here was a practice of the church that was core to our identity,

and we could still do it together.

And once we started, why stop?

When we came back to in-person worship,

we kept on doing monthly communion.

One of the small marks I leave behind.

It will be up to the next pastors (Paula, take note)

to move communion from monthly to weekly.

_____________________

Now on a Sunday focusing on worship,

why am I making a deal about this?

Communion is just one ritual. A tradition.

Some do it this way. Some do it that way.

For some it means this. For others it means that.

Does it really matter?

Glad you asked. Let me tell you why I think it matters.

In my childhood, nearly all Mennonites 

were suspicious of weekly communion.

Catholics and Lutherans and high church people did that.

The fear was . . . doing it too often would make us stop thinking 

about what it meant.

It would just become a habit, that we would do without thinking.

Now, did you notice what I just said there?

Communion was only important

because of what it made us think about, in our head,

as a rational and intellectual thought process.

We neglected to consider the shaping power of repeated ritual.

We didn’t consider how practice shapes desire,

how wordless action can be a conduit of the Spirit,

to help form us as whole, embodied, worshipers.

We didn’t account for the possibility

that people who took communion week after week after week,

kneeling and standing on cue,

chanting the same scripture,

hearing words of Christ’s love and sacrifice,

as a wafer melted on their tongue,

and wine slid down their throat—

we didn’t consider the possibility 

that an embodied weekly practice

might become a saving grace for someone

when deep loss or trauma or a dark night of the soul

robbed them of their ability to pray 

with words that made rational sense,

robbed them of their capacity to even think clearly.

I know that the physical practice of communion has power in it,

that goes beyond rational thought processes.

I’ve seen it happening in others.

I’ve experienced it myself.

And no, it’s not magical or mystical.

It’s simply the well-documented power of bodily rituals

to shape our desires and our human experience.

We live in a world of constant and continual cultural rituals

that try to pull us toward loyalty to some lesser identity—

like being American or Democratic or Republican or

a Nats or Phillies fan,

or a capitalist consumer of Pepsi vs. Coke,

or Ford vs. Chevy.

We know consumer advertizing is never 

just about selling a product.

It’s selling an identity.

And likewise, national holidays and rituals,

like the one we’ll celebrate this Thursday,

are not primarily about remembering our history,

they are about our reinforcing our identity.

Not saying that is all bad.

I’m just saying those who say they are in Christ Jesus.

those who claim their identity as 

members of the covenant community of Jesus,

need robust, embodied rituals that we return to repeatedly,

if only to counter all the other cultural rituals

that pull us other directions.

_____________________

I think Jesus knew this was the case,

when he urged his disciples to ritualize the moment at the table,

when he shared ordinary bread and wine.

He said to them,

“Whenever you eat this bread, and drink this cup,

remember me.”

He wasn’t afraid that he would be forgotten, personally.

He wasn’t trying to preserve his legacy.

No! Jesus knew they were all immersed in an Empire,

that was trying to make them into something else.

So he established a shared practice to instill in them

their identity as citizens of the kingdom of God,

to counteract and overrule the many practices of the Empire

that tried to instill in them a much lesser identity.

In some Christian traditions 

communion seems mystical and untouchable and rarified.

But I don’t believe the bread and cup need 

certain holy words spoken over them,

by certain holy people,

in order to work on us.

What Jesus did was use the ordinary to create a holy moment.

On the eve of his suffering and death,

on the eve of giving up his own body and blood

for the sake of God’s kingdom,

Jesus took ordinary bread and wine, shared it as a gift,

and made it a Thanksgiving Dinner.

That’s why we call it the Eucharist,

the Greek word for Thanksgiving.

The scripture we read this morning says, literally,

“Then Jesus took a loaf of bread, 

and when he eucharistēsas (gave thanks),

he broke it and gave it to them, saying, 

‘This is my body, given for you. 

Do this in remembrance of me.’”

_____________________

Now, if you’re observant 

you noticed no communion table is set this morning.

So why am I taking a whole sermon to talk about 

a ritual we’re not even doing today.

Two reasons.

First, to hopefully enrich your communion experience next Sunday,

when we will do it together.

But more importantly, 

to suggest we can all do it much more frequently than we do,

and in much more ordinary times and places.

If this Christian practice is so formative, as I’m suggesting it is—

this practice of remembering Jesus

when we eat bread and drink from a cup—

then wouldn’t it be wise to do it more often?

Of all the practices in this worship series

about bringing church back to the table—

practice of discernment, confession, witness, formation, etc—

this is the one practice that works best at an actual physical table,

and was instituted at a table.

For that first community of Jesus followers

that emerged in the book of Acts,

the Eucharistic Meal was at the center of their life together.

This was no twice a year solemn reckoning for their sins.

Nor a weekly ritual led by priests in glittering robes.

No, they just did what Jesus asked,

“Whenever you eat this bread, and drink this cup,

remember me.”

In Acts 2, we heard that “they devoted themselves . . . 

to the breaking of bread and the prayers . . . [and]

Day by day . . . they broke bread at home

and ate their food with glad and generous hearts.”

They eucharistized at every meal,

giving thanks to God for God’s generous gift in Jesus.

Why would we ever want to keep the eucharist at the periphery?

Let’s bring it back to the center,

and use our imagination in doing so.

Let’s have it more often,

in the smaller, more intimate circles in which we gather.

Does your Faith Formation class

ever break bread and drink the cup when you gather,

to remember the Jesus you seek to follow together?

Does your small group or house fellowship or supper club,

while you’re already gathered for a meal,

with bread and wine on the table

ever take a moment to add a little more significance

into breaking that bread, and drinking from that cup,

as you remember Jesus Christ who is present 

and at the center of your gathering?

If you happen to be at a table in a public place

with other members of your family of faith,

out for lunch or dinner and everyone has a piece of bread,

and a cup in front of them (with whatever’s in it),

has anyone ever said, “Let’s remember Jesus.”

And, without any words,

you all eat a bite of bread and sip from the cup,

silently giving thanks for Jesus’ sacrificial gift.

Maybe even a quiet toast, and a clink of the glasses, “To Jesus!”

Is that weird? Probably. Is it sacrilegious? Not at all.

Fact is, I think that’s pretty close 

to what Jesus had in mind,

when he gave that guidance to his disciples.

If want to reinforce our identity as followers of Jesus,

the one whom we say is at the center of our lives, 

why not remember him whenever we eat and drink together?

I’ll be honest.

I have an allergic reaction

to being conspicuously religious in public.

I don’t like putting my religion on display.

So when I’m with others of like faith,

seems like a quiet toast to Jesus is about the most natural 

and inconspicuous way to do what Jesus said.

The people at the next table wouldn’t have a clue

you’re having communion.

_____________________

A couple of disclaimers, or clarifying statements.

First, the Lord’s Supper is a ritual that is 

core to our identity as disciples of Jesus.

I’m not suggesting when you’re out with any group—

as you certainly should be doing,

enjoying rich fellowship that’s interfaith, 

or with persons who don’t even claim faith—

not saying you should awkwardly slip in a Christian ritual

that others would find excluding or off-putting.

So don’t do that, please.

Second, this is not a directive or mandate.

Giving a toast to Jesus may not be your cup of tea, so to speak.

So choose something that is.

Choose some way to regularly and ritually

name your identity in Christ,

to remember Jesus in the ordinary,

so as to counteract all the other cultural rituals

you’re already engaging in,

that seek to prioritize other, lesser identities.

Let’s find some way to do what Jesus asked.

And to be clear,

I’m not saying you should something that I haven’t already

found to be transformative, from experience.

Irene and I are in a small group that’s kind of a supper club,

and for the last 15 years or so we’ve started every meal,

not with a bowed-heads prayer, but something just as significant.

With a bite of bread, then a clink of the glasses and sip of wine,

we remember Jesus,

as we recite a couple of short lines from memory.

Do we get tired of doing it? Never.

Does it set a tone for our meal and conversation? Always.

We even did it last week at a campground picnic table,

before we dug into our burgers and veggies,

with other campers in earshot.

Worship, and remembering and naming Jesus,

with Thanksgiving,

is something that can be part of our everyday,

not just when we are gathered in large assemblies,

in sanctuaries,

led by clergy.

We are invited to a never-ending Thanksgiving Dinner, in Christ.

A eucharistic daily life.

May it be so.

—Phil Kniss, June 30, 2024

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Ben Bixler: What Time Is It?

Discernment at the table
BRINGING CHURCH BACK to the TABLE
Nehemiah 8:1-3, 5-6, 8-10; Luke 2:41-47


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Ervin Stutzman: Confession at the Table

Confession at the table
BRINGING CHURCH BACK to the TABLE
Psalm 51:1-12; James 5:13-16


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Phil Kniss: Beyond table talk

Witness at the table
BRINGING CHURCH BACK to the TABLE
Jeremiah 29:1, 4-8a; Luke 10:1-12


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Without trying to sound defensive,

it almost feels like I need to make the case again,

for what we’re trying to do in this worship series,

and why it might be important.

Because bringing church back to the table

feels a little bit like swimming upstream,

or going against the grain.

Here’s my case . . .

when it comes to the core practices of the church—

worship, witness, faith formation, community-building,

discernment, accountability, confession and reconciliation,

rituals of belonging—

all of them are scalable, down to the size of a table,

where small numbers are gathered.

Not only that, they are often done better at table scale.

They are often more deeply relational, transformational,

authentic, and inclusive.

In no way am I saying . . . that larger, highly-structured forms of church

can’t also engage in those practices with integrity,

because they do.

Nor am I saying . . . table-sized groups always do them well,

because they don’t.

What I’m trying to push against, gently, is the popular notion

that people practice their faith,

mostly within the four walls of a church building,

and the services and programs that happen there.

And I’m saying that as someone who devoted

over four decades of my professional life

helping larger congregational programs and systems run well.

And I don’t regret that for a moment.

We need larger congregations, like ours, doing what they do well,

with their greater visibility,

more extensive resources,

and collaborative energy.

And we need people like you here this morning,

being part of this—

investing, consistently, in this collaborative work we do,

showing up with what you have to offer.

Without organized churches like ours,

some of the vibrant community agencies—like OCP—

would have a much harder time making a go of it.

But . . . but, if any of us think we can check off the “religion” box,

by putting our rear ends in a church pew,

and some dollars in an offering plate,

and some hours in a church kitchen,

then I think we’ve fallen for a great American myth—

that being Christian means “going to church,”

and that outside those few hours on a weekend,

how we order the rest of our lives

is private and personal

and disconnected from faith and from church.

No. The life of faith, the life of following Jesus,

is a whole-life endeavor.

It’s calling to us 24/7.

So most of that has to happen

in real, honest, authentic, life-giving,

everyday human relationships.

That’s what bringing the church back to the table is all about.

It’s about reminding us of the totality of a life of faith,

and of the need to do it in companionship with others.

_____________________

So . . . all that to set the stage today for looking at another

core practice of the church—witnessing to the Gospel.

We church people are familiar with this language of witness,

and we tend to place it in one of two categories—

we’re talking about either the

public witness of the church to society and the world,

or the personal sharing of our faith with someone.

Almost any act of witness that comes to mind

could be put into one of those two categories.

The public witness of the church includes things like,

church planting and evangelism,

medical missions,

disaster relief, food distribution,

Christian education,

social service,

peacebuilding,

public protest, political advocacy, and more.

And personal faith-sharing can also encompass a range of activity,

talking to a neighbor about your faith,

long conversations with a friend at a coffeeshop,

showing kindness to a stranger,

writing a memoir,

and more.

All these acts of witness,

if they are done with compassion and kindness and humility,

are important ways to bear witness to the gospel of Jesus.

But today, I’m suggesting we tend to overlook

a whole other category of Christian witness:

the compelling witness of a living community of Christ.

That is, people in relationship with each other,

just living like an actual community of disciples of Jesus,

as they navigate everyday challenges of life together.

I’m talking about not being afraid to put our shared lives on display.

To be more hospitable.

To extend the table.

To risk opening our ordinary lives to outsiders,

and inviting them in,

to see what living Christianly looks like, in the everyday.

_____________________

Thing is, inviting people into the ordinary moments of our lives

doesn’t come natural.

Hospitality is actually counter-cultural.

Our hyper-individualistic culture shapes us

to keep our doors, and our lives, locked up.

Private.

So we live in communities that are often segmented

and isolated from each other.

All of have mess at home and in our lives—

literally and figuratively.

Before we invite someone in,

we need to cover up or clean up.

I’m referring to our ordinary spaces,

not our “Sunday best” that we put out for a nice party or event.

I’m talking about the gift of hospitality,

not the gift of entertaining.

Hospitality is openness.

It is vulnerability.

It is authenticity.

And it is risk-prone.

The perceived “risk” of having people see us

when we’re not at our best,

is one reason why “having people over,” on a whim,

or . . . God forbid . . . “dropping by” to visit, unannounced,

seems like such an antiquated and quaint practice.

That kind of thing, believe it or not, used to happen regularly.

It did in the home I grew up in.

And it still does in some cultures.

But our privatized and risk-averse and protective posture

we take toward neighbors,

has resulted in lives that are far more lonely and isolated

and fragmented than they once were.

And it also means that if someone is living in our neighborhood,

maybe next door,

and struggling with life,

and longing for community,

wishing there were people with whom they could

ask the deeper questions of life and suffering and God,

about the only doorway available to them is pretty intimidating.

They have to walk in the entrance

of a strange and imposing religious building,

and blend into a crowd of people they don’t know,

whose symbols and rituals they don’t understand.

It takes a rare kind of courage to walk into any social situation

where it’s clear to you and everyone else, you’re an outsider.

So in today’s polarized and fragmented social environment,

where the institutional church is less known, and less trusted,

how do people ever begin a faith journey

when the Spirit starts nudging them toward it? . . .

 . . . Unless people of faith they already know and trust,

show genuine hospitality to them,

open their lives, as they are,

to be shared on equal footing with them,

where gifts are freely given and freely received?

And where, as the relationship develops and mutual trust grows, it becomes safe and authentic and comfortable

to discuss not only weather and sports,

but the deeper things of life—

the struggles of parenting, of marriage,

of facing financial insecurity,

of the core values that drive our decision-making,

of how to perceive God’s presence in suffering.

Church at the table is not focused on

filling seats or meeting budgets or growing programs.

There’s a place for that.

But church at the table is “slow church.”

It’s about taking all the time we need

to build authentic relationships,

and create safe and welcoming spaces

for wanderers and explorers.

Even though it’s nothing we can rush,

it’s still something we can be intentional about.

We can start by asking ourselves,

and asking the groups we associate with

how open we are . . . or not . . . with our neighbors,

with the people adjacent to us?

Are we ready to let our lives be seen?

to let our lives be accessed?

to let our time and our spaces be shared?

And if we’re ready, how might we start?

with a back-yard barbecue?

a neighborhood block party?

a community garden?

a Sunday afternoon motorcycle ride, or bike ride,

or quilting party,

or community sing,

. . . the possibilities are endless.

Maybe you could join efforts

with some other church families that live near you.

Maybe a small group, or a grouping of groups,

or a Faith Formation class,

could plan something that is purposely outward-facing

and invitational to your neighbors.

It might end up just being a one-off thing

that seems like it had little impact.

And that’s fine!

Because months or years later,

one of your neighbors might hit a crisis point,

and it occurs to them to turn toward someone

with whom they had a safe conversation at your event.

I think this is what Jeremiah had in mind,

when he wrote these words of admonition to the exiles

living in Babylon.

He encouraged them to invest in their neighborhoods,

even as outsiders.

“Build houses and live in them;

plant gardens and eat what they produce . . .

Seek the shalom of the city where I have sent you into exile,

and pray to the Lord on its behalf,

for in its shalom you will find your shalom.”

I also think this lines up with Jesus’ intent,

when he sent his disciples out in pairs, in Luke 10.

He did not give them a program

or any pre-packaged Gospel witness.

He told them to go and find people of peace.

People who would welcome them into their homes,

where they could share life together.

And only then, when the time was right,

and the relationship was strong enough to sustain it,

they would start preaching and healing,

and proclaim “God’s kingdom is near.”

The invitation here is to let the Spirit move among us.

Let our lives be a witness, and be witnessed.

And let us walk as children of the light.

Turn to VT 777, to the song called simply, “Seeds.”

Be ready to sing this song written by

Seth Crissman and Greg Yoder of the Walking Roots Band.

To sing, “use our hands, use our feet,

to show your love and your peace,

and cover us . . . with love.”

But before we sing, join me in the confession,

in your bulletin or on the screens.

one In a world where darkness overwhelms,

all Let us walk as children of light.

one In a world of misinformation and misdirection,

all Let us follow Jesus.

one In a world where loneliness is epidemic,

all Let us show up for each other.

one In a world where division threatens all our well-being,

all Let us seek the shalom of every 

person, community, city, and nation.

[silence]

one In God there is no darkness at all.

The night and the day are both alike.

all The Lamb is the light of the city of God.

Shine in our hearts, Lord Jesus.

—Phil Kniss, June 9, 2024

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Paula Stoltzfus: Alchemy at the Table

Formation at the table
BRINGING CHURCH BACK to the TABLE
Matthew 26:6-13; Luke 24:13-16, 28-35; Acts 16:13-15


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Phil Kniss: Bringing church within reach

BRINGING CHURCH BACK to the TABLE
Church within reach
Genesis 12:1-3; Psalm 67; Luke 22:14-21


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The closer I get to retirement,

the more I look into the rearview mirror,

and think on the how things have changed over the years,

in me, in the church, in the world.

I often tell people that even though, for 28 years,

I’ve had the same job,

worked out of the same office,

at the same street address,

I’ve never been bored,

because everything keeps changing.

I’m not the same pastor I was when I came to Park View,

this isn’t the same congregation,

we aren’t in the same neighborhood,

and none of us live in the same world.

And while all that is true, so much is the same.

I’ve been preaching regularly for over 41 years,

and I keep coming back to the same themes.

There’s a different context today, so I need to find

different words,

different stories,

different metaphors,

different nuance.

But the core narrative of scripture—

the big story of what God is doing in God’s world,

and with God’s people—

that is still the story that needs to be told.

Over and over.

It’s still the Good news we need to hear.

Because our world is still full of unspeakable brokenness.

And heart-stopping beauty.

God is still at work,

restoring what is broken,

and magnifying what is beautiful.

And it’s all for God’s grand purpose of recreating

the shalom God intends for the universe.

And God, in a most unlikely and inspired arrangement,

chose to partner with flawed human communities, like ours,

to join in that work as God’s full partners.

I know. You’ve heard me preach this song before.

But like any good musical refrain,

it needs to be repeated.

_____________________

So here comes a seven-week sermon series,

in which you’ll hear from four different preachers,

all reflecting on different aspects of how God is working

to carry out God’s saving purposes,

through very human, and consequently very flawed,

communities of people,

trying to practice the life Jesus demonstrated,

in everyday and ordinary places.

“Bringing the church back to the table”

is just another way of saying

rediscovering our roots as a church.

The church, writ large, is in a troubled state.

We can certainly point to local and particular examples,

in Virginia Mennonite Conference,

and Mennonite Church USA,

as we are going through a tumultuous season

of conflict and realignment and shrinkage.

But when I say the church is in a troubled state,

I’m also thinking globally.

There is a lot of beauty and goodness to celebrate, and we will.

But we have to be honest,

and name the ways the church takes its lead not from Jesus,

but from the powers and ways of the world.

We have church leaders in Russia who praise President Putin,

and wholeheartedly support his brutal war against Ukraine.

We have vocal Christian leaders,

who steadfastly support Israel in its massive assault

against the men, women, and children of Gaza,

even when the UN World Court orders them to stop.

We have pastors and self-avowed evangelists

who openly side with insurrectionists in our country

who used violence to try to force their will on the US Congress.

We have bishops and archbishops

and top leaders in many denominational sex abuse scandals,

who chose to cover up to protect their reputations,

and protect the assets of their institution,

rather than side with those who suffer.

We have untold numbers of charismatic and dynamic leaders,

who wow the public,

and build up their own wealth and power,

all while they take advantage of vulnerable people around them.

I needn’t go on with more examples.

We know them all too well.

How did we get here?

And how do we get back to the table of Spirit-filled

fellowship and community and worship and witness,

the kind that transforms our lives and remakes the world,

and demonstrates the character of the kingdom of God?

_____________________

We can start by examining the church in the New Testament.

I don’t mean we just recreate the church we find there.

They had a particular context, which is not ours—

they were a newly founded movement,

living in reaction to recent trauma,

victims of the brutal Roman Empire,

facing opposition on every side.

So they pulled together, up close and personal.

They gathered at homes and at tables,

and fostered relationships that were organic and fluid.

Life was intense.

So church was intense.

They shared everything, and met together daily at their tables,

because they had to in order to survive.

They gave up personal convenience

for the sake of supporting each other

in the struggle to stay faithful to Jesus’ radical Gospel call.

But in time, things happened.

300 hundred years after Jesus,

this dynamic and persecuted network of house churches

moved out of the shadows.

It found itself at the center of respectable society—

in fact, at the center of power and wealth and influence,

when Constantine the Great converted

and established Christianity

as the religion of the Roman Empire.

The church lost connection to its radical origins,

and it became a hierarchical institution

whose job was not to change the world,

but support the status quo.

 Fast-forward a dozen centuries,

and the Protestant Reformation, Anabaptism,

and other renewal movements tried to challenge

the church’s addiction to wealth and power,

but often, it just redirected its addiction to some other power center.

And today, we still live with this legacy.

_____________________

So should we despair?

No! In our present day struggle, there is a potentially positive outcome.

With the church is losing its place at the center of society,

with many churches fragmenting

and finding it hard to hold the institution together,

and to keep funding a top-heavy organization,

this might be a very good time

to bring the church back to the table.

And we at Park View are actually in a very good place right now,

to think creatively in these terms.

There are multiple things happening at once,

as some groups lead us in taking a fresh look

at who we are as a community of faith,

how we belong to each other;

while others lead us in discerning what kind of leadership we need

to keep moving forward as a healthy congregation,

in times of pastoral transition.

Perhaps it would be wise of us,

as we work at this together,

to bring back the table as a central metaphor

for how we relate to each other—

in worship, witness, formation, discernment,

and other core practices of the church.

How might we nurture these practices in all of life—

not only in our large official gatherings,

but in everyday relationships that are deeply connected,

that are authentic, organic,

and as close as people sitting around a table.

Let me be clear.

I’m not saying there needs to be a literal table

that we gather around every time.

Although sometimes physical tables,

and the food and drink on them,

facilitate a deeper way of relating.

What I’m saying is this.

The table is a metaphor for keeping church within reach.

When the church started going off the rails,

was when the essential elements of church got out of reach.

When Emperor Constantine, by royal edict,

declared every Roman citizen a Christian,

the important activities of church suddenly became centered,

not at a table in someone’s house,

but in the offices of bishop, archbishop, pope, and Emperor.

People stopped being church at their tables,

and they started going to church at cathedrals and basilicas.

Everything in those buildings—

from towering ceilings and spires,

to pulpits that soared high above the people,

to railings and gates that kept the laity from the clergy,

to liturgies in language people couldn’t understand,

shaped people to think the essence of church was out of reach.

Please understand.

This is not a criticism of classical Christian art and architecture, per se.

Much of that was intended to draw people’s minds heavenward.

And it does that.

At cathedrals, and other beautiful worship spaces,

I find a lot to inspire me, and put me in touch with God.

But stately and soaring church structures are not enough in themselves.

If there isn’t a place for followers of Jesus to gather

in the intimacy and vulnerability and mutual love for one another,

that can happen as we share our lives with each other,

in a community guided by the Spirit,

where church is, literally within reach, within arm’s length,

then we have missed the essence of being a disciple of Jesus.

_____________________

So where do we go from here, as Park View Mennonite,

so that we are drawn to the transcendent, to the divine,

and . . .we are drawn to each other, in all our beauty and brokenness?

I do not have a 10-point plan, if that’s what you were hoping for.

I only hope to point a direction,

and to elevate this metaphor of church at the table,

the church within reach of each other.

Park View is known by many things.

People appreciate the physical beauty and grace of our building—

its wide-open windows,

its simple and elegant design,

its high steeple.

People appreciate the beautiful and resonant sounds of music—

both the singing and the playing of instruments.

People appreciate the well-orchestrated services and liturgies.

Can we be equally described, and appreciated,

for a life that resembles what we see in Acts 2—

for being people who “devote themselves daily

to teaching and fellowship,

to breaking of bread and prayers.”

for causing neighbors to look on in wonder,

at the signs of God’s work among us,

for caring for others in need,

even to the point of selling goods and possessions if need be.

who “day by day” spend time together, and in the public square,

“praising God and having the goodwill of all,”

who are growing, not because of a well-run program,

but because people are being drawn to the saving grace of God?

A healthy church is a church within reach.

It’s a church where each one is invested,

because it’s our own everyday life that we share with others.

When we are invested, we’re not merely passive participants.

We contribute to the good of the whole,

out of whatever gifts God has given us.

We show up.

Not just for worship or events.

We show up for each other,

out of mutual love and mutual respect.

We ourselves matter, and every other person matters—

whether they delight us or annoy us,

whether they belong to this body, or not,

whether they think like us, or not.

If Park View is to remain a healthy church,

we need to continually bring church back to the table.

Jesus modeled a small-scale communal and missional life

with his own disciples.

And he expected them to replicate it,

when they went out on their own.

How are we replicating the ministry of Jesus?

_____________________

As we reflect on those questions, let us make our confession together.

You’ll find words in your bulletin and on the screens.

one We confess we often rely on familiar traditions of church;

rituals and structures which suit us and soothe us,

and shield us from the need for change or challenge.

all Holy One, we seek you, as you seek us.

one We commit ourselves to a wider openness

to the persons within our reach,

both inside and beyond our walls.

all Holy One, we reach for you, as you reach for us.

one May we not be content with only what we already know and love.

Deepen our longing for what is still unrevealed.

[silence]

one The God who makes all things new hears our prayer,

and says to us, as to Abraham and Sarah of old,

“Come on a journey to the place I will show you”

—Phil Kniss, May 26, 2024

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