I wish I could invite you to church in my kitchen. I never know when it’s going to happen, but when it does, it’s just what I need.
Here there are intimate views of our food trash (a ziplock bag full of egg shells and fruit peels, mostly) and a sink full of dishes. Crumbs congregate under the table where chubby hands help themselves. Remnants of preschool drawings are always on the table. A tray full of vanilla chai tea waits next to the water machine. I stop to sip water or write something down in my notebook every few minutes. This is my offering.
Today the chorus is an old one. Washington Phillips sings “Lift Him Up That’s All“. I turn the volume as high as it goes.
I sing along and for the first time in a long time, music moves me.
The kids don’t slow down, neither do their voices: “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” They cry.
But my soul is quiet and I hear the words deep inside as if I have a moment to close my eyes:
“…lift him up that’s all. Lift him up in his word. If you tell the name of Jesus everywhere. If you keep his name a’ringing everywhere that you go, he will draw men unto him.”
It seems so simple, these words I’ve heard a million times. Like a bratty kid I usually roll my eyes and say “I know, I know” but today it’s different.
The power of someone declaring the gospel in my kitchen thickens the room with a tender insulation. I need this message to echo in my life.
After this impromptu service, if you were here, we’d step outside into the sun where everything has suddenly turned green, and we’d walk until we heard the Spirit move us. My guess is we wouldn’t have to walk far. We would speak of Jesus. Then hopefully we’d take His words seriously and write them down, say them out loud, pass them around.
We would consider the Word who became flesh and moved into the neighborhood, and we’d rejoice that He is inviting us to meet Him in the regular moments we live out every day.
Because this God who came to live among us, who died for us, who lives again, He’s with us in the kitchen.