When You Work for the Church

One of the fallacies of summer holidays is that you are going to get some serious reading done while you are lying on the beach.
—Nancy Stahl, illustrator

I’ve been getting some serious reading done this summer, though mainly at home instead of lying on the beach. I finished Anabaptist Witness: Mission and Peace in Ethiopia which I reviewed in my last post. I’m currently reading Surprised by Hope: Rethinking Heaven, the Resurrection, and the Mission of the Church by N.T. Wright (HarperCollins, 2008). Over the years since it was published, I’ve heard a lot about this book by the well-known and well-respected New Testament scholar, and am finally reading it for myself.

I’ve also been doing some fun reading: Potluck at Rabbit Hill by Sigrid Stark (FriesenPress, 2020). This is a collection of short stories about a small, country church in Canada, written by a debut author who also happens to be a friend of mine from high school. We re-connected at a reunion this summer, discovered we’ve both been writing, and she sent me a copy of her book that I thoroughly enjoyed. Her short stories read like fiction, but they’re about real people and events, a kind of potluck from “Who Burned Down the Outhouse” to “Cornflakes in My Bed” to “A Gift for Pastor Loren” (the author’s husband). This book is filled with gentle humour to lift your spirit, and it even includes recipes for potluck dishes mentioned in the book, like slow-cooker pulled pork, Auntie Lillie’s cinnamon buns, homemade Oreos, and, of course, apple pie (mentioned below).

I’m happy to give away a copy, and you can enter the draw by leaving a comment at the end of this post, or by using my contact form. The draw closes in two weeks on September 10. In the meantime, enjoy this excerpt.

by Sigrid Stark

I often thought the church’s phone number should have been 1-800-POT-LUCK, and the tagline to go with it should have been, “If you feed them, they will come.” If a good country meal was promised, people would show up. This was certainly true for the 100th-anniversary celebrations, when the church that only had a handful of members at the time hosted hundreds.

At Rabbit Hill, it was common to see someone haul a large roasting pan, salad, and pie into church on a potluck Sunday. The understanding was that there should be enough for your family and twenty more. Containers of hot food would be wrapped in multiple layers of newspapers or towels to keep warm until the end of the morning service.

Even though we were all supposed to be worshipping, there were two major distractions during the service prior to a potluck. First, the women would be sizing up the crowd and pondering, like potluck hosts the world over, if there would be enough food. At Rabbit Hill, there was always more than enough. I am certain that if the women of Rabbit Hill had been with Jesus when 5,000 people showed up for lunch unexpectedly, there wouldn’t have been a need for a miracle. The kid with his little loaves and fishes would not have needed to give up his lunch. The Rabbit Hill ladies would have had it covered.

Second, the rest of the crowd was distracted by the aroma that emanated from the basement. Vents directly below the pulpit sent out whiffs of turkey and whatever else was waiting below. My husband, who has a defective sense of smell, would generally keep to the program. He might have shortened the service minimally by having the congregation sing only three of the four verses of the final hymn. He may not have been able to smell the food, but he could tell when people started getting fidgety, or he could hear their stomachs growling.

Finally, the benediction would be pronounced, and to be efficient, the blessing for the food would be said at the same time. Warm food waiting in the kitchen was hustled to the tables and uncovered. The serving tables at Rabbit Hill were not the usual banquet tables with plastic tops and wobbly legs. These were sturdy wooden tables built to last and withstand the weight of pots, roasters, and farm-sized serving bowls.

With so much food, one had to proceed strategically. After all, as Don Stelter once told me, you can’t put ten pounds in a five-pound sack. Good advice. Another man boasted that he didn’t waste any room on his plate with anything that was green. This meant bypassing salads and vegetables. He could have those at home. This non-green plan gave him the freedom to layer his plate (rather than section): mashed potatoes on the bottom, meat on top, and then gravy on top of that. And somehow, there was still room for a dinner plate full of pie and other desserts.

In my years at Rabbit Hill, I never mastered the art of making pie. Why would I need to when I was surrounded by experts who had been perfecting their art for decades? My usual contribution was Mom’s recipe for Streusel Kuchen, an easy cake to make with ingredients that were always on hand. When you lived miles from the nearest grocery store, it was important to have a recipe like this in your repertoire.

Even church business meetings were followed by pie. The promise of pie kept the discussion to a minimum. I remember our very first Annual General Meeting at the church. Reports were short and informal. The treasurer distributed his written financial statements for review. His verbal summary was the most succinct I’ve ever heard. “We had money . . . we spent it . . . now give.”

And then the coffee was ready, and pie was served.

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Thank you, Sig, for sharing Potluck at Rabbit Hill: Memories of Life with the Rabbit Hill Baptist Church Community, and for honoring each person and/or family named in your book by getting permission to tell their stories. I wish I could have visited Rabbit Hill when you and Loren were there!