The Welcome Tables

Rev. Mark Stringer

First Unitarian Church of Des Moines

9/9/01

The story of this sermon began just a few weeks ago, during my first week on the job as your new minister.  I had been coming into the office for a few days to set up shop and to begin to get used to things.  While I had met many of you during my candidating week last May, I was still feeling like the newcomer that I was.  Past experience had taught me that the best way to overcome the anxiety that comes with being new is to get involved.  So when I saw that a church workday had been scheduled for my first Saturday here, I knew that I would participate. I figured lending a hand would  provide me a good opportunity to further get to know our building and, of course, some of the people who care enough about it to give up a Saturday morning to see that it gets the care it deserves.  I looked forward to getting my hands dirty with my new church family for I knew that nothing can bond people together as well as working toward a common goal.  I had heard that the plans for the day included washing the walls, and considering my height, I expected to be doing some washing.

When I arrived at the church that Saturday, I was greeted by Nicky Keller, former board president, who is now chair of the building committee.   As others started arriving, Nicky began divying up tasks.  Yes, the walls were going to be washed this day, but she asked church member Susan Heathcote and me—and later Erica Rasey and Marilyn Lantz—to do something entirely different:  We were to take an inventory of all the tables in the church.  This would involve pulling them out of their hiding places, opening them up, checking to see that they did in fact provide a workable shelf for plates, elbows, papers, and other table settings, and then measuring them for the church records. 

While this assignment did not sound too difficult, I must admit, I was disappointed.  I had been prepared for what I would describe as the more physical, more cleansing labor of wall washing.  Pulling out and measuring tables sounded tedious and not all that fun.  Anyone who has ever been recruited to move tables around in a church could probably testify that this is not a coveted job.  This is mostly due to the fact that, for some inexplicable reason, church tables often weigh more than a Volkswagon.  But since making myself available for the work that needed to be done seemed more important than that my expectations were met, I agreed to help. 

Susan and I pulled out table after table.  Opening them, inspecting them, measuring them.  We drew up an inventory sheet that included spaces for the tables’ locations, sizes, and general descriptions.  We wrote down things like, “interesting”  “OK shape, a few dents and scratches” “One corner bad, but overall good.”  “Legs a little wobbly.”  

Almost immediately, I was struck with how different the various tables were.  Their designs varied more than you might expect.  Some had braces in the middle, that folded out, some had supports built into the legs.  There were a few that didn’t seem all that useful, but that could probably function for some future purpose.  It was difficult to say that any of the tables we inspected should not stay around. 

Then Susan and I made our way to the basement and began recording the particulars of the tables down there.  Again, hidden in the nooks and crannies of this church we found tables of various shapes and sizes.  Through their differences, though, the tables did share some things.  They all looked like they had been here a while.  And perhaps more importantly, they were all still here.

During the few hours I spent getting to know the tables of this church, I thought a lot about how each of them had gotten here, wondering to myself how many had been purchased and how many had been donated.  My imagination filled with images of the events during which these tables had been present.  Surely they had stood through RE classes and committee meetings, serving as a resting place for gobs of glue and glitter and for the mimeographed, then Xeroxed, agendas of church leadership.  They had held celebratory meals, donations for food banks, and wedding presents.  They had been silent witnesses of child dedication and memorial service receptions.  They had held the membership’s social justice petitions and arts and crafts projects.   They had been the gathering place for new member dinners and for ministerial search committees.   They had been, and would continue to be, an important part of this church.

Despite my inner protests at being given the job of table master, I soon realized that this might be the perfect job for a new minister.  For through the tables, I was able to catch a glimpse of this church’s history.  I could get my hands on something tangible of its past, feeling in the wood and steel the commitments of those who throughout the years have found a home here at the First Unitarian Church of Des Moines.  Those who had been welcomed enough to give money that could be used to purchase these important pieces of church equipment.  I thought about the tables that might arrive during my time here, and I smiled.   Now I had become a part of this church’s history.  Just like everyone else who enters its doors enough to become known, everyone who decides that this church is a place worth visiting again, everyone who finds a place in this church community, this intergenerational common ground for our shared humanity, for our shared commitment to living lives of meaning and purpose.

Becoming familiar with the tables of our community filled me with gratitude.  Gratitude for the opportunity we have to gather with others in friendship and fellowship.  Gratitude for the places we can make in our lives for the gifts of others, for the breaking of bread and for the sharing of stories that inform our personal narratives with the wisdom of those who travel with us and those who have come before us. Gratitude that we have tables around which we can gather to discover how we may live our lives in the service of our shared humanity.

Most importantly, though, the tables of our community reminded me of the responsibility each of us has to see that there will be room here for others.  When we join a church like ours, few demands are made.  There is no creed to be recited, there is no expectation that we will always agree on issues of belief.  Ours is a democratic faith that asks of its membership an openness to the continuous revelation of our lives together, a respect for the interdependent web of which we are all a part, and a reverence for the inherent worth and dignity of each individual inside and outside of our doors.  Still, once each of us finds a place at the table, the only real requirement is that we always leave a space for one more. 

Welcome back to your church.  The tables have been waiting for us.  Who will find a place with us this year?  May there be room for everyone…and always one more.