Small Churches

A fistful of black letters flicker atop the pale-yellow background. The sign is broken, but few care. Because they are broken too. There is a place, like God and grandmother’s house, where the door is always open. You may find better food elsewhere, but you won’t find better food for the money. They have a menu, though I have never needed it.

When you sit down at the table or the bar you will likely be greeted by someone who calls you “honey,” or “sugar,” or “baby,” or sometimes “boss.” But you will be greeted, and usually with a smile. And by someone who knows what it means to work long and hard for very little.

Some of them are working their way through college. Some of them are single parents trying to pay the rent and keep the lights on at home. Some are ex-cons trying to hold down a job by wiping tables and desperately trying to believe the rumors of second chances.

On any given day there might be a family of five seated near you with three small children scarfing down jellied toast and scrambled eggs. They’re here because the food is cheap and sometimes dad doesn’t want mom to have to cook after working twelve hours at the shirt factory. On one side of you will be three bikers and a war veteran swapping stories. On the other side will be an elderly couple who come every Thursday night. They come just to hear the voices. Their own kids have long since stopped visiting, and they’ve already buried all of their other friends.

It doesn’t matter what you’ve done or where you’ve come from, you are welcome here. Strait-laced or strung out, drunk or sober or in that fuzzy place in between. In blue jeans, a business suit, or pajamas. No one is turned away.

Waffle House may not be a church, but many of our churches could stand to learn a few things about open arms and second chances from this wild, wayside diner.

The Church in the Canyon was engaged in their typical Sunday morning activities routine when its normal routine was shattered by the sound of a helicopter crashing into the hillside across the street. Pastor Bob Bjerkaas, sensing that the crash was fatal, immediately led his small congregation toward the parking lot for a moment of impromptu prayer. The Presbyterian pastor expected to see first responders descend on the area. What he didn’t expect was a steady influx of news reporters, camera crews, and fans of all walks of life.

They were coming to remember the lives of those who perished in the crash: Retired basketball star Kobe Bryant and his daughter Gianna, a budding basketball player; baseball coach John Altobelli, his wife, Keri, and Alyssa their basketball-playing daughter; Sarah Chester and her daughter Payton; basketball coach Christina Mauser; and helicopter pilot Ara Zobayan.

Pastor Bjerkass were unprepared for the number of visitors, but they quickly found ways to be hospitable. According to The Washington Post’s Ben Golliver, the church offered coffee, water, and fruit as refreshments, provided outlets and power strips to charge smartphones, and welcomed grieving visitors into impromptu prayer services.

“The Bible says we’re to practice hospitality,” said Bjerkaas, “That’s what we did. We prayed with people who were emotionally overwhelmed, in tears, and in open grief. Sometimes all people need is a hug, a ‘God bless you,’ a short prayer, and a cup of water. I’ve always believed more good is done in this life if you can get close to the ground and share life with the people around you.”

Possible Preaching Angle: God is honored when we can shift our priorities around to respond to the needs of our neighbors, especially when it can serve as a testimony of God’s care.