Metal Folding Chairs and Pots of Soup
The sound was always the same. First you would hear the click as the door to the Parish Hall opened, followed by the squeak of damp shoes as the wearers made their way out of the rain and down the narrow entry hallway toward the main gymnasium. You could hear the thud of the door as it shut behind them and the clatter of metal folding chairs as they are pulled away from the heavy wooden and metal 8 foot tables set up around the room. It didn’t matter how quiet you tried to be sneaking in or out of church events, bible classes or congregational meetings, those metal chairs never let a person go unnoticed. The din of voices, about 80 of them, would reach your ears as soon as you clicked open the door to the building. As the fellowship group in charge of that evening’s meal would bustle around mixing the powdered lemonade into the gallons of water, putting out boxes of plastic spoons and Styrofoam soup bowls and arranging the donated pots of soup, someone would raise their voice over the hum of conversations and draw everyone into quiet. The common table prayer would be said together Come Lord Jesus, be our guest, and let these gifts to us be blessed. Amen. and the line to the buffet table would form. There would always be soup. Pots and pots of soup—all different kinds. And bread. Sometimes a salad. Always trays of Chips Ahoy, Oreos or the pink and white wafer cookies for dessert. Sometimes if we were really lucky there would be Dixie cups of vanilla ice cream that we’d eat with the little wooden spoon we found attached to the top of the cardboard lid. Every year of my childhood, for the 4 Wednesdays of Advent and the 6 Wednesdays of Lent we would gather at church at 6:00 to eat soup and bread and cookies before a mid-week worship service held at 7. We had so many other meals at church throughout the year—BBQs every summer, Easter morning pancake breakfasts, spaghetti dinner fundraisers, sub sandwiches after Sunday worship on days we had congregational meetings, even Oktoberfest meals with beers, brats and sauerkraut a few years (hey we were Lutheran, we have to pay homage to our German roots!). But it was these ten Wednesday dinners held every year, with our soup and bread and wafer cookies that shaped me more than anything.
Perhaps it’s because these meals were always connected to my favorite seasons in the church year. Yes, I was the twelve year old who had a favorite liturgical season. I know. I was born to be a pastor. Or a seminary professor. I loved Advent. As we waited and prepared the way for the baby Jesus to arrive we would light a new candle every Wednesday night on the advent wreath in the sanctuary. We’d sing Come Thou Long Expected Jesus and Come O Come Emmanuel in the darkened sanctuary as the lights from the candles signifying hope and joy and peace danced in the shadows. And I loved Lent. I loved the emphasis on confession as we walked with Jesus toward that last week where we’d gather on Thursday to celebrate the last supper and again on Friday to extinguish candles, leaving the sanctuary in darkness and silence. I loved returning on Sunday morning to see the sanctuary trimmed in white Easter lilies and brightly colored banners, turning with anticipation toward the back of the church as we heard the first strains of Lift High the Cross begin on the organ and the processional of the pastor and crosses and banners would come down the aisle in joyful triumph. Perhaps I loved these Wednesday dinners so much because they are so inextricably connected to these powerful seasons in the church year. But I don’t think that’s the main reason.
I loved these Wednesday dinners because through them I was fed. Not just with bowls of chili or wild rice soup but with so much care from the adults around me. There weren’t very many kids at our church growing up. My sister and I were two of about a dozen kids who were regularly in attendance. It was an older congregation full of people who had been there for decades. I was born into this community, I was baptized there when I was 3 weeks old and stayed until I moved away for college. And when you’re one of only a handful of young people in a smaller community and you are as chatty and extroverted as I was as a child, you know everyone. I could wander up to any table in that fellowship hall, pull out a chair and greet everyone by name. There wasn’t usually a “kids table,” or if there was I don’t know that I ever sat at it. I preferred to be with my friends Arnold, Arlys, Marge, Jim, Dick, Joan, Sue, Tom, Kris, Christy, Marv and Marcia. As we ate soup they’d ask how school was going, what classes I was taking in 8th grade or if I’d been in any more local theater productions. These men and women made room for me—at their tables and in their hearts. And I made room for them. There’s this myth floating around that teenagers and senior citizens don’t have a lot in common. My faith is living proof that this is a lie of epic proportions. I learned their stories, knew the names of their kids and grandkids and how they met their spouses. I heard antics about their time in college or what classes they took in high school 50 years earlier. Many of them would tell me regularly they were praying for me and modeled for me what a life time of faith looks like—the longevity of a relationship with God that spans decades. They all came to my graduation party when I left high school and I still exchange Christmas letters and cards with many of them now all these years later. They made room for a chatty teenage girl with pimply skin and braces on her teeth and by doing so, by eating soup and breaking bread with her they modeled what it means to be the church.
There’s a reason the early church would gather together to break bread so often. Lives are changed around tables. Around a table it doesn’t matter if you were born in 1980 or 1935. It only matters that you show up hungry, smile at the person across from you and ask them their story. By asking and sharing and passing around plates of butter, Jesus shows up. Come Lord Jesus, be our guest. He was our guest in that old church fellowship hall Wednesday after Wednesday, leading us into these holy seasons of the church year and into holy conversations with one another.
Oh friends, this soup. I discovered it a year ago from a podcast I listen to regularly and tried it on a cold day (we get the occasional chilly soup day here in Florida!). This soup was incredible. I will say my kids aren't huge soup fans, but I am so I keep making it and figure it won't kill them to eat bread and pick out the bites of chicken from the bowl. But seriously, you have to try this recipe this winter!
Kelly Gordon's Creamy Chicken & Wild Rice Soup
4 cups (32 ounces) chicken broth
2 cups water
3/4 cup wild rice
1/2 cup onion, finely chopped
1/2 cup chopped celery
1 cup shredded carrot
1/2 cup butter
3/4 cup flour
2 cups half and half
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp pepper
1/4 tsp poultry seasoning
2 cups cubed, cooked chicken
8-12 slices bacon, cooked and crumbled
2-3 tbsp sherry (I’ve never used this, so I just leave it out, I’m sure it’s good but I don’t own any!)
1. In a large saucepan, combine broth, water and wild rice. Bring to a boil, then cover and simmer of 20 minutes. At that point, add the onion, celery and carrots, and simmer for another 20 minutes.
2. In a separate saucepan, melt butter. Whisk in flour to from a roux. Once the roux is bubbly and combined, slowly whisk in half and half and spices. Stir until smooth. Let it simmer until thickened, about 10 minutes.
3. Add white sauce mixture to wild rice mixture. Add chicken, bacon and sherry last, just before serving.
