Thursday Morning Church

They started lining up early for church to begin. Imagine that—arriving early to be first through the doors. Worship leaders are already inside getting everything ready: lights, the right temperature, seating, and prelude music carried over the Bluetooth system, usually jazz. Volunteers are spread throughout the building making ready for things to begin. There are greeters, servers, clothing attendants, locker registrars, and an active kitchen preparing breakfast for those who have made church part of their weekly lives.

But it is not Sunday. It is Thursday morning.

It is not the official sanctuary, but the fellowship hall—sacred space nevertheless. It is the ongoing ministry of the Oregon Hill Baptist Center and Pine Street Baptist Church, along with a host of other churches coming together for church with Richmond’s unhoused neighbors. Too many years to count now, but it is time for church. It is time for worship.

The jazz music has to compete with other sacred sounds. As the worshipers enter, conversations are energized by one another’s presence. The fellowship is real. This is home—home for those who are unhoused, home for those who volunteer and have physical dwellings to live in. It is family. You can feel it in the air. It is the church gathering. This is not just some mission project. This is real fellowship. Real church happening on a Thursday morning, just as real as anything that might happen on Sunday.

The sound of pots and pans clanging around in the kitchen is the music of the morning. It can compete with any choral anthem or praise song on a Sunday morning. It is joyful noise rising up before the Lord, and it shows on the faces of those working in the kitchen. This is not work. This is servant love, and it shows. They are being blessed as they move around the kitchen like worship leaders on a platform in a sanctuary.

Real-life conversations among everyone present are the day’s liturgies as people check in with one another. They have not just come for a meal; they have come to break bread together. This is holy communion. This is “Blest Be the Tie” incarnated. Old friends gather, and new faces are welcomed. They are young and old, Black, white, and Hispanic, male and female, housed and unhoused. They are a family at the breakfast table. It is good. No, it is very good.

In the clothes closet, most are greeted by name. This is not a grab-and-go event but an experience. Here, time and talking matter. Volunteers and shoppers mingle together, picking out the right items while also learning about one another—each other’s stories, lives, concerns, and needs. This is where you find the right pair of pants and prayer for yourself. This is where deeper conversations sometimes happen in smaller rooms and where friends ask for private prayers.

For those who have one of the church’s lockers, they have a little space of their own in a crowded world. It is their place. Jesus said, “In my Father’s house are many rooms.” Here, they at least get a little room, a little space, for their important things—papers, pictures, files, and special clothing. Everybody needs a little space.

For many of them, the church’s address is now their address. It is where they receive their mail. The mail carrier delivers it every day. Their name, followed by their address. It is a location. A physical spot on the map. They receive mail like everyone else: junk mail, bills, magazines, letters, postcards, and Amazon packages. To have an address is to have a place, however fragile, where life can still reach you. And in that simple, holy way, the church becomes not only shelter and fellowship, but an address of belonging.

Church is a space. Church is a place. Church is home. Church is worship on a Thursday morning. It happens over and over every week. It is beautiful to watch. It is even more beautiful to be a part of.

I do not preach a full-length sermon like I do on Sunday morning. I do not need to. The whole experience is a living sermon. It is the Gospel fleshed out every week. Jesus shows up in powerful ways, and each time I am changed. Church looks a lot different than I ever imagined. And I am so grateful that it does.