The Casserole Gospel

There’s a special kind of sacred in a church potluck. The folding tables buckle under crockpots and Pyrex. Somebody brought deviled eggs (because they love you). Somebody brought banana pudding (because they love God). And Miss Shirley brought that Jell-O salad no one really likes, but everyone takes a spoonful of out of respect.

That’s grace, y’all.

Not the kind with theological prerequisites or doctrinal fine print. The kind that just shows up in Tupperware, unannounced, and a little sweaty from the car ride. The kind that doesn’t need a systematic theology degree to understand. It just knows that people gotta eat and Love is best served warm, even if it’s covered in crushed Ritz crackers.

Come Hungry, Leave Judged?

In the fellowship hall, it doesn’t matter who you voted for. It doesn’t matter if your theology is still under construction. It doesn’t matter if you came in late, left your Bible in the car, or haven’t been to church since your cousin’s baptism in 2014.

You’re here. So you get a plate.

No one checks your credentials before handing you a scoop of mac and cheese. No one quizzes you about substitutionary atonement before passing the sweet tea. No one cares if you’re wearing jeans or pearls or borrowed time. You showed up. That’s what matters.

But step outside the glow of the potato salad, and suddenly the welcome gets a little conditional. That plate of food? Unquestioned. But your soul? That gets grilled faster than the hot dogs.

Things Get Awkward Fast

You ask a question about hell. You say your pronouns. You mention maybe Jesus wasn’t a free-market capitalist. And suddenly folks who just handed you a second helping of cornbread are looking at you like you passed gas during the doxology.

Funny how the warm embrace of shared carbs can turn into a cold shoulder when doctrine gets involved.

It’s like grace lives in the kitchen but gets stuck in traffic on its way to the sanctuary. In one room, you’re family. In the next, you’re a theological liability.

The Real Theology Was in the Kitchen

But maybe that potluck theology was the truest theology all along.

The kind that says: Come hungry. Come weird. Come as you are.

There’s room. There’s enough. You matter.

That’s not just a table. That’s communion.

Not the somber, smell-the-wine, "did-you-repent-this-week" version. The real kind. The kind where love tastes like cheese grits and belonging smells like fried chicken. The kind where you leave full in all the ways that count.

That’s what Love looks like with extra chocolate sauce and a dollop of Cool Whip. Messy. Generous. Unconcerned with theological perfection.

Don’t Let Bad Theology Ruin a Good Meal

So here’s a thought: If your church requires you to believe all the right things before you get the good stuff… it might be time to flip some tables.

Because a Jesus who turned water into wine isn’t checking your theology before he hands you a drink.

Because a faith that gatekeeps casseroles isn’t faith at all.

Because if Love isn’t the first ingredient, your religion might be spiritually overcooked.

Jesus didn’t set the table so we could debate who deserves a seat. He set the table so no one would go hungry – not for food, not for hope, and definitely not for grace.

Pull Up a Folding Chair

And in the end, if your church has a theology too tight for real people, but room for seventeen kinds of casserole… you’ve got yourself a hospitality problem dressed up like holiness.

The truth is, potlucks figured out something that doctrine forgot: You feed folks because they’re hungry. Not because they earned it. Not because they proved themselves. Not because they agree with you.

Because they’re here. And that’s enough.

So give me the table where everybody gets fed. Where grace isn’t gated. Where even the weird Jell-O salad gets a seat. Where no one leaves wondering if they really belonged.

And if your church can’t do that? Well…

Maybe it's time to quit waiting for permission... and just start setting the table ourselves.