I ran into a feller I attended seminary with the other day. We practically bumped buggies at the grocery store before recognizing one another.
It’s been years since I last saw him. Not since I packed my family up and headed to the Northeast to take my first senior pastor gig. Commence the expected salutations—the passing of the peace.
“I saw on Facebook you were coming back,” he said. “How are you doing with being home?”
I gave him my go-to answer for just about anything: “Surviving.”
He chuckled. Nodded. Repeated the word.
“How’s the church you’re at?” he asked. “They treating you right?”
I assured him that no one had stormed off during a Sunday sermon yet and confessed I wasn’t sure whether to take that as a good sign or not. He laughed again.
“You know, I left church altogether.” A heartbreaking pause.
“I haven’t attended in a couple of years now. Couldn’t take that people didn’t want to change. Just flat out weren’t open to anything new,” he said.
He went on to tell me he was happy doing God’s work at a solid non-profit in the city.
It’s a story I’ve heard far too often. It’s a story I’ve been part of too.
“What about you?”Your new congregation open to trying something different?” he asked.
“Well,” I said, “They did let me cook a whole hog for Pentecost Sunday.”
His eyebrows raised. “Tell me more,” he said.
And so I did.
The birth of the idea happened in the last place you’d ever think inspiration could: a staff meeting. I have spent much of my time in such spaces working to maintain what already exists, my office door locked to keep the Holy Ghost at bay.
This time, She slipped in anyway.
Ministers do well when they listen more than they talk. For the past few months, I’ve kept quiet in my new surroundings, offering tweaks instead of outright reform.
Sacred cows are landmines. The people who erect them don’t know how deep the wiring runs until an unfortunate misstep triggers an explosion.
Most pastors learn this lesson the hard way. Present company not excluded.
On that morning, I sat and took notes. As we moved down the calendar and inched further away from Eastertide, a Sunday caught my eye.
“What do we do here for Pentecost?” I asked. “Any traditions?”
“In the past, we’ve gone to a nearby park,” someone said. They continued, walking me through what those outdoor services look like.
I’m down for anything involved with getting folks out from under steeples and comfortable sanctuaries, even if it means braving the first week of June in the Southern sun.
“Oh, and we usually do a covered dish type meal when everything is over,” a voice to my right said.
My pen stopped. My mouth opened.
Words fell out, pushed up by the Spirit. Beginning with the most holy of hypotheticals, “what if?”, I spoke with nothing but questions.
“What if we barbecued? Would people be okay with keeping the service here? Outside, under the shade, around our picnic tables?
When was the last time y’all held a dinner on the grounds? God, wouldn’t it be wild if we could cook a whole pig?”
And that’s when I heard the Spirit speak back— answering my prayer, answering my questions, with one of Her own.
“You know we have a group of guys here who smoke meat, right?”
I gave the only response I could provide at the time, recognizing something remarkable was happening. An affirmation of God being in the room with us, just as God was on the day when a mighty wind burst into a room of believers, shaking the dust from the walls and their faith with equal fury.
“Amen,” I muttered. “Amen.”
The night before the service, I pulled into the church parking lot to see three men sitting in front of what looked like a furnace. Their names were not Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, but we’ll refer to them as such to protect the guilty.
And like the trio from the Book of Daniel, they had come together faithfully to expose themselves to extreme heat as an act of defiance against all things reeking of idolatry and veganism.
They had fold-out tables. Lawn chairs with hydraulic legs. A snack bar with the latest Doritos Late Night chips. This was not their first rodeo.
I grabbed a rocking chair from the church’s nursery and plopped down beside them under the porte-cochere.
“That’s a massive pig-cooker you got there. How does one go about getting such a thing?” I asked.
“Borrowed it from a friend. Guy won it at a Ducks Unlimited raffle,” said Shadrach, whose forearms looked like they had flipped a pig or two. I nodded, realizing I needed more friendships that provided such perks.
For the next few hours, we chatted. Our conversation was filled with big lies, little truths, Dad jokes and constant ribbing.
We grazed on junk food and sipped cold beverages. Occasionally, someone would check the temperature of the cooker. Once, a pair of hands lifted the lid, and a smell rolled out that put me in a trance-like state, leading me to believe I’d traveled to the Oracle of Delphi.
Other lost souls showed up. Their headlights, breaking up the darkness, poured over the empty parking lot. Friends, acquaintances, those who are kin, even if they aren’t blood kin, each introduced to me.
I heard a little of their stories. My ears worked like an alert fox, twisting to pick up what I could. Slowly, I started to see how these people knew each other.
Around midnight, my phone buzzed. It was my wife. Our oldest child had crawled out of bed looking for me.
I informed the crowd I was heading home for a bit but would be back in the early hours. They let me off the hook, considering I had to preach the following morning.
At 6:00 a.m., I returned, surveying the scene and accounting for all parties. All survived.
Some even caught a few winks in their trucks or the Nursing Mother’s Room inside the church. They brought me up to speed about the night’s details while faithful hands mopped the swine for one of its last times.
“A cop came by around 1 a.m., but we let the lawyer talk to them.” The resident litigator winked. “They asked what we were doing.”
“What did you say?” I asked.
“I told them what does it look like? We’re cooking a pig!” Meshach chuckled.
“They asked us if we knew it was a bit too late to be doing that and I told them not if we wanna eat by lunch tomorrow.” He smiled with tired eyes.
The rest of the morning was hazy, like the first crack of sunrise. I went through the motions.
Made sure things were coming together—pointed men and women with Tupperware containers and deviled egg trays in the right direction. Work I wish I did every Sunday instead of just once a year.
Stepping behind a portable pulpit, I looked out over the heads of over a hundred people. Over my left shoulder, I could hear a young man tuning his guitar, readying himself to lead us through worship. Behind him, the Robertson Boys, an eclectic bluegrass-gospel band, stood ready to play revival music after the service.
I stood there, taking in the moment that many hands and hearts helped make. There are too many names to name and not enough adequate thanks to go around. You don’t have to twist a North Carolinian’s arm to come to a pig-pickin’, but you don’t want to keep them waiting too long to make their plates.
I cut some of the sermon down, a small gesture, but one I know everyone appreciated.
My attire that morning was casual. My hair hadn’t seen a comb. It lay tussled under a Krispy Kreme ball cap.
No dress jacket. No robe. No stole.
What hung off me was a red apron. A garment synonymous with service—one I think more ministers should wear.
At the end of the service, we shared communion. An ordinance in the Baptist tradition.
A small piece of bread. A tiny cup of wine. An appetizer for a divine meal that’s both already and not yet.
As I offered the closing prayer, I could hear the tin foil pulled off the aluminum pans. The heavenly smell of hog wafted out over hungry souls.
I kept my words short. The music began. Children danced, and older folks swayed.
Watching the lines form for the awaiting banquet, I couldn’t help but think of the words of world traveler and raconteur Anthony Bourdain, who once said, “Barbecue may not be the road to world peace, but it’s a start.”
Maybe it’s a start, too, for getting a church to try something new.
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Justin Cox received his theological education from Campbell University, Wake Forest University School of Divinity, and McAfee School of Theology where he earned his Doctor of Ministry. He is an ordained minister holding standing in the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship and American Baptist Churches USA. When not spending time with his spouse and daughters, he can be found writing and baking late into the night. His thoughts and reflections are his own.
