No Breakfast like Barrington's

by the Rev. Jim Quigley

I came down from the early service to see about six round tables full of guests with smiles and friendly words being exchanged. One lady from the early service came right down, sat to eat and then as soon as the opportunity arose she said, “Here fellas, sit right here!” She ate with them and after finishing breakfast one guest went upstairs to see the church before riding his bike home.

We served about 55 from our weekday crowd and around 20 parishioners, who ate and conversed with our guests. According to Mr. Jahncke each breakfast max’s at about $2.80 or less, depending on what you include for cost.

I gotta tell ya, there is something delightfully different at Barrington’s Breakfast when compared to our usual Dragon Café. I attribute this to several things: The time of day; the high level of parishioner involvement (nearly 1/3 of our regular churchgoers have volunteered); the fact that it’s Sunday (maybe that’s just me).

It was all kind of magical. I nearly cried (that’s included for you Ann – you know how I am) when I came down from a service of communion to see a service of communion. My best theological posit is that the Holy Spirit was upstairs and Jesus was downstairs, appearing as a South American laborer, a tall bearded & gaunt alcoholic, a jewish volunteer named Bruce. John the Baptist came, appearing as an African American with schizophrenia – dressing like he usually dresses – and the disciples were there too, the dreamers and doubters alike.

I think that St. George’s changed forever this last Sunday, or was born again, or realized fruit planted in seed form by the Rev. William P. Richardson so many years ago – there were altars everywhere – and at each a Eucharist.

And that’s the final word of mine for the day and the other peculiar and holy thing – everybody was so very thankful – everybody was giving thanks with gratitude – true eucharistein.

Volunteers cleaned the church after and by the time folks started to arrive for the later service one would never know what had taken place only two hours earlier (sans the aroma of cooked sausage!). I said to the 10:30 crowd, some churches smell like incense but St. George’s smells like sausage.

Now a final word from Langston:

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.