The Gospel According to the Balcony: God’s Not Here for the Quinoa Communion

Based on Psalm 50:1–8, 22–23 – God mocks the need for sacrifices

Starter and Walter had claimed their usual perch, a battered metal balcony jutting out from the third floor of the old apartment block next to the church. From here, they had an unimpeded view of the entire courtyard below—a sprawling patchwork of cracked concrete, string lights, and a hastily constructed stage that had seen better days. The church’s midweek community dinner was underway, or at least it was supposed to be. But what actually unfolded was something far more entertaining than a simple meal.

Down on the stage, the worship band was in the throes of their third rehearsal of the evening, or maybe the sixth, depending on how you counted the endless repeats of the same song. Starter leaned on the railing, squinting. “If they play that chorus one more time, I’m betting the congregation will start raising their hands to the clock instead of God.”

Walter smirked, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. “You’d think they were trying to tune a piano for the Queen herself. The lead guitarist looks like he’s contemplating a career change—maybe basket weaving.”

“Or early retirement,” Starter replied. “And don’t even get me started on the drummer. That poor guy’s cymbals are sounding like a tin can factory on a Sunday morning.”

The two men chuckled in unison, but their attention soon shifted as a flurry of movement caught their eyes behind the stage. Emerging from a side tent was the chef—a whirlwind of energy and determination. Clad in pristine whites, a toque perched precariously atop her head, she navigated the makeshift kitchen with the precision of a seasoned general commanding an army of vegetables. And not just any vegetables—these were vegan vegetables, and by the looks of it, they were being treated with a reverence that bordered on worship.

Starter raised an eyebrow. “Look at her go. She’s wielding that bunch of kale like it’s the Ark of the Covenant.”

Walter nodded, barely suppressing a grin. “I half expect her to chant, ‘No animal products shall pass these lips,’ as she dice dices those zucchinis.”

Behind the chef, pots simmered and pans clanged, but every so often she would halt mid-action, inspecting a dish as if it had just uttered a heresy. “A little too much olive oil,” Starter muttered. “She’s probably trying to keep it kosher, vegan, and gluten-free all at once.”

Walter squinted upward at the balcony. “You think she knows we’re watching?”

Starter grinned. “If she does, she’s probably planning to bake a vegan apology cake to make up for all the imperfections in the worship set.”

The worship team’s leader signalled the band to start again, and the familiar tune began to swell. This time, the tension was palpable. The guitarist’s fingers danced across the strings, the keyboardist’s hands hovered nervously, and the drummer tapped a rhythm that seemed less enthusiastic and more desperate.

Walter sighed, “They’re chasing perfection like a cat chasing a laser pointer—forever circling but never catching.”

Starter nodded, “I’d wager the service won’t start till midnight. And by then, the vegan chef will have perfected her beetroot terrine to the point where it’s practically a sculpture.”

They both laughed, but as the worship team continued to cycle through the same chorus, the chef appeared again at the edge of the kitchen, a platter in hand. It was an assortment of delicately arranged veggies, each piece meticulously sliced and presented with an almost artistic flair.

Walter watched as a few early arrivals sauntered over to the food table, eagerly helping themselves. Starter observed their reactions: a mix of delight, confusion, and the occasional tentative bite that spoke volumes. “I’m telling you, that plate could be a museum exhibit. Too bad it’s not covered in gravy or cheese,” Starter joked.

Walter smirked. “You’d get the chef coming after you with a celery stalk if you said that loud enough.”

The worship team finally called it a night, the last notes lingering in the air as everyone took a collective breath. The crowd, some still chatting, some nibbling, began to settle into the meal and the evening’s entertainment—a few local acts scheduled to perform on the same stage, this time less rehearsed, more spontaneous.

Starter and Walter exchanged a glance as the first act started, an acoustic guitar and a voice rough around the edges but full of heart. “You know,” Starter began, “all this fuss and bother about perfect chords and flawless dishes—it’s funny.”

Walter nodded thoughtfully. “Funny how the real joy is always in the mess. The off-key notes, the slightly burnt edges, the laughter between bites.”

Starter grinned, “God’s probably up there somewhere, looking down, shaking a finger, and saying, ‘I just want the noise and the noise-makers, not the perfect performance or the vegan menu.’”

Walter raised an imaginary glass. “Here’s to imperfection, then. The genuine stuff that sticks with you long after the perfect note has faded.”

Starter gave a theatrical bow. “Amen to that, Walter.”

And so, from their balcony vantage point, the two friends continued to watch the unfolding chaos of worship, food, and fellowship—a beautiful jumble of human striving, foibles, and grace, far from perfect but somehow exactly right.

The Gospel According to the Balcony: God’s Not Here for the Quinoa Communion

Based on Psalm 50:1–8, 22–23 – God mocks the need for sacrifices

Starter and Walter had claimed their usual perch, a battered metal balcony jutting out from the third floor of the old apartment block next to the church. From here, they had an unimpeded view of the entire courtyard below—a sprawling patchwork of cracked concrete, string lights, and a hastily constructed stage that had seen better days. The church’s midweek community dinner was underway, or at least it was supposed to be. But what actually unfolded was something far more entertaining than a simple meal.

Down on the stage, the worship band was in the throes of their third rehearsal of the evening, or maybe the sixth, depending on how you counted the endless repeats of the same song. Starter leaned on the railing, squinting. “If they play that chorus one more time, I’m betting the congregation will start raising their hands to the clock instead of God.”

Walter smirked, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. “You’d think they were trying to tune a piano for the Queen herself. The lead guitarist looks like he’s contemplating a career change—maybe basket weaving.”

“Or early retirement,” Starter replied. “And don’t even get me started on the drummer. That poor guy’s cymbals are sounding like a tin can factory on a Sunday morning.”

Continue reading the full story here.