As Holy Week approaches, my mind often drifts back to an Easter I spent in Romania. I’ve tried, more than once, to recreate what I experienced there—but I’ve never quite been able to. To understand why, I have to go back a bit. In 2006, my church planned a mission trip to Romania. A group of ten women would spend their days in a hospital caring for abandoned babies. I felt drawn to go—but I hesitated. My own children were young, and the thought of leaving them for that long felt overwhelming. Over time, that hesitation turned into conviction. I sensed God asking me to trust Him—not just with the children I would care for overseas, but with the ones I would leave at home. So I made a quiet promise: If someone drops out and they call me, I’ll go. Two weeks before the trip, the call came. I said yes—but I was completely unprepared. My passport wasn’t even up to date. And yet, one by one, every obstacle moved. It was as if God was clearing the path ahead of me. Our first full day in Romania was Resurrection Sunday. We walked to church through streets lined with stray dogs and crumbling sidewalks. Trash piled up on corners. The buildings felt worn, almost colorless. It wasn’t beautiful in the way we often define beauty. But what struck me wasn’t what I saw—it was what I felt. Overwhelming joy. As we walked, every person we passed greeted us the same way: “Hristos a înviat!”— Christ is risen! And the response came just as quickly, just as joyfully: “Adevărat a înviat!”— He is risen indeed! This joy wasn’t reserved for inside the church walls. It filled the streets. It echoed on buses, in restaurants, on sidewalks. Everywhere we went, people proclaimed it to one another—strangers, friends, everyone. And when we arrived at the church, the joy only deepened. There were warm embraces, double cheek kisses, and then again that same declaration— Christ is risen! —spoken with a kind of wholehearted delight that caught me off guard. This wasn’t a culture known for outward emotion. And yet, here it was—unfiltered joy. It wasn’t manufactured. It wasn’t performative. It was just… real. I had spent my entire life attending Easter services. But I couldn’t remember ever experiencing anything quite like this. It made me wonder: Did the resurrection mean something different here? As I looked around, the marks of hardship were everywhere. Years of oppression had left their imprint on the city and its people. And I couldn’t help but think—maybe that’s why the resurrection felt so alive. Maybe hope always feels more precious when you’ve known hopelessness. I think about how people celebrate the end of a war. My father told stories of the joy that erupted when World War II ended—dancing, parades, people flooding the streets. The kind of celebration that couldn’t be contained. And I wonder… If that kind of victory stirs such joy, what should the victory over death awaken in us? Scripture gives us a glimpse. When the Ark of the Lord returned, David danced with all his might—so freely, so fully that it scandalized those watching. He didn’t hold back. He couldn’t. How much more should we celebrate our Lord’s return from the grave? Jesus conquered the enemy. He let us know the end of the story and who the victor is. Death has lost its grip. We are forgiven, restored, and held in a hope that does not run out. There is no greater cause for celebration! And yet—if I’m honest—so often our Easter joy feels… restrained. Polite. Contained within a service, rather than spilling into the streets. This Holy Week, as we remember Jesus’ final days—His words, His acts of love, His sacrifice—I’ve been asking a different question: What would life feel like if the resurrection hadn’t happened? To sit, even briefly, in that space is to feel the weight of what we’ve been given. Because we don’t live in that story. We live in the one where Sunday came. And maybe that’s the invitation—not to manufacture emotion, but to recover wonder. To let gratitude grow until it becomes something we can’t keep to ourselves. Resurrection Joy and Fresh Expressions I can’t help but think about what I witnessed in Romania and what it might mean for the future of the church—especially for Fresh Expressions. What I experienced there wasn’t a program or a strategy. It was a people so shaped by the reality of the resurrection that their joy naturally overflowed into everyday life. It happened on sidewalks. On buses. Around tables. It was good news carried in ordinary voices in ordinary streets. That’s the heartbeat of Fresh Expressions: cultivating communities where the reality of Jesus—alive, present, victorious—is felt so deeply that it can’t help but be shared. Where resurrection joy shows up in coffee shops, dinner tables, recovery groups, walking trails, and neighborhood spaces. Places where people don’t just hear “Christ is risen” once a year… but encounter the living Christ in the rhythms of everyday life. Maybe the question for us isn’t simply how to celebrate Easter better. Maybe it’s this: What would it look like to build communities where resurrection joy is so real, so tangible, that it naturally spills out into the world around us? Christ is risen. He is risen indeed.
Questions to spark curiosity in your congregation about the community around you! For most followers of Jesus and congregations, we know it’s important to serve the community around us. But we also know it can be easy to grow inwardly focused. While practicing the “one anothers” with those within the church is important, we must work hard to not neglect outreach. Here are some questions that can spark curiosity, launch conversation, and help ensure that we focus on those who are not yet here among us. Knowing Our Neighbors Personally Who are the 20–50 people living closest to our congregation? Do we know their names? Their stories? Their hurts? Their hopes? If not, what keeps us from knowing them? Who feels invisible in our ZIP code? Who are the “connectors” who already exist in our neighborhood? Understanding People’s Hopes, Hurts, and Longings What does good news look like to these people? What are the unspoken anxieties shaping people here? Where is suffering concentrated? What do our neighbors celebrate—and why? What might our neighbors fear when it comes to engaging with a church? What might we do to eliminate or alleviate these barriers? Recognizing Patterns and Knowing History Are there any noticeable themes or patterns in the stories we hear? What stories does our neighborhood tell about itself—through art, events, festivals, history, etc.? What major events (positive or painful) have shaped – and continue to shape – our community today? What assumptions do we have about our neighbors and the neighborhood that may not be accurate? (And how would we know?) Observing the Everyday Rhythms and Spaces Where do people naturally gather—and why? What are the rhythms of life in our community (mornings, nights, weekends)? Where do children and teens spend their time? How could we naturally and appropriately look to inhabit that space in compassion with them? Where do people go to decompress or rest? How does the built environment shape life here? Exploring Assets and Identifying Gifts What charisms – spiritual gifts or assets – does our congregation possess that we could share? How could we be creative with them, if its they are small gestures? What gifts and talents already exist among our neighbors? Where is hope already springing up? What organizations or leaders are already doing good work we could partner with? Identifying Barriers and Naming Opportunities What barriers and obstacles prevent people from flourishing? What is noticeably missing in our community? What keeps us from knowing our neighbors’ names and stories – time, busyness, fear, apathy, lack of creativity, lack of courage, etc.? What small acts of consistent kindness could build relational bridges? Reflecting on our Congregation’s Existing Presence If our church disappeared tomorrow, would our neighbors notice? Would they care? Would they mourn? If not, how does that make us feel? How do people experience trust – or lack thereof – here? What new forms of church might emerge if we listened more deeply and trusted more wholly?
On Thursday evenings in Ford City, Pennsylvania , the smell of a home-cooked meal drifts through a building at 412 9th Street as neighbors begin taking their seats around long tables. Some arrive looking for connection. Others come because they need a warm meal. A few carry quiet questions about faith. All of them are welcomed to The Dinner Table . Launched in October 2024, The Dinner Table is a donation-based community dinner and worship gathering that brings together people who might never walk into a traditional church service—neighbors facing financial hardship, people who feel disconnected from church, skeptics, and longtime believers alike. What happens each Thursday is simple but meaningful: people share a meal, listen to music, pray for one another, and talk honestly about how Jesus might be moving in their lives. The vision echoes the rhythm of the early church described in Acts 2:42 , where believers gathered around meals, devoted themselves to fellowship and prayer, and learned the way of Jesus together. That same pattern is quietly taking root in this small town along the Allegheny River. “Some of the people sitting at our tables might never step foot in a traditional church… Some come for a home-cooked meal, others feel lost in their faith. This is our community. This is our church.” Ford City itself is a borough of about 2,800 residents , once a thriving industrial town and now navigating many of the economic and social transitions common across Rust Belt communities. In a place where financial pressures and loneliness are real, gathering around food has become a powerful way to rebuild connection. And around these tables, church is beginning to look a little different. When Church Begins With a Table The Dinner Table did not begin with a complicated strategy. It started with a simple observation: many people in the community were not connecting with traditional church services—but they were open to relationships, conversation, and shared meals. So instead of asking neighbors to come to church first, the leaders began with something more natural: a table and a meal. Each Thursday evening volunteers prepare food, set tables, and welcome guests as they arrive around 5:00 PM. Music fills the room, announcements are shared, and a short reflection invites people to consider ho w Jesus might be present in their lives. But the most meaningful moments often happen in the conversations around the tables. Rather than expecting people to believe before they belong, the gathering creates space where belonging can come first. Food, Friendship, and Faith Over time, three simple words have come to describe the rhythm of The Dinner Table: Food. Friendship. Faith. One early post celebrating the weekly gathering captured the spirit of the evening: “Another great night at The Dinner Table! Thanks to Will, Maya, and Landyn for cooking up a great meal. If you’re looking for a church built around food, friendship, and faith—this is the place for you.” Meals are simple but meaningful. On one December evening, 80 neighbors from outside the church joined the gathering alongside 14 volunteers . Together they shared a Christmas meal of ham, scalloped potatoes, green beans, and fresh fruit. After dinner, the room quieted as someone read the story of Jesus’ birth from Luke chapters 1 and 2 . In the middle of conversation and laughter, the ancient story of Christmas was heard again around the tables. Moments like these reveal something powerful: church doesn’t always need a stage or sanctuary. Sometimes it begins with plates, chairs, and open conversation. Small Steps, Real Impact As the gatherings continued, the impact began to grow. By November 2025, the community had served 308 meals across three Thursday gatherings, and the group celebrated one person giving their life to Christ. What started as a simple meal had become something deeper: a place where neighbors experience friendship, prayer, and spiritual curiosity together. Pulling Up Another Chair What is happening each Thursday in Ford City may look simple—but it is deeply transformational. A shared meal has become a doorway to belonging for people who might never enter a traditional church building. In many ways, this is simply a rediscovery of the early church. As Acts 2:42 reminds us, followers of Jesus devoted themselves to fellowship, prayer, and the breaking of bread together. And perhaps that is the most encouraging part of this story: this kind of church is possible anywhere . It doesn’t require a large budget or a polished program. It begins with listening to a community, loving people well, and creating space where relationships can grow. Sometimes the most powerful place for church to begin is exactly where it did in the first century— around a table where everyone is welcome.
