For years, my church met in a theater—a newly constructed, state-of-the-art high school auditorium. Unburdened by the high cost of owning our own facility in Boone, North Carolina, the Heart was able to focus on other ministry goals. At the height of our growth, 800 people came over two services to experience our lead pastor’s dynamic preaching and music from our band, whose polished sound rivaled that of any professional production.
My church has always felt called to be a place where spiritual wanderers could come and experience hope and healing in Christ. Because we turned the house lights off during worship, many people slipped in late and sat quietly in the dark balcony, exiting before the benediction. While we were always seeking to integrate our visitors more fully, we accepted the idea that some of our Sunday morning attendees—seekers, perhaps, or those wounded by the church—simply wanted to experience the services anonymously.
And though we enjoyed the cheap rent, the theater did come with some hidden costs. Our leadership team spoke often about wanting our Sunday mornings to be authentic, not performative. Even so, our meeting space called for a certain kind of stagecraft.
This setup is typical for a church in the United States, where we owe the design of most modern church buildings in part to the fiery Presbyterian revivalist Charles Finney. In the 1830s, Finney rented one of the largest theaters in New York and outfitted it to house his growing congregation. So successful were his revivals in drawing emotional professions of faith that other churches began to follow suit, designing their sanctuaries with sloped auditorium-style seating and large stages.
The layout offered an advantage to church leaders who, like Finney, were increasingly structuring their services around two key elements: a lively sermon from a talented preacher and riveting worship from professional musicians. My church was, in many ways, the living legacy of that strategic architectural movement.
Because we rented our theater from the public school system, when the pandemic hit, we had little choice but to close our doors indefinitely as the high school implemented a strict lockdown policy. As the months dragged on and other churches reconfigured their gathering spaces so they could meet safely, we waited for the town to reopen.
While we worked hard to create online content and stay connected through video calls, it was clear that the coalescing feature of our church life had been our Sunday morning services in the theater. Families lost touch, and tithes stopped rolling in. When our church was finally able to meet at the high school again, “social distancing” was not hard to accomplish. Three out of every four seats were now empty.
We hobbled along for a while, generating as much enthusiasm from that stage as we could muster, hoping those seats would once again be filled. But the time in lockdown and the strenuous effort to rebuild had taken its toll. Staff members began to resign, including our teaching pastor. Most members of the worship team moved on.
Our church was no longer what it once was. The world was no longer what it once was. In light of that reality, we had two options: We could resign ourselves to our losses and close the doors of the church forever. Or we could try something new.
I’ve heard it said that the architecture of a church acts as a kind of spiritual formation. Though we had worked hard to avoid a showmanship mentality on Sunday mornings, something about meeting as a community of faith in that theater had encouraged spectatorship over participation, consumption over commitment. Our church body had spent an hour and a half every Sunday morning looking in one direction: at a stage. Despite our efforts, our physical space had cued all the people in that room to see themselves as the audience and those on stage as performers.
Now, that theater felt empty. We considered other spaces in the high school where our dwindling congregation could meet. The only other space large enough was the cafeteria.
Sticky-floored and smelling faintly of old pizza, the cafeteria was not exactly what most would call a winning strategy for growth. The room lacked a stage, a sound system, and any sense of formality. Rather than spotlights, we now basked in the glow of soda machines and buzzing fluorescent lights.
But that cafeteria had something unexpected to offer. If a theater is configured to facilitate spectatorship, a cafeteria is uniquely designed for communion. The Heart was now gathering in a room full of tables. Unlike when we were in the dimly lit, fixed rows, we were now face to face in a bright space where no one who showed up could hide.
The choice to move to the cafeteria coincided with another decision: We would not be hiring another teaching pastor. Instead, we would take a team approach to Sunday-morning sermons. The team—made up of our two remaining staff pastors and members of the congregation who had some Bible training—would collaborate throughout the week, working through the deeper theological questions presented by the text. Each of us would take our monthly turn filling the pulpit.
We simplified worship and set up a basic sound system. The minimalistic instrumentation meant that the voices of the congregation rose above the band, echoing off the walls of the cafeteria. Without the intimidation factor of the stage, more people began to sign up to play instruments or try their hand at harmonies.
We also incorporated a discussion time into every service. Members of the congregation could interact with the sermon right there on the spot, raising concerns or questions and sharing insights.
Our attendance stabilized. We balanced our budget. We welcomed some new families. But the success of our story can’t be measured in the number of attendees. Our growth has been in depth more than in breadth.
Our church, which we had always hoped felt like a family, began to actually operate as a family. Everyone in the community began to take responsibility for what happened on a Sunday morning—setting up tables and chairs, welcoming visitors, listening intently to the sermon so they could share their own thoughts during the discussion.
Without the stage, in the close quarters of the cafeteria, teaching now feels less like a presentation and more like a mutual conversation. With multiple voices amplified, we are safeguarded from the risk of personality-centrism. Relationships formed through these conversations spill over into the week, resulting in increased participation in small groups and community outreach.
Perhaps the most palpable difference is the freedom of Sunday mornings. The instrumentalists, though they are diligent to practice, can miss a note without the pressure of perfection that a stage tacitly demands. Whoever is teaching that week isn’t left alone to write the world’s most riveting sermon. No one wants our time together to be particularly sleek or polished.
We start late if the preservice conversation is especially lively. Babies wail and toddlers dance (badly) to the music, and no one minds. The pastors are seen as members of the community rather than masters of ceremonies. Because we are coming to commune rather than be entertained, grace for one another abounds.
Meeting at tables is no innovation; there’s history here, too. First-century believers were known, derided even, for love feasts that were open to all regardless of race, class, or religious background. The early church was prohibited by Rome from owning property; plagued by persecution, Christians often met in catacombs, hidden from the watchful eyes of their persecutors.
Beautiful, state-of-the-art spaces may feel necessary to draw a large crowd. They may be a way of providing the focus and formality that worship and study of the Word deserves. But I believe we are beginning to see that churches built, by intent or by default, around these theatrical elements too often lack the foundation needed to survive upheaval.
The cafeteria may not be forever. While our growth has not been astronomical, we’ve had enough increase in numbers that we’ve nearly reached seat limits. The acoustics are truly awful, making it hard for folks at the edges of the room to hear the sermon. The room has many distractions, and I, for one, am tired of shooing my six-year-old away from the lure of the vending machine during worship.
But if we do move back into the theater, we’ll bring our lessons learned with us. We’ll never turn the auditorium lights off, and we’ll brighten the room as much as possible. We’ll close the curtains to the stage and have the band and teacher all stand on the floor. We’ll bring in some moveable chairs so we can circle people up for the discussion time. We’ll maintain our team approach to teaching.
We’ve heard the old adage that the church is more than the building. But sometimes the church must transcend our buildings, must resist the cues and connotations imposed upon us by the spaces in which we meet. After all, in the new heaven and new earth, the community of saints does not appear to be gathered in a theater. Rather, the saints are feasting at a banqueting table (Isa. 25:6; Matt. 8:11; Rev. 19:9). And if that’s the case, then I say a cafeteria is as sacred a sanctuary as any.
Amanda Held Opelt is an author, speaker, and songwriter. She has published two books.
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