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SUNDAY CONGREGATION

Chris Parker, Comedian fb.com/itschrisparker @chrisparker11 As a child, Sunday mornings were always associated with the performance of my family of six going to church, preceded by the even greater performance of us getting dressed and ready for church. We attended a rather plain Presbyterian church down the road from our house. Sunday mornings involved us being dressed like the von Trapp Family Singers in matching outfits having our hair brushed and side-parted like Wall Street bankers and paraded down the street to Mass.

There, we would feebly sing a few church standards that no one really knew the tune to and were always in the wrong key. The service was a little drab, classic Presbyterian frugality. Communion was once in a blue moon and was always watered-down Ribena and a stale $3 herb and cheese pull apart. While the Sunday School teachers tried their best, there’s only so many re-runs of Veggie Tales a young man can watch before something unlocks in his brain, and he’s going to start talking to the cauliflowers in Fresh Choice for real. So, Mum gave us the option at the age of 10, we could come to church with her and Dad and pretend we liked it and be forgiven for our weeks’ worth of sins, or we could stay at home and watch the Home and Away Omnibus, and there ended my relationship with church.

Now in my thirties, I’ve found myself once again going through the performance of getting ready on a Sunday morning and heading out to a holy ritual. However, this service doesn’t recognise just one god. There is bread, sometimes wine, and a whole lot of community – the gathering of the Sunday Brunch. I appreciate how much of a ditzy millennial I’m painting myself as, but truly Sunday morning brunch is a very sacred space for me.

Over our stacked hotcakes and sides of bacon, we reflect on our struggles of the week. We share personal insecurities for the table to solve and engage in deeply political discourse about who is responsible for saving our planet. It’s a safe space for all to attended, no matter if you’re straight, gay, or hungover, and is set at the much more manageable time of 11.30am, which is considered the break of dawn in the weekend. I’m not out here to diminish or mock anyone else’s faith or god, each to their own. I’m just here to recognise that community and faith come in all forms and practices, sometimes it’s bread and wine in a small wooden church, and other times it’s sourdough and cold brew in a bustling café with a 20-minute wait for a table. Amen.