I am someone who was born and raised in the Episcopal faith, or to get technical, I am a cradle Episcopalian.

From the exterior and in getting to know me, you wouldn’t guess that. You may see the cross I wear around my neck, but that is the only real glimpse I give most people into my faith when they first get to know me. I may mention something in passing but I will never go on and describe to you my beliefs.

One day last semester a friend and I were having lunch and in passing, I brought up my church community back home and she responded: “I always forget how into religion you are.” If someone from my church were to be eavesdropping on that conversation they would probably be shocked and promptly interrupt.

While even though an old lady who I had never met before came up to me at my grandmother's funeral said that she heard I was going to become a nun, and before I went to college a gentleman at my church gave me advice as though I was going off to school to become a priest because I think he seriously thought that's where I was going instead of the four-year university where I am today, I currently do not have intentions of becoming ordained in any ministry at the moment.

The way I live out my faith is through my actions that exhibit love, respect, and compassion. When I practice my faith, I don't often do it with a Bible in my hand. I do it by listening, by giving my time to a worthy cause, by giving people the benefit of the doubt, and by smiling to people I pass on the street.

These lessons have been instilled in me by the community I have in the church my parents raised me in. This congregation has had quite the role in shaping the individual you will meet today and what follows is a tribute to that safe space, that home away from home, to that congregation tucked into a neighborhood in Seattle.

If you were to come into St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church and became acquainted with the building, you would find two kitchens. One great one that airs on the side of being industrial, and a second, smaller one whose cupboards are filled with a hodge-podge of coffee mugs, silverware, kitchen utensils, and serving trays, all of whom have found a new home in our church after being transplanted there from the homes of a collection of parishioners.

There is nothing truly remarkable about these kitchens. They serve their purpose when they are called into action, and most of the time they are taken for granted.

What few may realize is that there is a third kitchen within the walls of our church. This kitchen may not have the appearance of a traditional kitchen, there is no stove or oven, not even a refrigerator, yet this room shares the same purpose as a household kitchen but likely goes unnoticed by most.

This kitchen is not for everyone’s eyes. It is kept locked and only a select few know where the hidden key dangles. Locked too are the cabinets, for behind those wooden doors lie silver chalices as opposed to a mismatched collection of coffee mugs. But aside from what is kept in these kitchen cabinets, what goes on in the room does not vary from the activities that go on in other kitchens.

This kitchen is where a Sunday supper is prepared.

Often you may find too many cooks in the kitchen with the wandering husband being shooed out for lack of space. The faces that greet you are the same faces you might find in your own family’s kitchen. The warm, bright cheery smiles of your grandmothers, aunts, and mothers. All who amid their bustle to set the table, heat up the food, and make sure there is wine aplenty, will stop to give you a welcome greeting, a kind word, and a warm hug.

For me, I use this kitchen as I would at home, it is a place of refuge. I’ll hide in the frenzy of activity just to stay hidden from the eyes of other relatives.

For in this little cubby of a kitchen, stories are told, the week’s news is shared, knowing glances exchanged, and plenty of jokes are given out that spawn laughter and more wisecracks. I may not have any reason to enter this kitchen, but I do because being in the presence of all that is going on fills me with warmth and happiness.

Once the table has been set and the meal prepared, we all go to our seats that are unassigned, yet feel as if they are because rarely does anyone choose to move from their favored spot. Then, we all wait patiently for the meal to be served and for our portions to be passed to us. Afterwards, the dishes are cleared away and the women carefully wash and tuck them into their velvet bags, with the occasional child being tasked with scattering the remains of the bread basket to the birds.All the while, the husbands can be found in the living room enjoying a cup of coffee and a sweet treat.

I was taught in school to think about the structure of the church service as though it was a dinner party with three parts. The lessons are the stories exchanged when everyone has arrived, with the notoriously late trickling in. Communion is the meal that everyone has come to enjoy and share together. Then, finally, we all take our leave, content with the meal we have received and the lessons learned and shared.

What they didn’t teach, but what I have learned, is that the sacristy is the kitchen where this festive dinner party is arranged.