The Kitchen as a Cathedral: Sacred Among the Pots and Pans

There’s a famous line often attributed to Brother Lawrence, the 17th‑century monk who spent most of his life in the monastery kitchen:

“Lord of all pots and pans and things… make me a saint by getting meals and washing up the plates.”

He was not a preacher. He was not the one standing at the front of the church. He was the one in the back, hauling water, chopping vegetables, scrubbing pots. Yet for him, the kitchen became his cathedral. The clatter of dishes and the steam from the pots were not distractions from God; they were the very place he met God most often.

I think about that a lot when I stand at the kitchen sink in Old La Sal.

Our kitchen is not what most people picture when they hear the word “cathedral.” It’s a normal kitchen in a normal house that happens to sit in an extraordinary valley. But that might be why I love it so much. If God can meet us right here, among the pots and pans and things, then there’s hope for all the other “ordinary” kitchens we go home to as well.

Dishes at the window and water from the deep

Every window in this house is scenic. It’s not a log cabin, not a glossy vacation‑rental fantasy with antler chandeliers and designer floorboards. It’s a regular home with carpet and blinds. But the windows don’t care. They frame the La Sal Mountains, the valley, the vast sky—like someone hung landscape paintings on every wall and then forgot to mention they were real.

Even doing dishes here feels different.

You stand at the sink, plate in your hand, and without trying you’re looking out at a view people fly across the world to see. Vacation, retreat, a “someday” place they dream about—all of that sits right in front of you while you scrub a pan.

It’s still work. The plates don’t wash themselves. But the view keeps whispering, This is not wasted time.

Then there’s the water.

Every time I turn on the tap in this kitchen, I have the same moment of awe. The water doesn’t come from a far‑off city system. It comes from a well, drawn up from somewhere deep down under the earth. It’s so clean and clear it almost feels like a magic trick. I catch myself wondering, Where exactly are you coming from? How long have you been making your way underground to end up in my glass?

It feels a little mystical—quietly, stubbornly so. Not in a fairy‑tale sense, but in that way that makes you think of the old stories: the water of life in the garden, the fountains people swore could restore what was worn out. Standing at the sink, it’s not hard to believe this water might do that for a tired soul.

When the house first came online, my uncle walked in, turned on the tap, took a drink, and said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “You can drink straight from the tap.” He knew me well enough to know I’ve been a bottled‑water person for years. On every trip growing up, my dad drilled it into us: always carry water. So before that first drive down here, I did what I’ve always done—I loaded a case of water into the back of my Jeep.

Every time, I end up laughing at myself.

I haul store‑bought water all the way to a place that sits on top of more cold, clear, good water than I could drink in a month. It’s not really frustrating; it’s just revealing. I know better. I know there will be an abundance waiting for me when I arrive. And yet I keep packing my own, just in case.

It’s a small thing, but it feels like a parable.

How often do I show up to a place God has already stocked with what I need, carrying my own backup supply out of habit and fear? How often do I forget that part of practicing presence is trusting that the Source under my feet is actually enough?

Even in this very ordinary kitchen, with its faucet and its dishes and its view, I am learning to set down the extra bottles, turn on the tap, and receive what’s already here.

Brother Lawrence and the theology of the kitchen

Brother Lawrence didn’t set out to start a movement. He was a wounded former soldier who entered a monastery and was put to work in the kitchen and the sandal‑repair shop. No one was asking him to write a spiritual classic. They were asking him to peel potatoes, scrub pans, and fix shoes.

Somewhere in that simple, repetitive work, he discovered something.

He found that if he chose to turn his attention Godward—right there with his hands in the dishwater—the drudgery shifted. The work didn’t disappear; it was still hot and noisy and tiring. But it became a place of encounter. He learned to speak to God as he went, to do small tasks with love, to treat every pot and pan as if he were handling sacred vessels.

Over time, the kitchen became his chapel. The line between “holy” and “ordinary” blurred. He famously said that the time of business did not differ from the time of prayer for him anymore. Washing dishes and standing in church were both spaces where he knew God was present.

That idea has stayed with me, because most of my life—maybe most of your life—is not lived in pews or on retreat. It’s lived in kitchens, offices, cars, and grocery aisles. If God only meets us in obviously religious spaces, then we are in trouble. But if God can meet us over a sink full of dishes with a view of the La Sal Mountains, then the kitchen might be one of the holiest places we stand all week.

Our kitchen isn’t fancy, but it’s intentional

By most standards, the Deer Creek kitchen is simple. The appliances are normal. The cabinets are normal. The drawers hold mismatched utensils and the occasional mystery lid, just like every real kitchen. There is a table to gather around, counter space to chop on, and enough pots and pans to make a solid meal without anything too fussy.

It will not win any design awards.

But it was never meant to.

The point of this kitchen is not to impress you. The point is to slow you down.

It’s set up for simple, slow cooking:one‑pot meals, big salads, eggs and toast, soup simmering while you sit on the porch. It’s designed so that people can stand and talk while someone else stirs. Kids can help grate cheese or rinse vegetables. Someone can wash dishes while another dries and another scrolls through the old family stories that always seem to come out during clean‑up.

What makes it a kind of cathedral for me is not the countertops. It’s the way time works in here.

There is no TV blaring from the corner. There is no rush to shovel food in and race to the next appointment. If you’re here on retreat, you have already done the hard work of stepping away from “normal.” This kitchen gives you a place to let that decision sink in, literally, with your hands in the water.

What if the holiest place in your week is your cutting board?

Church pews matter to me, but not because I grew up in them. I didn’t.

My dad was nothing special, leading a secular life. He worked as a carpenter, and after an accident when I was in high school left him disabled, he worked maintenance for local Moab hotels—quiet, behind‑the‑scenes work that doesn’t get a lot of attention but keeps everything running. I didn’t come to faith until I was twenty‑four years old, on a vacation trip to the Pacific Northwest, long after my childhood in Moab. I wasn’t raised on sermons and stained glass. I was raised on red dirt, creek water, and a lot of questions.

Maybe that’s why I’ve become so convinced of this:

If we only expect to meet God in officially religious spaces—in church buildings, conferences, or “worship nights”—we will miss most the most important detail of life God designed with Him.

Think about the average week. How many hours do you spend in a worship service? One? Two? Maybe three? Now compare that to how many hours you spend in your kitchen—cooking, cleaning, packing lunches, wiping counters. The math alone suggests that if the kitchen is “just” mundane, then most of your days will feel spiritually empty.

What if the holiest place in your week isn’t your church pew but your cutting board?

What if worship is not only what happens when we sing, but also what happens when we chop, stir, wash, share, and bless?

When you cook for others with a heart that says, “Thank You for these people,” that is a prayer. When you stand at the sink and let your mind wander toward gratitude instead of resentment, that is worship. When you take the slow way—cutting vegetables by hand, eating at the table instead of over the sink—you are making space for a different kind of presence.

The kitchen becomes a little cathedral not because of its architecture, but because of its attention.

A simple practice for one meal on retreat

If you find yourself at Deer Creek Retreat—whether in the main house or the tiny home—here is a simple way to practice this.

Tonight, try this:

• Pick a simple meal. Nothing complicated. Soup and bread. Pasta and salad. Eggs and potatoes. The goal is not to impress anyone; it’s to free your mind to be present.

• Turn off the noise. No TV. Put your phone on airplane mode or leave it in another room. If you want music, keep it gentle and instrumental.

• Light one candle. Put it on the counter or the table. Let it be a small reminder that this time is set apart, even if the ingredients are ordinary.

• Notice the small things. The sound of water running into the sink. The smell of garlic or onions as they hit the pan. The way the mountains look through the window while you rinse dishes. The warmth of the oven when you open the door.

• Pray without making it complicated. Every so often, quietly say, “Thank You for this,” or, “Be with me here,” or, “Help me notice You in this.” Don’t worry about getting the words right. Let it be simple.

• Eat slowly. Sit at the table. Look at the people you’re with. If you’re alone, look out the window, or just sit in the quiet and remember you are seen and loved even when no one else is in the room.

You don’t have to label any of this as “devotions” for it to matter. You are just giving God a little more room to move in a space that has always been His anyway.

Bringing the kitchen cathedral back home

My hope is that if you try this here, it will travel with you.

You may not have La Sal Mountains outside your window at home. Your water may not come from a well in the high desert. Your kitchen may be smaller, louder, more chaotic, with backpacks and cereal boxes and yesterday’s mail piled on the counter.

But the same God is there.

The same opportunity is there:

• to see your cutting board as an altar,

• your sink as a baptismal of sorts,

• your kitchen table as a place where bread is broken and lives are quietly held together.

If you can taste that here in Old La Sal, it becomes easier to recognize it in your own house later. The point is not that this kitchen is holier than yours. The point is that sometimes we need a change of place to learn a new way of seeing how the world actually functions.

Our kitchen isn’t fancy, but it’s intentional

It’s a place where you can cook slowly, linger long, and let the God of pots and pans and things meet you while you scrub, stir, and sip. It’s a place where you might finally feel your shoulders come down from around your ears while you stand at the sink and realize you do not have to carry everything alone.

If you’re craving that kind of shift, I’d love for you to come experience it for yourself.

Book the main house if you want a kitchen big enough for family meals, shared prep, and kids helping with dessert. Or choose the tiny home if this season is calling for quiet, simple meals for one or two—where even making oatmeal can become a small act of worship.

Come make a meal where the point isn’t speed—it’s presence.

A kitchen can be just a room where food gets made.

Or, in the right light, with the right attention, it can become a cathedral.

Cheers!

Justin