To the church at Naples – first in doctrine, ancient in dough, and squabbling like gulls – the scribe wrote a letter every committee should read standing up. It hath been declared unto me, brethren, that there are contentions among you; every one of you saith, I am of Margherita; and I of Supreme; and I of the Fold. Is the Slice divided? Are ye not children fighting over the box while the pizza cools, as it is written in the First Letter to the Neapolitans, 2:4?
Beloved, name thine own box honestly. The rota dispute that has outlived three rotas. The group chat schism over the venue. The church that split over the new chairs, the family that has not gathered since the argument about the argument. The pizza – the actual thing, the friendship, the worship, the shared work that all parties claim to love – sits cooling in the middle while we contend for the cardboard.
And hear the scribe’s deflation of every faction ever formed: who then is Margherita, and who is Supreme, but servants by whom ye believed? I have kneaded, Anchova hath baked; but the Oven gave the rise. Neither is he that kneadeth any thing, neither he that baketh – so also neither thy founder, thy faction, nor thee.
The remedy fits in a word: the whole law of the table is fulfilled in this, The table has room; he that keepeth it hath kept all the rest without noticing. Open the box, beloved, while there is still warmth in it. Amen – and pass the pizza.