I want you to take a moment and picture a table.

I wonder what your table looks like. Is it old, new, rickety, scratched, buried underneath yesterday’s shopping, or tidy and boasting a masterfully arranged bouquet of flowers? 

Whatever the state of your table – or tables – in your home, there is a reason for that. So today I want to talk about our tables. What they look like. And why it matters.

When I was younger, I had a desk that was shoved under the roof window and bursting with the debris of teenage drama: Failed chemistry tests, diaries full of hot tears, lone puzzle pieces, textbooks, half-drawn models and favorite musicians, guitar notes, letters to my pretend-boyfriend (what’s up, Trevor?) and even more letters to my friends in high school. We were big on letters. Austen would have been proud. And wow, we deserved points for creativity. Thirteen-somethings really know how to use that rainbow font, and how to write a letter with an angle…

Whenever I received one of those “We feel that you have failed humanity by wearing baggy pants and will sanction your actions as follows” correspondences, I crawled underneath that desk and buried myself under a blanket, pulled the chair up to create maximum lair flair, breathed the holy fire of indignation and listened to Linkin Park. There was the small but vital comfort that Chester would understand me.

I am now too old to hide underneath a table at regular intervals, but that doesn’t mean I have forgotten that the first shelter in our child’s play is usually a table. Which is why we kids used our living room table for hide and seek, building caves, naps, and also as an upside down drawing board (it was one of those “How would they know?” things).

When I grew up, our dining table was used for meals and homework, but when I lived with housemates, the table became an indicator of how comfortable people were in close proximity to one another. In some places, everyone ate in their room on their bed and preferred to keep their own counsel; I’ve lived with a couple who used the dining table as a post office and drop-off station and ate most meals on the sofa while watching TV. When I lived on my own for the first time, more often than not you would find shaky towers of dirty dishes peaking out of the daily clutter I produced while writing one bestseller or another.

But that is not how a table is supposed to work!, you might protest, and you are right. Nobody can spontaneously invite the neighbors over for coffee if they have to destroy a labyrinthian structure first, rehoming multiple book piles and a pigeon or two in the process.

Sure, In the grand scheme of things, is a spontaneous coffee break that important? Does it really matter whether we have a place available and ready for gathering? Who would we gather anyway? In our restless, disconnected times, the table has lost its meaning almost completely. Many modern apartments have foldable kitchen tables that don’t even seat more than a person or two. Tables are out, tablets are in.

I say high time we brought our tables back where they belong, into the center of the home. The table is more than a practical piece of furniture: it serves a holy purpose. And it offers a very special kind of protection. It is designed to be a safe space. The table is where we meet eye to eye. Here we encounter one another and stop for long enough to reconnect. We literally face each other. Where else does that happen in our day? In the modern age, you are cordially uninvited from bringing your phone to the table. A century or two prior, you were heartily encouraged to leave your weapons outside. No swordplay at the table, if you please, sir. Sit and drink and eat and be merry. Be vulnerable. Leave your shield by the door.

If you browse through historical texts, including the bible, you will encounter the table as the place of gathering. Alliances were struck across that slab of wood or stone; wedding feasts and family gatherings found their focal point here, kings and queens shared meals with ambassadors of foreign lands and traveling poets. The poor were fed, neighbors invited for a cuppa. The harvest was processed together in the kitchen, the whole family sorting and processing fruit, veg or meat. Pies were filled, chickens stuffed, jam preserved. Wakes were kept and tears were shed, Christmas cookies cut out and decorated. The young watched with awe when grandpa lit his pipe after a good meal and told them a tall tale.

Small repairs, bible studies, letter writing and babies squirming in washtubs, and all that other heavenly and earthly work of the home passed over the table. Hopes and dreams were spread out, then carefully reassembled. How many hearts have been mended in quiet conversations over coffee, with hands tightly clasped and blessings spoken, how many first meals and last meals have marked the passing of time, of eras gone by. And not just in the homes of common folk, but in the palaces and places of power all over the world!

The turning point in Joseph’s life came after he gave his estranged brothers food from his table. He had suffered tremendously under their ruthless betrayal, been harassed and imprisoned before God called him into leadership under Pharao. Joseph’s youthful arrogance was long cured when he saw his brothers again: he wept, overcome with grief and joy, and then he invited his brothers to eat with him, to come face to face with the boy they had wronged. He gave them the grain and provision they needed for their families to survive the life-threatening famine. And by the grace of God, he gave them the gift of forgiveness. Not only did his compassion release his brothers from their debt, it was also a powerful foreshadowing of the great sacrifice Jesus was to make for us.

Jesus knew that the best way to gather people was to feed them. His first miracle took place at a wedding banquet, his last act of subversion was the washing of feet before he broke bread. Our savior was concerned with the whole being in front of him, and before he delivered us from sin, he took care of the bodily home for our new heart, our new spirit: he called forth, he healed, he fed, he prayed and walked and talked with the people he encountered. Let us pay attention to the fact that he was happy to receive blessings, to depend on the kindness of strangers to be fed, to be cared for, to be the guest at the table. We can learn much from the way he received the kindness and care of people, some of whom had very little, and whose hospitality was all the greater for it. The graceful giver was also a graceful receiver, and during times when people were very much living in a segregated society, Jesus ministered to those in dire need, regardless of their standing. He was not above dining with criminals and arguing with scholars, just as he was willing to receive Mary’s generous gift of anointing oil that cost almost a year’s salary. 

What a wild way to start a revolution, to plant the seeds of counterculture, of kingdom come: once more our dear Lord was sitting in company around a table and enjoying a fine meal. At first glimpse it seems peculiar how Jesus reacted to Mary’s offering. But isn’t his always the best way possible? How he meets every person with a language that is intimately attuned to their needs? Clearly Mary of Bethany felt compelled to pour out her love and devotion in a palpable way. She knew Jesus to be worthy of the best she had to offer, and her tears fell when she blessed him, I am sure with a mix of a great many feelings. Her heartfelt act was instantly met with the pious dissatisfaction of the men gathered. It is telling that it was Judas Iscariot – of all people – who complained that the money for the oil hadn’t been given to the poor instead.

“Leave her alone,” said Jesus. “Why are you bothering her? She has done a beautiful thing to me. The poor you will always have with you, and you can help them any time you want. But you will not always have me.” (Mark 14,6-7) Judas was not technically wrong: the oil had a steep price and could have been sold to benefit the poor, something the new radicals rising in Jesus’ wake were specifically asked to do. The point here is not that the perfume held fiscal value, but that the breaking of the box and the outpouring of the oil was a mark of holy dissent. Mary’s powerful act still brings us to tears two millennia later. Of all the heads and hearts we might bless in our time, can you imagine wasting the opportunity to anoint our Lord? Wouldn’t we gladly fall to our knees and weep at the feet of Jesus if we could? 

Jesus had raised her brother from the dead, had revived her forlorn, questing heart and loved her well as a friend. When we see such a provocative gesture of faith, we are invited to pause, to dwell on the loving, lovely nature of Jesus. We must learn to discern between earthly and heavenly mandates, so that we, as children of God, fully human but touched by the divine, can react in real time to real people and their offerings and sufferings with compassion and a spirit of freedom.

There are many more stories worth sharing how God has used the table throughout history to sustain and gather his people, but I want to share one particular example of the table as a place of shelter, and that is in the story of Mephibosheth, Saul’s disabled grandson.

Mephibosheth grew up hidden from the enemies of his family after his father and grandfather died. During a fall he had while escaping his pursuers, he lost the use of his legs. Stigma was attached to having a disability in this age, and Mephibosheth was clearly not expecting any kindness from the new king, referring to himself as a “dead dog”. But David surprised him.

“Don’t be afraid,” David said to him, “for I will surely show you kindness for the sake of your father Jonathan. I will restore to you all the land that belonged to your grandfather Saul, and you will always eat at my table.” (2. Sam. 9,7) 

Suddenly, Mephibosheth was under the protection of king David, had a large income, and was invited to the table with the rest of David’s family. It was the highest possible honor. He was adopted into the king’s family, just as we are adopted into the king’s family. Many of us struggle with disabilities or pain, and be they visible or invisible, we sometimes want to hide those parts of ourselves that are different, that cause us such grief. In addition, Mephibosheth could have challenged David for his position in the kingdom, which is something stubborn humans do all the time. We challenge God for the throne, thinking we ought to be better off making our own decisions. But David called Mephibosheth to his table out of love, and brought him to the high table to feast and rejoice. Mephibosheth reciprocated this love, and when he was later betrayed by his servant Ziba, he remained steadfast and insisted that eating at the king’s table was more important than any of the land and riches Ziba had misappropriated; upon the king’s return, Mephibosheth readily relinquished all rights to his own property. Being reunited with king David and being in his presence was the singularly most important blessing to him (2. Sam. 19,30). 

Truly, it should be the same for us. Let not the advantages of a good connection to the king be what we crave most, but a place at his table. 

Finally, I want to invite you to go back in time, when God was writing a new story with a young tribe in a desert place. During the diaspora from Egypt, God had a table built and put into the tabernacle, whereupon priests placed the twelve bread loaves for the twelve tribes. The table was made from acacia wood to symbolize the humanity of the coming Christ, and covered with pure gold to symbolize his divinity. Interestingly, it was called the table of the Presence and the bread of the Presence, meaning that God’s presence made the table an altar and the bread a promise of his provision and enduring love for his people. Even before he became flesh, God encountered his people at the table.

God infused the twelve loaves of bread with his presence, with his holiness, and with a flight of fancy I imagine myself as a little morsel of dough on his table, being shaped and formed by his hand, given rest and stress as needed, before the heat of the refining fire transforms me into a perfectly imperfect little scone of the Presence. Whatever your dietary preference, if you would rather be a muffin or a weighty sourdough of the Presence, the thought of God shaping us as an offering of comfort and sustenance to our brethren and sistren is mighty powerful.

To think we are shaped and prepared in a way that we become children, women and men of the Presence, peculiar in a way that makes others take note of the Presence in their midst, is truly moving. The touch of the divine can safe and restore anyone. Whether we have been cast out by our family or fallen on hard times, have betrayed our beloved or been suffering a debilitating illness or disability, whether we struggle with chronic pain or addiction, with pride or insecurity, loneliness or overwhelm, flippancy or depression – let us come to the table as the sinners that we are. Let us crawl there if we must.

The table is the place where we are restored. Rachel Held Evans was deeply aware of the symbolism of the table, writing “the table teaches us that, ultimately, faith isn’t about being right or good or in agreement. Faith is about feeding and being fed”. Jesus fed the hungry and was not afraid to invite himself into the homes of other people. There is nothing wrong with coming to the table empty handed. Empty hands can hold many wonders. The table is about finding a place where our needs are met. If you doubt the power of the table, ask yourself how much you really enjoy eating by yourself without any distractions. Just you and your plate. Is that an enjoyable experience? 

Most likely, you have not even tried for a long time, and for a simple reason: when we sit down we wind down. We want to engage in a shared experience. The table is a communal place, a sacred place. The table exists to hold a variety of bowls and cups and pans, it exists to serve a colorful variety of people. Don’t eat alone. Eat in the Presence. And then bring in others to share the Presence. To quote Rachel once more: “This is what God’s kingdom is like: a bunch of outcasts and oddballs gathered at a table, not because they are rich or worthy or good, but because they are hungry, because they said yes. And there’s always room for more.”

Come to the table as you are. Only when you come can you be transformed. It is not your job to transform in isolation – you are not a caterpillar! Let yourself be touched by the revelation of community. We are all hungry, but most of us are either too afraid or too proud to come to the table, to leave our weapons at the door, and sit down in all of our vulnerability, in our pretend self-efficiency and our real sorrow. 

Jesus, the savior of this world, will receive you at his table. He will kneel before you and wash your feet. He will kneel before me and wash mine. And it takes courage to show any set of feet to a king; not just because they are dirty and bruised from the road, but because from the moment those feet leave the ground, the reality in which they walked and stood and carried you and me through life will be no more. If we eat at the table with the king we will not only be fed, we will be transformed. And that initial hunger might intensify, there is a good possibility of that. There is the real possibility that if you eat from the table of the Lord, that if you dwell in his Presence, you will want to keep coming back, and keep bringing others back, and keep running after that richness and that flavor of kingdom come for the rest of your life. Even if you start out hiding under the table.

At the heart of sacred community and at the heart of his ministry, Jesus brought people from all walks of life together to meet their deepest needs in life: a good meal, a good word, a miracle, a walk, a life of fellowship, a life sheltered in the Presence. 

I’d say it is high time we started decluttering our dining table and making some calls. If we are to start a countermovement, it had better have cake…