I remember one Wednesday night at church. We had just finished dinner in the fellowship hall, and our Parish Associate, Pastor Bob Smith, had us sing "Seek Ye First the Kingdom of God."

I looked around at the people seated at those tables. People I had come to know and love over many years. I could feel the warmth in that room. And I wondered: Is this what the Kingdom of God will be like?

And then another question: Will I see them again one day… in that Kingdom?

The prophet Isaiah dreamed of that day. He pictured a mountain, and a banquet. "On this mountain the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines…" And there, Isaiah says, God "will wipe away the tears from all faces." (Isaiah 25:6, 8)

All peoples. Every face. Every tear.

That's the table we're headed toward. But we don't have to wait for it to begin. In the book of Revelation, the risen Christ says, "Listen! I am standing at the door, knocking; if you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to you and eat with you, and you with me." (Revelation 3:20)

These past few days, we've been praying, "Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest." This is his answer. He's already at the door.

Again, may you come to see the table as a kind of altar. And may you remember that time spent around it alone, or with family and friends, is time spent in the presence of Christ. May you remember that our meals are a foretaste of a Kingdom that is coming, a Kingdom of blessing and grace… 

Prayer: Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest, in our homes and churches, around our tables, and in our everyday lives. Open our eyes to your presence, even here, even now. And one day, gather us all at your table, where every tear is wiped away. Amen.

The writer, Lauren Winner, relates that in the middle ages, a female mystic named Mechthild wrote about a vision she had. In the vision, Jesus asks her to place in his left hand all her “pains and adversities” so they may be sweetened by union with him - just as a crumb of bread dipped in honey takes on honey’s fragrance. 

This is a reverse image of communion. Usually, at Communion, we draw near to Christ by opening our hands to receive the bread and cup… In Mechthild’s vision, we draw near to Christ and find Christ’s hand opened to us. 

I think there is something to that. 

John tells us at the end of his gospel, that Jesus after being raised from the dead, met his disciples on the beach. He took some bread, and he invited the disciples to bring the fish they just caught. Even though he had his own fish that was already searing on the grill, he invited them to bring their own fish as well. 

He takes whatever we bring to the table. This is true whether it is a table at church or a table on the beach or a table at home.

Jesus took the bread. And he blessed it. And he gave it to them…

Christ is the giver of all good gifts: the gift of our family and friends, the food we eat, the bread we break, the air we breathe, and the hands we hold around a table….

Jesus takes whatever we bring to the table. He gathers up our adversity and pain, the joy and the sorrows, the laughter and the tears… And he blesses it. He is with us in the breaking and in the brokenness. And he gives back of himself…

May you come to see the table as a kind of altar. And may you remember that time spent around it alone, or with family and friends, is time spent in the presence of Christ. May you offer him, all that happens around your tables, trusting that in that offering, there is blessing and grace… 

Let us pray as we prayed yesterday: Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest. Be our guest, in our homes and churches, around our tables, and in our everyday lives. And open our eyes to your presence, even here, even now. Amen.

‍

Have you ever noticed how much of Jesus' ministry happens around meals? The feeding of the 5,000. Dinner at Zacchaeus' house. Parables about banquets. The Last Supper. Bread broken in Emmaus. Breakfast on the beach.

Our lives revolve around tables too.

Picture good friends on a Saturday night, sharing a meal and maybe a bottle of wine… looking back over 25 years of friendship. You can almost hear the laughter. "Remember that time…?"

Picture another night. Dinner is over. The children have been excused. The husband, now sitting alone with his wife says, "I lost my job today…” And she says, “Oh…Well, we’ll figure it out…”

Picture a baby's first birthday. The highchair. The family gathered around. Cake smashed… everywhere. When the cake is taken away, there are tears. Sixteen years later, that same family sits at that same table, looking back at the pictures. Where did the time go?

Picture Thanksgiving, when Granddad offers the blessing for the last time. The words fall sacred and soft.

And I think about my grandmother, Mamaw. Later in life she often ate dinner alone, next to the chair where Popsi sat for all those years. I imagine she could still hear the voices that had gathered around that table. Her four boys. Then the grandchildren. Then the great-grandchildren. One of those voices was mine.

I think about others who often eat alone, with the television or the phone for company. People eating in a hurry between jobs. Single moms struggling to get food on the table. People with no table at all, in refugee camps and on the run.

And I think about church tables, where people who vote very differently sit side by side. Happens all the time!

So many tables. So much laughter, and so many tears, over a lifetime.

And I think about Jesus… meeting us at every one of them.

Prayer: Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest, in our homes and churches and around our tables. Open our eyes to your presence, even here, even now. Amen.

‍

When Jesus rode into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, the crowds lined the streets and shouted Hosanna — which means, simply, save us. They meant it politically. They wanted a king who would drive out the Romans, restore Israel's power, make things right by force.

By Friday morning those same crowds were silent.

The soldiers mocked him. The religious leaders scoffed. Even one of the criminals crucified beside him called out: "Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!"

The irony is devastating. By accepting the way of the cross — by refusing to save himself — saving is exactly what he was doing. The only way to save others was to not save himself.

What if he had come differently? What if he had marched on Jerusalem with an army, crushed the Romans, seized power by force? He could have. But what would that have said about God? If domination and violence were the ways of the kingdom, how would following Jesus have been any different from following Caesar?

He didn't come that way. He came in humility. He died in weakness. And in doing so he showed us not only what God is like — but how we are meant to live.

This is the king we follow. Not the one who takes lives but the one who gives his. Not the one who demands sacrifice from others but the one who offers himself. A king crowned not with jewels but with thorns.

When we ask what it means to follow him, the answer is always the same. Pick up your cross. Go the way he went. Love the way he loved.

That is what kind of king he is.

Prayer: Lord Jesus, we confess that we are drawn to power and success and the ways of the world. Reorient us today toward your kind of kingship — humble, self-giving, willing to lose for the sake of love. Shape us into people who follow you all the way. Amen.

‍

One summer evening during a violent thunderstorm, a mother was tucking her small boy into bed. Just as she was about to turn off the light, he asked, with a tremor in his voice, "Mommy, will you sleep with me tonight?"

She smiled and gave him a reassuring hug. "I can't, dear. I have to sleep in bed with your daddy."

A long silence followed. Then a shaky little voice said, "Oh. That big baby."

I love that story, because most of us know exactly what that little boy was feeling — even if we're a bit more grown up about hiding it. We are all, in our own ways, afraid of the dark. Afraid of the storm. Afraid of what's coming and what we can't control.

What will the diagnosis be? What's going to happen to this relationship? Will I still have a job next month? Will the people I love be okay?

Here's something worth knowing: the most frequently repeated command in the Bible isn't "love God" or "love your neighbor," even though Jesus called those the greatest commandments. The phrase that appears more often than any other instruction in scripture is simply this: fear not.

Over and over, in story after story, to person after person — fear not. Fear not. Fear not.

That repetition tells us something. God isn't surprised by our fear. God doesn't expect us to arrive at some permanent state of fearlessness and stay there. The command keeps being given because we keep needing to hear it — in the storm, in the diagnosis, in the middle of the night when the thunder feels close and the dark feels heavy.

Psalm 46 puts it this way: "God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea."

Not because nothing frightening will ever happen. But because, whatever comes, we are not facing it alone.

Prayer: Loving God, we admit that when we face difficult, confusing, frightening circumstances in life, it is often hard to trust you. Fear rises up in us, and our minds rush to the worst possible outcome. Reassure us today with your presence. Help us to trust that in life and in death we belong to you. We remember that you are love, and we claim the promise of 1 John 4:18, that perfect love casts out fear. In the midst of whatever we face, cast out our fear and help us to trust, through Jesus Christ. Amen.

‍