Quickly I lay out two small salad plates and two larger dinner plates from my set of sage-rimmed stoneware on the brown woven placemats. I have only a few minutes before the action begins; once my guests arrive, we will barely be able to keep wiggly bottoms in chairs and food on the plates for the brief moment it takes to bless it. I pull out a couple tealights and decide the tin box that holds the crayons will do for a candelabra. I tuck it in amongst the gourds in the center of the table; I will wait to light the wicks until the little ones are seated—it’s their favorite part.
Before I call them in, I plate the meal: salmon patties, fried potatoes, and buttered brussels sprouts microwaved in a freezer bag—a very typical I-didn’t-plan-well-this-week-so-this-is-Tuesday-dinner type meal. Incidentally, it’s one of their favorites; must serve ketchup. “Dinner’s ready!” I yell. Whining ensues as these tiny guests are dragged away from rough-and-tumbling toward ten long minutes of sitting still. Their crabbiness prompts me to start some “coffee shop” background music. “Let’s light the candles—stop, don’t touch—then we’ll pray. Wait, fork down, we’re praying.”
It’s true, these guests live with me: two little wiggly boys and my tired husband. He prays loudly and quickly, remembering the frames of our children—that they are but dust. Then: pass the ketchup; one dropped a fork; there’s ketchup on a finger; no brussels sprouts for him, thanks; we forgot napkins—and a tired smile between heads of table.
Food is so difficult to achieve. By sweaty brows it is brought forth from the earth, by a long day’s wages it is brought forth from the market, by messy aprons it is brought forth from the oven, and by gentle cajoling—and a side of ketchup—it is brought forth to a little boy’s stomach. That is one side of the story. Viewed from the other direction, it is entirely a blessing—the end of all the labor is pleasure. In fact, when we take on the mind of Christ, the down-payment of the pleasure comes amid the sweat and wages and mess and cajoling.
As many as three times a day, our gracious God has given us the sacred routine of feasting: feasting on the nutrition our bodies require; feasting on the flavors, textures, and smells we desire; feasting on the faces of those we admire. Our lives are mercifully—and necessarily—punctuated by moments of rest, fellowship, and fullness.
And yet . . . so many meals strung end-to-end can tempt me to think that they are incidental; one more step on the hamster wheel of the week—the same dishes needing washed for the third time today certainly tell that story. But the Gospels seem to tell a different story. “With no home of his own, Jesus ate as a guest in someone’s home every night of his missionary life.”[1] Somehow I feel none of those meals could possibly have been merely incidental. All it takes then is to remember: “Even when only two are gathered together”—in His name, which we invoke at every table blessing—“three are always present. Wherever we break bread together, Jesus is always at the table.”[2]
If Jesus is at the table alongside that tired husband and those whiny children, I can only assume He will be doing what He always has been known to do around tables: revealing His kingdom, bringing peace between God and man, and dishing out of that bottomless salad bowl of grace to anyone who is hungry for it.
Revealing the Kingdom
Jesus inaugurates His ministry at a wedding feast. Not incidental. The kingdom of God that Jesus preached is fundamentally one of joy—celebration and feasting and the choicest wine. Of course, that joy would come through unimaginable suffering. But taking up the cross was never the end—the Son of Man took up the cross “for the joy set before Him” (Heb. 12:2).[3] The beginning of His ministry was a wedding feast because that is where it is all headed. His disciples eat and drink because the Bridegroom is here, He explains to the skeptics at Levi’s table (Luke 5:34).
The kingdom of God then is certainly a feast, but it is not the black-tie event His opponents expected. As Jesus explained through a parable, God’s kingdom is a table set for all; His invitation, being rejected by the well-off and important of this world (those “healthy” from Luke 5), has been graciously extended to those most unworthy in the world’s eyes—“both bad and good,” the “poor and crippled and blind and lame” (Luke 14:21).
Jesus lived in the present reality of the Kingdom of God as He feasted on earth. He was known not just for eating but also for eating with questionable characters: tax collectors, prostitutes, and sinners. “Bad company corrupts good morals,” the proverb goes, but not in Jesus’ upside-down kingdom: Jesus’ presence redeems bad company. That company of redeemed ruffians will be used by God to build His kingdom.
Bringing Peace
Eating at table together is a strong symbol of being at peace with another. As Peter Leithart explains, “Eating together is a way to make a covenant or have fellowship.”[4] In the Old Testament, God gave the Israelites parameters for bringing a peace offering to the priest. This offering could be brought whenever the worshipper wished to express thanksgiving for the favor God had showed him.
The peace offering is unique because a portion of it is offered on the altar, consumed by God, a part is given to the priest, and a part of it is eaten by the worshipper. The reality of the peace between God and man is demonstrated in a meal eaten together. ”[W]hen men draw near to God, they eat with Him. The elders of Israel eat and drink in God’s presence, and He does not stretch out His hand against them . . . . The end—the goal and conclusion—of Israelite worship is a fellowship meal with God.”[5]
This image comes into even clearer focus when Jesus institutes the New Covenant over the dinner table. At the Lord’s table, God and man again partake of a sacrifice together, but this time the sacrifice is the God-Man Himself—“We don’t eat the flesh of an animal, but the flesh and blood of the perfect sacrifice, Jesus.”[6] Because of His perfect sacrifice, our peace also is now perfect, passing all understanding, since Jesus has once and for all “[made] peace by the blood of his cross” (Colossians 1:20).
Extending Grace
Revealing God’s kingdom and bringing peace are two facets of the grace that Jesus extends when He sits down to table. It is a grace extended to the tear-stained woman at His feet in His words: “You are forgiven” (Luke 7:48). It is the grace in His seeking and saving of lost Zacchaeus over dinner: “Today salvation has come to this house” (Luke 19:9). It is the grace of grilled fish in Peter’s mouth as he hears the promise that he will not deny Him again when the time comes to follow his Lord into the death by which “he was to glorify God” (John 21:19).
In the Apostle John’s vision of the last days, the risen Jesus extends the grace of discipline to the church in Laodicea. The church’s possibility of repentance is pictured as welcoming the Lord in and sitting down to dinner. Jesus longs to extend grace—to come in and eat together, sharing the Bread of Life and wine without price. “You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat.” “I the unkind, ungrateful?” Yes. “[K]now you not . . . who bore the blame?”[7] Because of the grace He has extended to us at the cross, we are welcome at His table to feast forever.
Conclusion
Back to my kitchen table, but this time, I remember Jesus’ table service. He has welcomed this sinner into His kingdom, made me at peace with God, and day-by-day graciously serves me Living Water and Bread of Life. How can I turn the inside out? How can I make the image sharp in the View-Master of my guests’ imaginations?
Suddenly it’s not just salmon patties. It’s a reminder that their need was known in eternity past (for me, 4pm) and provision has been made to satiate their soul-hunger. It’s an assurance that God’s provision is not mere sustenance: it is delight dipped in ketchup—”exceeding abundantly above” (Eph. 3:20, KJV). These candles are a city on a hill, calling out, “Whoever is simple, let him turn in here!” There’s still room at the table! “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:5). This meal is a promise that, in the presence of difficulty, hardship, or merely the mundane, a table is prepared before us: we feast on God’s good gifts of companionship, pleasure, and rest. But most of all, each little feast we sit before is an invitation: “taste and see that the Lord is good!”
[1] Leonard Sweet, From Tablet to Table: Where Community Is Found and Identity is Formed (Carol Stream, IL: Navpress, 2014), 64.
[2] Ibid., 17–18.
[3] For the sake of a clean text, I have not indicated by each scripture reference from which translation the quote is taken. Translations used in this essay are the NASB, ESV, and KJV.
[4] Peter Leithart, A House for My Name: A Survey of the Old Testament (Moscow, ID: Cannon Press, 2000), 92.
[5] Ibid.
[6] Ibid.
[7] George Herbert, “Love (III),” in The Oxford Book of English Verse, 2nd ed., ed. Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch (New York: Oxford University Press, 1939), 303.
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