At His Table

November 2007

I’ve just left Maria’s fiftieth birthday party. It’s been about a year since this gorgeous Italian bambino called up a handful of her friends to request their presence in her home town of Reston, Virginia for 2 days of celebration. Six other friends and I flew in from different parts of the country, converging on Dulles airport for the purpose of honoring our friend’s 50 years. We were all met by a layout of exquisite plans and festivities--complete with tours of the Library of Congress and American Art Museum in D.C. that had been organized by the birthday girl herself for our enjoyment. I think we all felt a little guilty yet overwhelmingly humbled and blessed to see her delight in serving us on the days that were designed to celebrate her. The weekend included many wonderful things, but the highlight was a homemade, gourmet Italian dinner prepared at her home. She wouldn’t have had it any other way. My friend, the quintessential Italian with deep set engaging eyes, thick glossy, ethnic hair and creamy olive skin, is known for her engaging hospitality. And this is the way Italian’s celebrate … with food.

And so we sat down at her table, old friends and some new ones.  We were immediately united by the object we now sat around … the table. Together we dove into prosciutto covered melon, slurped down pasta dowsed with parmesan arregiano, inhaled sautéed veal, handmade meat balls, and sausage and pork that had simmered in red sauce for 8 hours. The meal was topped off with a montage of Italian breads (olive oil for dipping replaced butter of course) and a myriad of dessert selections that got passed from one place setting to the other. In between gloriously delightful bites, I glanced up long enough to notice that around this table sat two African American women, one with Dutch origin, Europeans, and two feisty Italians.  Yet, this meal had caused a convergence of minds and a unity of purpose. Our differences in styles and tastes, preferences and traditions were irrelevant. This meal focused our attention on the one we had come to dine with; the one who had extended the invitation to feast.

My birthday dinner table would look differently than Maria’s (unless you are Italian and from Southern Italy like Maria, yours would too). I’d probably have soul food: fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, cabbage and black-eyed peas. No variety in my bread offerings, just soft cornbread inundated with morsels of corn with soft butter waiting nearby. There’d probably be no variety for dessert just a big ol’ country peach cobbler with a crust that had been hand rolled by my fabulous cook of a husband and topped with a dollop or two of Bluebell ice cream. You’re mouth watering? Mine too. The selections on my birthday table would tell my story just like the table you’d prepare would speak clearly of yours. Each, in their own distinct ways, would cause others to “taste” our lives and engage in our individuality. The uniqueness of each meal would do exactly what Maria’s had: bring us together in fellowship and celebration.  Because, when gathered around the table, what’s on it isn’t nearly as important as who’s around it.

“Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and will dine with him and he with me.” Revelation 3:20

First century Greeks had three main meals during the course of the day. Breakfast (akratisma) was nothing more that a piece of dried bread dipped in wine. Lunch (ariston) mirrored our lunch breaks today:  quick, hurried and taken on the run. But dinner (deipnon) was the one meal where people lingered, immersed themselves in conversation, engaged in intense dialogue and shared unlimited fellowship with the others surrounding it. This was the meal where the focus was not on food but on the fellowship.

Now read it the verse again … slowly.

“ . . .Behold I stand at the door and knock; if anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and deipnon with him.”

This is no invitation to inhale quick hors d'oeuvres and be on your way. He isn’t knocking on a door and coming in to offer a hasty, hurried meal. Fellowship and intimacy is what this Savior is after. In fact, it’s what He promises to give to anyone who will let him come in and take a seat.

This month, the autumn leaves and cooling temperatures give hints of the aroma of Thanksgiving.  You’ll be drawn to a table and yours will inevitably look different than mine. Whether your main dish is ham or chicken accompanied by pasta or rice, grilled asparagus or collard greens, mashed potatoes or candied yams, cornbread or sourdough rolls. Whether you’ll bake or fry, sauté’ or simmer, use olive oil for dippin’ or butter for slathering, I pray that each bite will remind us what the One we’ve come to celebrate is after … unrushed time and intimate fellowship.  As we gather around the tables that tell our own stories and bridge the differences of those around it, may our hearts be directed to Him who knocks; calling us sweetly and gently by His Spirit. May you be filled—body, soul and spirit.

Happy Holidays from my table to yours.