God's Table

This psalm is a quiet reminder to us  to show grace and love to everyone today, before God makes us do it tomorrow.

Last Tuesday was St. Patricks Day.  But we celebrated it two nights ago, with our 15th annual Céilí, a Celtic celebration of friends and family, gathered to tell stories and sing songs.

The table was set with a traditional Irish feast of Corned Beef and Cabbage, homemade soda bread, cookies, cheeses, and so much more.

But on the actual St. Patricks Day’s, something funny happened. Just as Kathleen and I were getting ready for bed the doorbell rang. 

​I rushed down the stairs to discover one of our friends with a bewildered look on his face wondering where everyone was.

​Of course we were just as surprised as he was because, again, the party wasn't until Friday and it was Tuesday. He was three days early. 

​Since he made the trip, and it was St. Patrick’s Day, we invited him in, poured him a Guinness and fed him a late dinner. That's what good hosts and good friends are supposed to do, right?

Over the last month, Psalm 23 has been our roadmap for Lent. We’ve rested in "green pastures" and navigated the "dark valley." And, of course, leaned on God’s guidance every step of the way. 

Today, the scenery shifts. The metaphor matures. God stops being just a Shepherd, and becomes a Host. We aren't just sheep anymore; we are Honored Guests. Instead of leading us places, God welcomes us home, cracks open a Guinness, and invites us to sit at the table.

But here’s the thing, God’s banquet isn't happening in the back deck with friends. Here's what the fifth verse has to tell us:

"You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows."         
                                                                                                ​Psalm 23:5

Again, this psalm is personal and hopeful. It tells me that no matter what kind of darkness I am going through, God is with me, leading me to a holy table where all my favorite foods will be served.

It sounds great, doesn’t it? Until you realize who’s at the table with you. The very people you’d rather not share a meal with. This is where this psalm gets interesting.

When the poet says, "You prepare a table," he uses the Hebrew word ʿārak—a military term used for arranging troops for battle. Think about the irony there.

While we’re "arranging" for war, God is "arranging" a five-star meal. While our "enemies" are sharpening their swords, God is polishing the silverware.

It’s like God looked at where your enemies are camped out and said, "This looks like a perfect place for a banquet."

For the last four weeks, we’ve been trusting this Shepherd. But what would you do in this situation?

During our time in Michigan, I ate breakfast every Monday with some guys from our community. I knew one of them was part of a small group of people at our church who saw me as an enemy. I also knew anything I said around him, would be quickly reported back to the group.

Still, I showed up every Monday. Not because the food was good. But because that’s what Jesus would do.

Jesus made this verse literal every single day. He was constantly "arranging" tables for the people who most considered “enemies.” Tax collectors, zealots, and even the man who would go on to betray him.

When the Pharisees complained that he was eating with sinners, Jesus reminds them … in God’s Kingdom, the guest list is much longer than we’d like it to be.

We see this most profoundly at the Last Supper. Jesus knew what was happening. He knew Judas already made his move to betray him. Instead of calling down fire and brimstone, or even verbally confronting him, Jesus picks up a loaf of bread, He blesses it and breaks it, and then hands it to his enemy.

This is the "Jesus-way" of dealing with the Judas’ in our lives. He doesn't destroy them; He out-loves them. And he expects us to do the same.

It’s easy to pull out a chair for a friend who stops by unexpectedly 9:30 at night. But what about someone you simply can’t stand being around? Someone who has made your life difficult, maybe threatened you emotionally, or harmed you physically.

Kindness can be hard enough. But sitting at a table and looking them in the eye? Why would our Good Shepherd do this to us? After all we just went through to get here.

Well, in ancient culture, hospitality was a sacred law. It didn’t matter who you were hosting, the people at your table where your personal responsibility. More than simply saying, “Mi casa su casa” the safety and wellbeing of your guest rested on you.

God pushes this notion to the limit. After all, it’s not our table. It’s God’s. And just like God’s grace and love, there’s a seat for anyone who wants it.

This psalm is a quiet reminder to us  to show grace and love to everyone today, before God makes us do it tomorrow. Perhaps that was what Jesus was hinting at when he says, “Love your enemies, pray for those who want to harm you.”

It’s a not so subtle way to say, we are all God’s beloved. And one day, we’ll all be sitting at the same table, breaking the same sacred bread. At this table we discover God’s love is always bigger than our hate. And in that love, the psalmist declares, "You anoint my head with oil."

I love this metaphor. For a sheep, oil was medicine the shepherd used to clean their wounds and soothe irritations. It was also rubbed on their heads to keep the pesky flies away. (Remember earlier I said sheep couldn’t truly rest if they were in pain, or being irritated by something. And a tired sheep was a vulnerable sheep.)

To humans, anointing a guest's head with fragrant oil was the ultimate "welcome home" gesture. Not only was it a balm for skin cracked by the desert heat, it was a public sign that you’re a person of high honor, someone worthy of this valuable gift.

Think about what this says about God. You’ve just come out of the valley. You’re bruised, tired, and probably smell like sheep. And what does God do? Rubs oil on your wounds. And makes you the Guest of Honor. More than a gesture of kindness, it also reveals who God is.

We see a similar revelation in the gospels. Jesus is reclining around the table when an unnamed women comes in and begins pouring expensive perfumed oil over his head. While the 'enemies' in the room criticized her, Jesus welcomed her.

In this symbolic gesture, she reveals who Jesus truly is. Not just a teacher. Not just a friend. But the Messiah—which literally means 'The Anointed One.'

The beauty of this is that anointing didn’t stop with Jesus. The same Spirit poured over Jesus is the same Spirit that flows into us.

Whatever difficulties you are dealing with, no matter how challenging the wilderness might be, the God is always with us because God’s Spirit is within us. And "My cup overflows."

The Hebrew word used is revayah. Which means "saturated" or "soaked." Like a honeycomb in the peak of summer, where every single cell is so packed the honey oozes out because the physical hive can’t hold it all in. That’s revayah.

I imagine, God pours this Spirit of love into our lives like a three-year-old trying to fill a tiny cup from a heavy gallon jug. It’s glorious, and it’s messy. It spills over the counter and onto the floor. And seeps into the tiniest spaces.

Isn’t that our call? To spill love into every nook and cranny of Anamesa. We live in a time of deep distrust and anger that’s widening the divide between us. It’s easy to make everyone and anything our enemy.

Once we recognize the abundance given to us, we begin to realize I have more than enough to share. Enough grace. Enough patience. Enough forgiveness. Enough love. Enough of. God’s glory for everyone. Even for the people across the table you’d rather ignore.

If we take the time to be honest with ourselves, we also realize our enemies are not always people. Sometimes they’re ideas, belief systems, anxieties, betrayals, loneliness.

So, as we move into the final weeks of Lent, I would invite you to look at the "enemies" in your life. Offer them a seat at your mental table. Then pass them Christ, the bread of life.

It doesn’t matter how late they show up to the table. What matters is that they are there, and so are you. God has knitted us all together in love. Family, friend, or foe we all belong to God.

​So let us make ourselves willing to be welcomed, anointed, and blessed until God’s glory begins pouring out of us; spilling over the brim and into every broken space we enter.