First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
Maundy Thursday
April 12, 2001
I can tell you this. If you are going to dwell anywhere for more than a few days, beds are optional but a table is a necessity. I learned that in the jungles of Costa Rica. For the year I went, things were more primitive than they have ever been, before or since. I spent two weeks building a church in a jungle, on a piece of land reachable only by dugout canoe. The only electricity came from the generator we brought ourselves. The only shelter (before we built the church) was a ramshackle rectangle which featured little more than walls, floor and a roof. Notice I didn’t say anything about doors and windows. But we were off the ground and safe from the rain. When I saw it, I gulped. Then I told myself I could do anything for two weeks.
It turned out to be two of the most wonderful weeks in my life. But that’s another story. My concern, tonight, is with the basics. Beds were not part of the “basics.” We each brought an air mattress and a sleeping bag. Which worked quite nicely. But one of the first things we did was construct ourselves a couple of tables and some wooden benches. Not chairs, mind you. Benches. For two whole weeks, the only thing to rest our backs against was a tree. But we could pull the benches up to the tables three times daily. And that was enough.
A table is something most of us take for granted. But I suspect that the table was probably humanity’s first civilizing piece of furniture. That’s right, I said “civilizing.” Other furniture is utilitarian. But a table transforms functionality into civility.
I wonder when tables first became a part of our human experience? When did our ancestors elevate eating to an event rather than a necessity? Who was the first person to say: “We need a place to eat.” I can’t prove it, but I suspect it was a woman. Her husband, no doubt, said: “Hands will do.” To which she answered: “For a savage like you, maybe….but our children are going to be civilized. Now go, get a good slab of wood and put four legs under it. We’ll call it a table. Once that’s in place, I’ll give some thought to inventing napkins.”
When you sit at a table, you know that eating is more than stoking your internal furnace. At its best, a table transforms a meal into a social occasion, whether it be with friends, family or business associates. Leading me to suspect that in our world of fast food….junk food…. microwaves….breakfast bars….and “grabbing a bite on the fly”….the decline of the table may be one of the surest indicators of a decline of civilized living. Today, it is popular to lament how little we eat together anymore. But an even greater lament may concern how little we eat at a table anymore.
I remember how “cool” I thought it was when, as a teenager in possession of a driver’s permit, I learned that I could pull into an A & W or an old-style Big Boy and eat in my car. How exciting it was to roll down the window, shout my order toward the little speaker box, and then wait for a carhop with a ponytail to bring me my tray. If the truth be told, my real interest was in the carhop with the ponytail. But that’s another sermon. Today, I absolutely abhor eating in cars. And no daughter of mine is ever going to run food to a bunch of teenage boys like I once was.
But even while few of us dine by the gear shift, we still eat in front of the TV or, worse yet, “graze” from the stovetop. I confess that if Kris would let me, I would eat half my dinner while it’s still cooking. But I also like sitting down at a table that’s been well set….enjoying a meal that’s been well prepared….in the company of friends who are well relished. And I am not alone. In fact, I love to walk through the parking lots at Michigan/Michigan State before a big football game and see those tailgaters who have gone all out with white cloths, chafing dishes and (in rare cases) even a silver candelabra.
Lest you think these observations insignificant, let me set before you a trio of scenarios.
1. Your daughter calls from college in early November. At issue is Thanksgiving and where it’s going to be celebrated. You tell her that everybody is going to Uncle Joe and Aunt Mary’s. She asks, somewhat timidly: “Do you think Aunt Mary would mind if I brought a friend?” You hear yourself answering: “Of course not….what’s her name?” What you are not quite prepared for is your daughter’s response, when she says: “Mom, his name is Bob.” You wonder what this means. Who is this strange boy, and why is he being introduced to the family table now?
2. Or you are in your first week at a new job. You wonder if you will like it here. The pay is good. The work is good. The hours are good. But you have felt a certain “coolness” from your colleagues. Then the fellow at the next desk says: “Some of us have a group that goes out for lunch on Fridays. We wondered if you’d like to join us?” Suddenly, you feel that things are going to be all right.
3. Or, as John Claypool reminded us, you go out to dinner at a favorite place with some favorite people. Except that not all of the favorite people are there. One of them moved away last month….walked out on a spouse last month….or went to dine with the Lord in heaven last month. And the empty space at the table renders you speechless in a way you never expected, and can’t completely explain.
Tables are important. If you listened to my Lenten sermons about food (and the eating thereof), you know that both Jesus and the early church spent more time eating….debating eating…. arguing while eating….or reconciling over eating….than any other activity that occupied their time. There’s no need to go back over that material again. But it keeps coming at us. At last night’s service, I read the story about dinner at Simon’s house and the unwelcome intrusion of the woman from the city who comes in unannounced and anoints Jesus’ head with an incredibly costly jar of ointment. In Luke’s version of the story, she even uncoils her hair, the better to wipe Jesus’ feet with it. As far as we can tell, this may be the origin of the phrase “letting down one’s hair.” But it violates social propriety, even though it earns the everlasting praise of Jesus. After all, he said, whenever Christians gather, this woman’s tableside act will be remembered.
But that was last night. Tonight, we are back at a table. We are here with Jesus and his friends. They have gathered in a borrowed, second-story dining room. We have gathered in a familiar sanctuary. They are eating while reclining, like royalty. We are eating while sitting erect, like worshipers. But we have gathered to break bread with him, one last time….to lift the cup with him, one last time….to sing a hymn with him before going to the Mount of Olives, one last time. We have come because we have been invited. It seems that he wants us here.
How fitting that it should be at a table. The 23rdPsalm suggests that a table has been prepared for us in the midst of our enemies. But tonight, we are in the midst of friends. How do I know that? Because anybody who is a friend of Jesus works at being friends with one another. Distances are bridged here. Differences are reconciled here.
The last time I counted, there were 13 at the Lord’s table. Not a tidy number. But not a tidy group, either. As I have mentioned before, that seating chart included a betrayer, a denier, a skeptic, two Sons of Thunder, and a bean counter. But then, not all of you who slipped into these seats is all that tidy, either. But room was made for you anyway.
Think back to a time in your life when you dressed a whole lot younger and acted a whole lot stupider than you do now. Picture the day you came home with a chip on your shoulder….acting a little surly….or a little squirrelly….and got into it with your mom. You argued a bit. You shouted a bit. Maybe you even sassed and cursed a bit. Pretty soon, things got so out of hand, one of you had to leave. So you did.
If you lived in a two-story house, you stomped up the stairs. Then you stormed into your room. Then you slammed the door to your room. That would show her. You’d stay there till hell froze over, if necessary. After all, this was your space. You had books to read there….games to play there….a radio to listen to there. Maybe you even had a television or a computer there. So you settled in for a spell. But as the afternoon wore on, your room seemed less and less connected to the rest of the house, and more and more resembled the proverbial “far country.”
Meanwhile, outside your door, life went on. Your siblings came home, talking about their day. Nobody asked about yours. Phones rang. Phones were answered. People came and went. Finally, your father came home. You figured she’d tell him. Then you figured he’d tell you. Plenty. But either she didn’t. Or he didn’t. Daylight turned to darkness.
But now, in addition to the sounds outside your door, there began to be smells outside your door. Some of the smells were chicken. Fried chicken. Which probably meant that there were mashed potatoes, too. But you couldn’t smell them. Although there was just a hint of the garlic that might be in them. And the cornbread. Make no mistake about it. That was clearly your mother’s cornbread. Pretty soon you could hear the sound of food moving from pans to platters to plates. People were getting ready to eat. But you weren’t ready to eat. Because you still had your anger. And your pride. Especially your pride. And as much as you wanted to swallow the chicken, you weren’t willing to swallow your pride. At least not yet.
Maybe you could scarf up some leftovers when everybody scattered. But they’d be cold then. And you’d have to eat them alone then. Still, you had your pride. And hell still hadn’t frozen over.
Which was when you heard the sound of footsteps on the stairway….heavy footsteps on the stairway. Surely there’d be “hell to pay” now. Brace yourself. Bite the bullet. Get it over with. But then the footsteps stopped. Having counted them, you knew that they had stopped on the landing. Apparently, they weren’t going any farther. Which was when you heard the voice….oddly calm….strangely ordinary….reasonably moderated: “Hey, Billy, chicken’s done….family’s home….table’s set….why don’t you join us for dinner?” Which didn’t mean that you’d gotten away with anything. But which did mean that it was safe to come downstairs.
Note: I am indebted to J. Elsworth Kalas for his creative suggestion about the importance of the table as a civilizing and reconciling metaphor.
