A place at the table

Preached at Frazer Mennonite Church 

January 26, 2020

Based on Matthew 9:9-15

 

I have vivid memories of my grandparent’s house when I was growing up.  It was a safe place, a place where I knew I was loved unconditionally. My grandparents thought my flutophone playing was brilliant (it wasn’t), they thought my charcoal art phase was frame worthy (it really wasn’t), and they wanted to hear everything about my life and what I was learning and thinking about.  

The places where we talked about those things was at the table.  There were two important tables at my grandparents house–the dining room table and the kitchen table.  Now, the dining room table was basically a showpiece. We walked by this table on the way to the kitchen.  We rarely ate there, and only on special occasions. And I don’t remember those special occasions happily. Because we had to act right, or get flicked by a parent.  And we had to be very careful because grandmom pulled out her special wedding china for this moment.  

Grandmom chose this blue danube china when she got married because it looked like the popular blue willow china, but it was a little more elegant, and little less busy to look at, and not nearly as many people had it.  It was unique and special, not not just anyone got to use it. I only remember eating on this china at thanksgiving and a special birthday here or there.  

And I was terrified to use it.  Because God forbid we broke it. My grandmother was a forgiving woman, but I didn’t want to test those limits, by chipping her beautiful much beloved china.  And how did I know she felt this way? Because we could crawl under the roll top desk, we could dance and spin in her living room, but if we walked by the china hutch and it rattled in the slightest, we would hear her yell for us to stop running in the dining room.  We swore she had eyes in the back of her head, and had been specially equipped with sonar.  

The dining room was for the well behaved, the righteous among us, those of us who knew how to act, and were sure not to break the nice china.  The dining room was not our favorite place in grandmom’s house.  

It was the kitchen.  Because there we ate from her everyday dishes, the ones that looked like diner plates.  They were scratched and well worn, they were the everyday dishes for everyday people. These dishes reminded me of bean with bacon soup, homemade apple sauce that was still a little frozen, lima beans, and sugar cookies served with sherbet after we ate a respectable amount of food on our plates.  But mostly these dishes reminded me of our conversations.  

It was at the little table in the kitchen that my brother and I talked to our grandparents about the books we were reading, or the things we were learning about.  It was there that I asked my Quaker raised grandfather about his military service, his beliefs about pacifism and there that we debated the finer points of the first Iraq war.  It was around the table that I learned stories about my grandmother and her more onery twin sister, and how they grew up the only girls in a house full of boys.  

It was there around the table, where we had no pretense of perfection, where we didn’t care about the unswept floor or the chipped dishes.  There at the kitchen table my love for my grandparents expanded and deepend, and there over a plate of jello and cool whip, I learned about my family, who I was from, and how that was making me who I am.  

Meals–I have learned–are a powerful opportunity to build friendships across lines.  

My mom, was not much of a cook, and neither was my dad.  My dad could make two things–shoo fly pie and molasses crinkles–and my mom’s go to dinner was nachos.  So basically, it’s a miracle I’m alive right now.  

While my parent’s skills may not have been in the kitchen, they did model something to me about the table.  When I was growing up, folks would always just show up at our door. Some wanted to visit, others wanted my dad’s advice on their car problems.  But it always seemed to be at dinner. And there was always space for someone to be added.  

I always loved that about my family.  We never knew who would show up for dinner.  These people became dear to us because we had shared a meal with them. Our family dinners were simple, on plates that my mom won with rewards from the IGA grocery promotions.  They weren’t anything special. But they didn’t need to be. It was the time around the table that was important.  

Jesus loved meeting people in their homes and around food.  In fact, after Jesus called Matthew to follow him, they ended up at Matthew’s house, eating with Matthew’s friends, those that the religious and righteous considered to be sinners.  The conversation around the table, the laughter, the shared food and hospitality were a key part of the ministry.  

Because at the table, there is an equalizing effect.  We all need to eat, right? And food is about nourishing our body, and about enjoyment. And there’s something disarming about a good meal.  It opens us to joy and conversation. And maybe, we learn some new things about the people at the table with us. 

The Pharisees must have followed Jesus and Matthew to Matthew’s home, because they saw this jubilant meal, a table full of sinners surrounding Jesus, and they were stressed.  

The Pharisees were keepers of the law.  They protected the law, because they were worried about the ways that the Jewish laws would be compromised by the Roman occupying forces.  So following the law to the letter became very important. That meant to the Pharisees a deep concern for physical and spiritual cleanliness–that meant not associating with the spiritually and physically unclean.  

So Jesus’ meal with Matthew and his “sinner” friends was troubling.  

But who were these sinners?  

Matthew would have been considered a sinner.  He was a tax collector, collecting taxes on behalf of Rome from his own people.  It was an unpopular job. People didn’t want to hang out with him because he was working for the enemy, and he was taking the money of his neighbors, family and friends for the work of the governing authorities.  It was lonely work. 

So Matthew’s only other friends were the other social outcasts of the time, others that would dare to dine with Matthew.  Other tax collectors and social outsiders.  

And Jesus came to them, and gathered them to the table.  He shared food with them. He learned about their lives, and shared stories and laughter with them.  

When the Pharisees whispered about this scandal near Jesus, he responded to their whispers, saying, “I have come to call not the righteous, but the sinners.”  

The Pharisees, folks like you and I, were concerned about preserving their faith, maintaining their integrity in difficult times.  But in doing that, they lost the vision. They forgot that the concern for purity, meant exclusion from the table. And Jesus, in this story and in so many others, modelled a table that included and welcomed all.  

Here’s a hard truth: If we think we have it all together, Jesus did not come for us.  If we are the righteous–or in some translations is reads, the “self righteous”, Jesus didn’t come for us.  But if we are sinners, Jesus is inviting us to this table.  

And if we are following Jesus, who brought outsiders in and made friends out of strangers, we are inviting our neighbors to our table too.  

I have a little bit of a complex about inviting people to my table.  Because the table we have has scratches and signs of wear. And my ikea dishwear has scratches that make the plate look more grey than white.  My house is often tidy but rarely as clean as I’d like it to be. I worry about what people will think about my 100% lovable and overly friendly puppy.  I worry that my food isn’t that great.  

But then I also wonder why I let that stop me. Everyone’s house is a mess.  Everyone’s busy. Everyone has an overeager, dog or child or feels ambivalent about their cooking.  Everyone has chipped dishes or a wobbly chair.  

Jesus was at the table with people a lot.  His ministry, from beginning to literally the end, is focused on him at a meal with something as simple as bread and wine (or grape juice).  It wasn’t anything fancy.  

In fact the last meal Jesus shared with his disciples was literally thrown together, with Jesus saying, you find a room where we can eat.  And all of you, remember me when you eat together after I die. 

I want to envision that meal today not at some stuffy dining room table but at a kitchen table, using everyday plates, not the special ones that we’re afraid to put out.  I envision a table set with mismatched glasses, with pots right off the stove placed on a dish towel trivet.  

This text has felt like a challenge to me, so I’m going to share this challenge with you.  Can we do more eating together? Can we move our meal sharing beyond the communion table, beyond the Sunday fellowship meal, and into each other’s homes?  And can we move our meal eating beyond eating with people who are exactly like us? Can we invite in folks that are on the edges of our social circles? Can we make family out of strangers?  

Your house doesn’t have to be perfect.  You can have dust bunnies playing on your hardwood, and a stain on your table cloth.  You can have mismatched silverware and stacks of books on the floor. Your food doesn’t have to be gourmet, and it doesn’t even have to be great.  Because what carries that meal–what makes it special–is that we have expanded our table, extended our reach beyond our small circle and made friends of strangers.  We have invited our fellow sinners to the table, where we are sure to experience Christ. 

So, my friends, my fellow sinners, let’s do as Jesus taught us.  Let’s confess together that we are sinners in need of Jesus. We are far from righteous.  We need to eat with each other, we need to deepen relationships, we need to widen our welcome to expand who can come to the table.  Because Jesus has not come for the perfect, the righteous, the self-righteous. Jesus has come for us sinners. We need Jesus. We need the bread of life.  We need the cup of salvation.  AMEN.