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Open Eyes, Open Table

THE TABLE RUNNETH OVER

WHILE PEOPLE IN RURAL Appalachia rarely sing their own praises, the members of New Dublin do take a great deal of pride in their hospitality. They love to tell the story of an interim moderator who served before I arrived. Apparently, this pastor wanted our session to come to his church and show his members how to put on a potluck supper. Ginny and I learned about the New Dublin expertise in this area almost immediately. Before we were even settled into the manse, there was a potluck held in our honor.

Stepping into the fellowship hall that evening, I took in the scene with a sweeping glance. My gaze was drawn to the table in the middle of the room. It was clean and simple, draped neatly with a white cloth and adorned with a small, colorful arrangement of wildflowers. This table seemed to hold great promise of things to come. As the church members arrived, covered dishes piled up around the flower centerpiece: salads, deviled eggs, pastas, breads, and all manner of meats and vegetables. The table became a heavy-laden cornucopia of bright colors.

Likewise, my mind began to fill up with knowledge of the parishioners. I met one member who had adopted four children from Central America and then met one of her grandchildren, drooling happily in a stroller. I hugged a teary-eyed matriarch of the congregation who recently lost her husband. I squatted down to high-five young children and leaned over to hug people in wheelchairs. I discovered that there were multiple men named Jim and several women named Diane. To avoid confusion, a retired professor from a local university graciously gave me photographs of most of the members with their names written on the back. With a knowing nod, Bernadine explained to me that she learned the names of her students with this method. With such thoughtful and kind actions, I felt a deep sense of confirmation. In smile after smile, hug after hug, I felt that this is the place I am supposed to be. At one point, I looked over at Ginny. Through the half circle of chattering people that had formed around her, she smiled and I hoped that she felt the same way.

When the table was finally full with food, everyone in the room turned expectantly towards me. I took a deep breath. Anticipating this moment, I had planned exactly what I wanted to say ahead of time. But I had not foreseen the incredible hospitality of this reception. I was so touched that I abandoned my memorized script, and, quoting from Psalm 23, simply said that “my cup runneth over.” That phrase from the King James Bible was the best way I knew to speak to the wonderful sense of abundance at that table and with these people. That potluck was a holy communion for me, a sacred gathering of food and fellowship that embodied generosity and hospitality.

MY FIRST COMMUNION

In many traditions, the idea of “first communion” refers to the first time one receives the sacrament. This celebration usually takes place after a period of instruction like confirmation or catechism. I am using the designation in this chapter to refer to the first time I officiated the sacrament because my first communion likewise represents the culmination of theological training. It was truly an important step for me, just as meaningful as my first sermon. After all, I was ordained to be a minister of word and sacrament.

Although presiding at the Lord’s Table was the result of years of study and preparation, I think of my first communion as a starting point rather than an end goal. This also relates to my ordination: I am called to serve these people in this place. Just as I felt a strong sense of confirmation at the welcoming potluck, I believe that the congregation’s perception of me changed after my first communion. I think I became less of the “new pastor” and more of “our pastor.” Paradoxically, this shift may well have occurred because of unplanned events rather than my diligent preparations.

In the days leading up to my first communion, we forgot to appoint elders to serve. Not only that, but an hour before the service, we realized that we did not have grape juice! Thankfully, certain elders had arrived early, and they were calmer than their frazzled pastor. Someone went out and bought the grape juice. Another filled the communion trays with bread and then the communion cups with juice. Three others volunteered to be servers. Thanks to their quick and decisive actions, all of the elements were in place about fifteen minutes before the service.

The elders gathered around the Lord’s Table and listened kindly as I nervously instructed them about the logistics of a ritual that they already knew how to perform. I had practiced for hours in the days before my first communion. I wanted to reciprocate the hospitality that I received at that New Dublin table during the potluck by presiding at the Lord’s Table with grace and dignity. So I had memorized all the various parts of the liturgy.

Without any notes, I got off to a great start. I remembered each line of the responsive prayers. I broke the bread and poured the cup with great flourish. After the elders distributed the bread and the cups, I collected their trays like a veteran, neatly stacked them, and launched into the prayer after communion. Despite my gusto for this prayer, I do remembering having an uneasy feeling that something was wrong.

One of the elders interrupted my prayer by whispering urgently, “Andrew. Andrew. Andrew!” When he finally had my attention, he pointed, first to himself, and then down towards the rest of pew to the servers who sat with puzzled looks. Then it dawned on me that I had forgotten to serve the servers! I was able to suspend the prayer abruptly and distribute the elements. Though embarrassed, I was grateful for the elder’s timely interruption. While the liturgy did not flow as smoothly as I had rehearsed all week, I would have deeply regretted leaving anyone out of the Lord’s Supper.

After the service, most people made passing references to my mistake with gentle amusement in their eyes. I was happy to laugh with them. In reference to that memorable beginning of my first Sunday, we joked that at least my microphone had worked correctly. I think that people appreciate the fact that I am not easily ruffled and can make the best out of my slip-ups. Perhaps such blunders are endearing because they show a human side of a pastor. Over the course of my first year, I heard several approving comments relating to the fact that I am not “too big for my britches.” This culture values modesty.

On a deeper level, I had just preached a sermon about hospitality as a spiritual discipline. Just before I forgot to serve the elders, the body of Christ celebrated our belief that Jesus is the Great Host. Since our risen Lord invites us to his table solely by grace, we ate and drank together as sinners—as people who make mistakes. If this is part of the human condition, then maybe such “mistakes” are really more like opportunities to practice the kind of hospitality that Jesus practiced. Maybe we are modeling for one another the belief that there is nothing that can prevent us from coming to the Lord’s Table—nothing that we could do, or not do, to forfeit our savior’s gracious invitation.

Holy Communion is ultimately about the grace of God. We refer to the Lord’s Table, not Andrew’s table nor New Dublin’s table nor even the Presbyterians’ table. It does not matter if you practiced all week to get the Words of Institution exactly right but flubbed the liturgy or if you came late to church and forgot to bring the grape juice. If the point is that we are all invited, then we witness to this hospitality by welcoming one another. We extend grace to others because Jesus first extended grace to us.

I take a great deal of comfort in the message of grace found at the Lord’s Table. Yet there is a scandalous aspect to practicing radical hospitality in Jesus’ name. It is one thing to talk about worshipping together despite our silly mistakes. But what about the wife whose husband is cheating on her? Is he still invited? Is each spouse involved in this gut-wrenching and heart-breaking situation invited to the same table? What about families that have been torn apart over inheritances? Are both sides of the dispute, even if one is clearly at fault, invited to eat the same bread and drink of the same cup? Such questions provide a challenge for us to live as the body of Christ, even as we break bread in remembrance of him.

Jesus once told a parable about an older brother who was fuming mad because his father threw a grandiose feast for his younger brother. This prodigal son had made many mistakes in a land far away. By his own estimation, he was not worthy to be considered a member of the family, much less the reason for festivity. That was certainly the opinion of the older brother. Still the father throws a celebration for this prodigal and then goes to his other son who was bitterly angry out in the cold fringes of the party’s light. The father lovingly said, “We had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found” (Luke 15:32).

It is striking to me that Jesus ends his parable with these words. What a scandal he places before us! Since the elder brother does not respond to his father, the same question falls into our laps. How might we witness to such grace in our communities today?

For my first communion service, I borrowed an idea from one of my seminary professors, Paul Galbreath. I encouraged the congregation to pray the Great Thanksgiving liturgy with their eyes open.¹ When I prayed from the Lord’s Table, I was able to lock eyes with them. In the exact moments of my first communion prayer, I was mostly in my own head, thinking about the words I had memorized and so carefully practiced ahead of time. As I have reflected on the experience, however, several faces have come to mind: the smile on her face, the tears running down his cheeks, and the look of pride in my parents’ eyes. I treasure these memories of those different faces as snapshots of the scandalous yet beautiful belief that Jesus invites us all to the same table no matter what we are feeling or have experienced beforehand.

In the following weeks, the snapshots of those faces during the prayer became living portraits of people’s lives. I learned that many people received some kind of “first communion” on that Sunday. They ate the bread for the first time without a spouse or for the first time as an expectant mother. They drank from the cup for the first time as an unemployed father or for the first time as a homeowner. Yet no matter what we have done or what has happened to us, the elements of this meal are always the same. With our open eyes fixed on our Lord’s Table, we can see evidence of God’s unchanging love in the breaking of bread and the pouring of the cup. Like the father of Jesus’ famous parable, God “sees” us no matter how far off we have traveled and invites us to the feast (Luke 15:20). For all of the “first-timers” who come to the Lord’s Table, I pray that they will look to these constants to provide a sense of comfort.

Our open eyes can help us with the scandal of grace as well. Like the older brother, we are confronted and challenged by God’s hospitality. In light of what God has done for us, we can learn to see one another other as members of the same family of faith despite our mistakes, errors, and sins. As we pray with our eyes open, we are inspired to practice hospitality. Since we eat at the same table, we should take the time and invest the energy to help during the transitions of the all “firsts” and “lasts” in our lives.

I preached about hospitality that Sunday morning when I served communion for the first time, but I learned about hospitality when I brought communion into homes during the following week. I discovered that hospitality is about sharing strawberries and iced tea before the breaking of the bread and pouring of the cup. When sharing home communion, I found out that there is a great deal of laughter beforehand and sometimes there are tears afterwards. As a result, my prayers are less formal and more personal in someone’s home.

I had to abandon my well-rehearsed communion script in other ways as well. The personal experience of home communion naturally leads to personal exchanges between the pastor and those who receive the sacrament. For instance, one gentleman abruptly interrupted the liturgical prayer to ask about my wife’s new job. On a different occasion, a matriarch of our congregation repeated the Lord’s Prayer with me, but then kept right on going after the “amen,” adding words of thanksgiving for the people of her beloved church. Often a parishioner spills grape juice down his or her shirt while struggling to drink from those tiny glasses. I break off smaller pieces of bread so that the elderly communicant will not accidentally choke, and sometimes I place the food directly in his or her mouth. Thank God for all of these improvisations! Our sacrament does not take place in a vacuum apart from shaky hands and short attention spans, just as the body of Christ cannot be contained by the four walls of a particular church. Neither is the difference between pastor and parishioner so rigidly defined as it can appear to be during the celebration of a sacrament in Sunday worship. All of us are sharing real bread, real juice, and real fellowship together. Whenever and wherever we partake of Holy Communion, the point is that God will be real to us.

In the beautiful text about the journey to Emmaus, the two travelers cannot recognize Jesus on their own (Luke 24:15–16). God must come to us in order to be revealed. Grace is the first cause; and yet there is a task for us. We are to practice hospitality by insisting that even strangers join us around our tables (Luke 24:29). Because God first invited us, we must go to people who cannot come to us. As it was in the breaking of the bread that the companions recognized Jesus, so must we recognize the image of God in each other through sharing the sacrament. In the same Emmaus story, Jesus immediately vanishes after he is recognized (Luke 24:31). It seems to me that we need to continue the practice of breaking bread together in order to see him again. Then we might see our tables at home and at church running over with the abundance of grace.

“TASTE AND SEE”

July 4th, 2010

Luke 10:1–12, 17–20

A discipline is a habit or a training that results in a certain pattern of behavior. If someone were to ask us to compile a list of spiritual disciplines, we would think of activities that are designed to make us faithful Christians. I imagine that we would start with prayer and Bible study. Then we might add regular church attendance, tithing, and fasting. These are well known spiritual disciplines. What about the practice of hospitality? Would that make our list?

Perhaps we don’t usually think of hosting a traveler for dinner as a pattern of Christian behavior; maybe we don’t even think about church potlucks in a spiritual sense. Yet we should adjust our thinking.

Hospitality might not have been the first idea that struck you about this morning’s text. But when Jesus sends out the seventy into the mission field, he invites them to experience the hospitality of others. Jesus instructed these missionaries to remain in the homes that welcomed them, eating and drinking whatever was provided (Luke 10:7). While the missionaries are important, Jesus declares the importance of their hosts as well. The mission of the seventy would not have worked without the generous hospitality of these strangers.

There are also other texts in the Bible that point to the importance of hospitality. Consider the story of Abraham and three unexpected guests who turned out to be angels (Gen 18:1–15). The moral of this account is, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it” (Heb 13:2). As the biblical word for “angel” can be translated as “messenger,” hosting a messenger of Jesus is the practice of entertaining angels.

Hospitality, then, is a spiritual discipline. One of my former professors, Paul Galbreath, has written that hospitality is the practice of meeting with friends or strangers so that we can meet God.² We share a meal and share a laugh; we open our homes and open our hearts; and we discover Emmanuel—God with us.

Today we have the opportunity to practice hospitality by celebrating Holy Communion. The Lord’s Supper is a commemoration of the Last Supper between Jesus and his disciples during the Jewish Passover. As Jesus hosted this meal to symbolize his sacrifice for those seated around his table, our observance of Holy Communion is a celebration of Jesus as the Great Host. Jesus pulls out a chair and invites each one of us to sit down. Grace is the only word to describe such an invitation. God invites us, not because of anything that we have accomplished or merited, but because of what God has done in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. This is the divine practice of hospitality.

But our Great Host gives us a responsibility as well. Whenever we eat this bread and drink this wine, we are reminded of Jesus’ words on the night he was betrayed: do this in remembrance of me. The importance of “doing this” is reflected in the spiritual discipline of hospitality. Communion is not just about our individual relationship with God; instead we are commanded by the remembrance of our Lord to welcome one another, to share food and drink, and to pray together. Just as the mission of the seventy was made possible by the hospitality of strangers, so our acts of welcome can have a profound impact upon others.

Journalist Sara Miles was an atheist. One day, for no apparent reason, she happened to walk into a service and receive communion for the first time. She had never been to this particular church before, yet she was invited to receive the sacrament. What happened next was nothing less than miraculous; in her words, “Jesus happened to me.”³

Her personal experience of Jesus was so profound that Miles converted to Christianity and began to worship regularly at that church. But the story does not end there; something equally as miraculous as her experience of Christ occurred when she started practicing hospitality as a spiritual discipline. She writes, “What happened once I started distributing communion was the truly disturbing, dreadful realization about Christianity: you can’t be a Christian by yourself.”⁴

After this dramatic revelation, Miles started a food pantry to feed the homeless. Her ministry grew until her food pantries fed more than a thousand families every week! How does she explain such an amazing ministry? She wrote in her memoir, “It was about action. Taste and see, the Bible said, and I did. My first, questioning year at church ended with a question whose urgency would propel me into work I’d never imagined: now that you’ve taken the bread, what are you going to do?”⁵

As we celebrate the transformative power of Holy Communion in our lives, I want to take this question to heart. Miles’ emphasized that her experience at the Lord’s Table was about action: taste and see! Communion is an eye-opening experience.

This morning, I invite us to see hospitality as a spiritual discipline. I challenge us to receive communion as a life-altering experience. In just a moment, I invite you to pray the Communion Prayer of Thanksgiving with your eyes open.⁶

By keeping our eyes open, we see the bread being broken and the cup being poured. By keeping our eyes open, we see the people around us. We are reminded that the Lord is our Great Host and that we are called to be hosts for one another. We remember God’s grace that invites us to the table and to serve in our communities.

This table is the Lord’s Table and it is wide open to anyone who would take the bread and the cup. So then, may we come with our eyes wide open, remembering Jesus our Great Host, and staring grace directly in the faces of one another. My friends, taste and see that the Lord is good.

1. Galbreath, Leading from the Table, 109–110.

2. Ibid., 56–57.

3. Miles, Take This Bread, 58.

4. Ibid., 96.

5. Ibid., 97.

6. Galbreath, Leading from the Table, 109–110.