A decade ago, celebrating our fifth wedding
anniversary, Sara and I went to see a movie about a
couple in their late eighties who had been married for
sixty years. Still Mine is the story of Craig and Irene.
As Irene‘s painful battle with Alzheimer’s Disease
progresses, Craig is determined to build, by hand,
their final home—a simple cabin with a gorgeous view
and an easy-to-navigate floorplan. As he struggles
with zoning boards, building codes, and his wife’s
increasing illness, Craig also reflects on his life.
For me, the most moving scene was an imagined
conversation between the couple. It begins with a slow
camera sweep across their dining room table. Zoomed
in, you see the scratches and dents, the marks and
chips in the wood. Craig, seated in that dining room,
begins, “Do you remember when I built this table?”
Isolated in her memory care unit across town, Irene
answers, “We had been using a sawhorse and planks
for so many years I’d given up on ever getting a proper
one.” Craig then describes in detail the process: milling
the boards with his father, putting twelve coats of finish
on to protect it. Irene reminds him with laughter that
it didn’t help when one of their children spilled ink on
it. And this prompts Craig’s honest reflection. He says,
“The first few years, every nick that table absorbed, I
took personally. It’s all I could see: a dent from a fork,
a scratch from a skate blade, ghost of someone’s
handwriting pressed through a single piece of paper.
There were a lot of times I regretted to myself not
making that table out of oak. But, as the years have
gone by, the scars added up, and the imperfections
turned that table into something else entirely. That’s
the thing about pine…holds a lot of memories.”
The scene is a metaphor for what matters. A parable.
The table. It is a picture of life—the untidiness, the
disorder, the mess, the memories, the love. The times
of overwhelming joy when the table was filled with
abundance of every kind and people from everywhere,
and those moments of unbearable grief when every seat
save one was empty. All of life happens at the table.
In the Christian community, tables have always
mattered. From the very beginning, they are gathering
places. They hold memories. They recall our purpose.
They reveal our identity. They show us who we are.
In this morning’s text, Paul returns to the central issue
of division. Remember, this letter is addressed to a
congregation Paul launched and a people he loved, a
church struggling to remember its identity and recall
its purpose. This time, the division is over worship
itself, and it seems that the Corinthian Christians have
designed a tiered approach to the celebration of the
Lord’s Supper. Early arrivers, the wealthy and wellconnected, enjoy exclusive fellowship and the best
meal. When the rest of the community finally shows
up, the food is all gone. The early arrivers are satisfied
and, yes, a little tipsy. And Paul is furious. What you are
eating is not the Lord’s Supper. Why not? Because if
the table is not for all, it cannot be Christ’s table. Paul
commands the Corinthians to remember the table
Jesus set, to follow his example. Proper etiquette. Table
manners. When you come together, wait for one another.
Now, before you rush to judge your faith ancestors too
harshly, I must offer a word of context. The wealthy
believers in Corinth were simply behaving according to
accepted social norms. It was expected that those with
money and power would gather with those of the same
social class. They had us over; we’ll have them over.
Enjoy the best food and drink. Display their abundance
for each other. The Corinthian believers who have the
means to get drunk, to eat their fill, to live in their own
homes, are behaving no differently than anyone else in
such a position. And that is the problem.
This is a different kind of table. The cross deconstructs
barriers that define and divide us. The host at this
table is one who served all—especially those who had
nothing. At his table, we have been called to remember
him by doing what he did.
Last weekend, Hurricane Helene brought catastrophic
destruction to areas across the Southeast. One of the
towns hit hardest was Black Mountain, North Carolina,
where our family has traveled several times a year for
as long as I can remember. Indeed, some of my earliest
memories took place in those ancient mountains.
It was there on a conference at Montreat that I first
experienced God’s gentle nudge toward a call to
pastoral ministry.
My dear friend Mary Katherine Robinson is the
pastor of Black Mountain Presbyterian Church. The
church sits in the literal center of that small town.
Last Saturday evening, we were able to connect
briefly when she had cell service for a few moments.
The report she offered was difficult to take. “Chris,
Montreat is so, so sad. So much damage and loss.” Not
long after that, Mary Katherine posted an update on
social media. She described how she had spent that
Saturday. How, in a matter of hours, the church parking
lot was transformed into a banquet hall. Bounty and
Soul, a local nonprofit was providing some food for
local firefighters, and soon the burger joint in town,
Mac’s, gave fifty pounds of ground beef. Not long after,
members of the church and the community started
showing up with the contents of their freezers and
refrigerators. And they all asked the question engraved
on the communion table in the sanctuary. The question
from Jesus. Has everyone been fed? Mary Katherine
wrote: “We’ll be feeding people Sunday afternoon
from 2 to 4. If you have frozen meat, bring it by. We’ll
be making pots of soup and handing out whatever
we have to give. If you need a place to sleep, you’re
welcome.” In the last seven days, that church has fed
thousands of their neighbors, providing a ray of hope in
a time of such sadness and loss.
I heard from Mary Katherine last night. She wrote
these words: “The terror and the horror leaves me
speechless. We’re lamenting. But, my God, the love. It
makes all the difference and reminds me of the beauty
of the human spirit, that we will rebuild. We will repair.
We will continue to love this beautiful town and every
person in it!”
When everyone is fed, this is the Lord’s Table. When
the invitation is to all, this is the Lord’s Table. Come
exactly as you are. Bring whatever you have. Take what
you need. Listen to Paul. If everyone is not welcome, it
is not communion. If there is not a place reserved for
the stranger, we’ve missed the point.
This morning, with Christian believers all over the
globe, we celebrate World Communion Sunday.
Today, tables will be set in open fields and soaring
cathedrals. Tables will be set in shelters for the
homeless and at hospital bedsides. Tables will be set
in homes that lack electricity. Tables will be set among
gatherings of believers under threat of violence.
Tables will be set in a church parking lot where
homemade soup and bottled water and the embrace
of community will be the body and the blood broken
and poured out for all. In every place where that
happens, sacred words will be spoken.
Do this in remembrance of me.
And we will remember. We will remember that the role
of the church in a time of crisis is to set a table. That
the role of the faithful, when there is not enough, is to
prepare a meal. That the role of the church, when some
are left out, is to invite everyone to share the feast. The
hope of the table is the hope of transformation. Paul
believed that the Corinthian Christians were called to a
different set of standards than those practiced beyond
their community. And so too are we. When we share this
meal, we cannot comfortably return to a world defined
by division or marked by disparities. Yes, the unity of the
body at the Lord’s Table must change us. We who dine
at this table must be redefined by this table.
The covenant you’ve received today describes this
radical redefinition, this new set of standards. So,
when you take the bread and the cup today, take a
moment to consider your call in the weeks ahead. As
heated—even hateful—rhetoric takes over the national
discourse, as neighbors are turned to enemies, we
can embody a different way of being.
We can set a different kind of table. A seat for every
soul. A taste of what God intends for all. So come to this
table, and remember who you are. Amen.