“Table of Welcome”

      At a recent planning meeting of faith leaders preparing for a November worship service, the old spiritual, The Welcome Table, was presented as a possible theme. The song was written by anonymous author, who, scholars agree was likely enslaved. The song and theme of tables put me in mind of a sermon I heard a number of years ago by a friend named Kay.

         Kay spoke about her mother’s dining room table as a symbol for true hospitality. She talked about how many people over the years had sat at that table and been served by her mother. There were her children, of course, grandchildren, siblings, cousins, all manner of family members. There were also friends of family members. There were husbands and wives and significant others, roommates and colleagues. There were folks of different nationalities, different races, different languages, different sexual orientations and different religions. There were some that came many times and some who only sat at that table once. There were some who laughed and some who cried and some who conversed and some who sat in silence.

      There was a variety of folks at Kay’s mother’s table, all of them bringing with them their own unique story, their own set of traditions, their own ideas about what happens at a family’s dining room table. But one thing was exactly the same for them all. Kay’s mother served each one with a kind and open heart. She didn’t deny hospitality or supper to anyone. It didn’t matter to her the color of her guest’s skin, who they loved, where they went to school, or how they worshipped. She never asked personal histories or religious affiliations or how it was they prayed. She simply served them. She served them with grace and hospitality and acceptance. Kay remembers that her mother’s dining room table was the one place where she knew that everyone was received and welcomed and affirmed.

           As I reflect on Kay’s mother’s dining room table, I have thought about the tables in my life. I thought about my grandmother’s kitchen table, an old Formica style with the narrow band of chrome around its edge, metal chairs with vinyl seats and backs, a thin plastic cloth covering the top. I recall how my uncle and aunt always added folding chairs when we came, making room for everyone to sit together. I remember my mother-in-law’s table, how she ironed the linen table cloth and always used her best china when I came to her house to visit. I remember the small dining room table in my own home and how it would take at least two of us to pull the table a part and add the leaf in the center when guests and friends would join us.

           Religious people like to think that the most sacred places are altars in churches, the lofty pulpit or sacristy. But I’d have to disagree. The most sacred place I know is the dining room or the kitchen table in a home where love and meals are served easily and cheerfully, a table, a home, where everyone is welcomed.

You are the light of the world. 

Yours,

Lynne