The Table of Hope

Years ago, I was at a pastors conference in Long Beach, California. One of the speakers was Pastor Choco De Jesús, a pastor from Chicago who had become internationally known.

About fifteen minutes before he was supposed to speak, I noticed him standing outside the auditorium talking with people. There was a green room available to him, so I walked over and asked him why he was out there instead of preparing backstage.

He told me something I've never forgotten.

“In all my speaking, I never want to stop being a pastor. I always want to make sure that I smell like sheep.”

In other words, I don't want to lead people from a distance. I want to know them. I want to be close enough to understand what they're walking through.

I think that's the heart behind Proverbs 27:23: “Be sure you know the condition of your flocks, give careful attention to your herds.”

That word know carries the idea of knowing something face-to-face. Don't simply rely on reports. Know the faces of your sheep. Know them up close and personal.

And giving “careful attention” is more than observation. There's affection involved. It's not just having your eyes on people. It's having your heart turned toward them.

As a pastor, I've been trying to do that.

Through conversations in the lobby and observations of what's happening throughout our culture, I've noticed something that concerns me. There is a growing sense of isolation, division, anger, anxiety, fear, and loneliness.

And I believe Scripture has something to say about it.

I believe one of God's answers is surprisingly simple: Come back to the table.

Think about how much our lives have changed.

Centuries ago, the public clock fundamentally changed the way people lived. Before clocks governed our lives, people largely lived according to natural rhythms. You woke with the sun. You worked while there was daylight. You rested when darkness came. The clock gave us the ability to overcome those natural rhythms.

And we got busier.

Then came the light bulb. Suddenly, darkness didn't have to stop us anymore. We could keep working. We could stay awake. We could extend the day long past sunset. We got busier, and we got more tired.

Then, in 2007, the iPhone arrived.

The clock helped us overcome rhythms. The light bulb helped us overcome darkness. The smartphone helped us overcome distance.

Now we can communicate with someone almost anywhere in the world instantly. We can have hundreds or thousands of “friends.” We can know what's happening in someone's life without ever sitting across from them.

Technology delivered on its promise of connection. But somewhere along the way, we began losing intimacy. We can be surrounded by people and still feel completely alone.

That's one of the strange realities of the world we're living in. We have more ways to communicate than any generation before us, but many of us are starving for meaningful relationships.

Loneliness is the gap between the connections we need and the connections we actually have.

And that gap is growing.

We move more frequently. Family structures have changed. Work has entered our homes, blurring the line between when we're working and when we're resting. Technology has given us incredible tools while slowly diminishing some of our ability to have uninterrupted, face-to-face conversations.

We're connected. But are we known? There's a difference.

Maybe one of the things we've underestimated is how much we actually need one another.

And maybe one of the simplest places to begin recovering that connection is somewhere incredibly ordinary: A table.

We need to restore a sacred sense to the table.

We need to move from the tablet to the table.

We need regular rhythms where we put the technology away, look another person in the eyes, share a meal, tell stories, listen, laugh, pray, and remember that relationships aren't an interruption to life.

They're part of what makes life meaningful.

There's a story about an Australian man named Don Ritchie who lived near a place known as “the Gap,” a cliff that had tragically become known for the number of people who went there intending to end their lives.

One day, Ritchie saw someone approaching the edge. He walked out of his home, went over to the person, and simply asked, “Is there anything I can do to help you?” Then he offered an invitation. Before you do what you're thinking about doing, why don't you come back to my house and have a cup of tea?

Over the course of his life, Ritchie had hundreds of conversations like that. Think about the simplicity of it. A table. A cup of tea. A conversation. A human being looking another human being in the eyes and saying, in essence, You don't have to be alone right now.

Sometimes hope looks like a table.

And when you begin looking through Scripture, you discover that tables—and what happens around them—are everywhere.

In fact, some of God's first words to humanity are an invitation to eat.

In Genesis 2, God tells Adam, “You are free to eat from any tree in the garden.”

Then travel all the way to Revelation 22 and listen to the invitation:

“Let the one who is thirsty come; and let the one who wishes take the free gift of the water of life.”

Scripture begins with an invitation to eat and ends with an invitation to drink.

And everything in between is the story of God setting a table of salvation before us.

Someone once challenged a theologian to summarize the entire Bible in three phrases. His response was: I love you. I forgive you. Let's eat.

That's pretty good theology.

The story of Scripture moves toward a table. Revelation describes the marriage supper of the Lamb, this incredible banquet where God's redeemed people gather together with Jesus.

But long before we arrive at that table, Jesus gives us another one.

On one of the final nights before the cross, Jesus gathers His disciples around a meal.

He takes bread and says, “This is my body.”

He takes the cup and says, “This is my blood.”

Eat. Drink. Remember.

Jesus takes an ordinary table and turns it into a table of hope.

Because at the Lord's Table, we're reminded that our hope isn't found in our circumstances, our accomplishments, our technology, our schedules, or our ability to hold everything together.

Our hope is Jesus.

His body was broken for us.

His blood was shed for us.

We have been invited to His table.

And that's where this journey begins.

Over the coming weeks, we're going to look at four tables.

There is the Table of Hope—the Lord's Table, where we remember what Jesus has done for us.

There is the Table of Identity—the Family Table, where so much of who we are is shaped through the stories, conversations, and relationships of family.

There is the Table of Authenticity—the Church Table, where we move beyond sitting next to people on Sunday toward actually knowing and being known by one another.

And there is the Table of Hospitality—the Mission Table, where we discover that biblical hospitality brings together the Great Commandment and the Great Commission. We love our neighbor, and we make disciples.

These aren't simply pieces of furniture. They're places where something spiritual happens.

• Hope is remembered.

• Identity is formed.

• Authenticity is practiced.

• Mission is lived.

And in a culture increasingly defined by isolation, division, anxiety, busyness, and loneliness, I believe God's invitation is incredibly timely.

Come to the table.

Put down the phone.

Slow down.

Look somebody in the eyes.

Share a meal.

Know people face-to-face.

Give careful attention to them—not only with your eyes, but with your heart.

And most importantly, take your place at the table Jesus has prepared for you.

Because an untabled faith is an unstable faith.

God has set the table.

And His invitation is still the same: Come.