Howdy. It's time to go home for Thanksgiving
break. If you're not really sure what you're
walking into as you come home from college, you
know you and your dad cannot talk about politics.
Not because either one of you lacks for opinions,
but because both of you have way too many. Your
mom has opinions about, well, everything you've
done the last few months. Your sleep schedule,
your major, your laundry habits, anyone you might
be dating, possibly your haircut, definitely
your diet. Your brother is annoyed by your existence,
which to be fair has been his spiritual gift
since birth. And your sister loves you, but maybe
resents that you left, and she's still the one
doing the dishes. And all of that is waiting
for you. As you walk in the door, drop your bag,
take a breath, and suddenly realize something
simple, you are really hungry. Sure, you've survived
on pizza rolls and technically they're edible
and legally considered food in most states, nutritionally
questionable, but don't even get started on the
ramen. There's a deeper hunger though, a hunger
for a place where you're safe, where no one is
grading you, where you don't have to prove anything.
where you can just be you. And somehow, even
with all the opinions and tensions and unresolved
group chats, home is still that place. Because
at home, there's a table. And at that table,
there's a chair. And somehow, that chair will
always be yours. Sometimes, though, it isn't
even a holiday table. Sometimes, though, we find
ourselves at a hospital room with cold takeout
balanced on a rolling tray, family members who
haven't slept, paper cups of coffee that have
long since gone lukewarm, and still someone says,
did you eat? You should eat something. Because
no matter where you are or the circumstance,
there are some people where you always belong
and are cared for. Not because food fixes everything
and not because the moment isn't still fragile
and frightening But because sitting down together
Even in the middle of fear is a quiet way of
saying You are not alone You still belong here
and that small ordinary table wherever it may
be becomes a place of mercy So what does it mean
when you know that there's a table waiting for
you? and a place already set with your name on
it. When that quiet longing, that deep, stubborn
hunger is closer to longing for God than we usually
admit. Not with arguments prepared, not with
performances, but with invitation. Because Scripture
keeps telling the same story. God does not meet
us with a test. God meets us with a table. And
if you remember what we saw in baptism, God meets
us in ordinary ways. Water poured on a humble
head. Promises spoken. A new life quietly begun.
Not with spectacle or performance. Just water.
Words. Promise. And somehow, through something
that's ordinary, God says, you are mine. You
belong. Welcome home. God's presence turns the
ordinary into something extraordinary. Coming
to God's table is not about impressing Him. It's
about coming home. It's about discovering you
were invited before you ever knocked on the door.
So imagine being a people with the table set
before you in the wilderness and not quite knowing
what to do with it. Israel had just left Egypt.
and 400 years of slavery. Freedom is still new
for them. Generations who had never tasted freedom.
Generations who had forgotten what dignity felt
like. Suddenly, they're free. Which sounds wonderful,
until you realize freedom also means no ready
food supply. No army. No map. No idea what comes
next. Freedom is glorious. And freedom is also
terrifying. And now they stand at Mount Sinai,
a place where they are called a place meant to
be safe, a place where they are named the people
of God, and yet also astonishing. But what is
astonishing is not just the thunder, the fire,
the giant cloud, the ground trembling beneath
their feet. It is that God is here and He is
drawing them close. not to destroy them, not
to test whether they're worthy, but to bring
them to His table. If you were there, you would
expect judgment. Distance, a warning line in
the sand, do not come near to God, but something
astonishing happens instead. The leaders of Israel
go up the mountain into the presence of God.
and they eat their meal. Try to feel how strange
that moment really is. Sandals scraping against
stone, air thick with smoke and thunder still
echoing in their bones, every step upward wondering
if this is the step where holiness breaks out
against them. Because all their lives they had
learned that sinners do not stroll casually into
the presence of the living God. And yet, There
is no lightning strike. There's no voice of condemnation.
There's no command to turn back. It's only a
table. Only food. Only the quiet permission to
sit and live. Holiness did not consume them.
Holiness made room for them. And the most astonishing
miracle on that mountain was not the fire, or
the cloud, or the shaking earth. It was that
sinners sat down in peace and ate in the presence
of God. Not a table in the presence of enemies,
but a table in the presence of holiness. Because
God's first instinct is not destruction, it is
welcome. We know that these are not perfect people.
We already know the failures that will come.
golden calves with Aaron and the people complaining
against Moses, power struggles, and even broken
worship with Nadab and Abihu. And still, God
welcomes them to eat in His presence. If God
were waiting for holiness first, this meal would
never happen. But God's table is not where the
worthy are rewarded. It is where the unworthy
are received. and slowly transformed. Which means
the meal itself is grace. That sounds strangely
familiar, doesn't it? This tells us something
beautiful about God's heart toward us. He welcomes
us to eat, gathers us near, and brings us to
the place where we belong before we have become
who we are meant to be. Blessed are the poor
in spirit. Blessed are the meek, blessed are
the hungry. Not the impressive, not the powerful,
not the put together, just the ones who come
hungry. And like the Beatitudes, God's blessing
rests not on the impressive, but on the humble,
the meek, the ordinary, those willing simply
to receive. At God's table, fear becomes welcome,
and welcome becomes the beginning of everything
new. What a strange thing, really, to sit in
the presence of God and simply eat. No fear,
no proving, just a presence as powerful as we
need it to be. And yet, when we are welcomed,
when we finally find a place where we belong,
we often take it for granted, because it feels
so normal. So every day. But fast forward centuries.
This is what we've been seeing these past weeks
from Jesus. In baptism where something as simple
as water becomes a doorway into the kingdom.
In the Beatitudes where the blessed are not the
impressive but the humble, the meek, the ordinary.
In being salt and light where faithfulness looks
less like fireworks and more like feeding the
hungry. caring for the poor and loving your neighbor,
whoever they may be. But now we're on another
mountain. Different people, same God. Peter,
James, and John, they climb up with Jesus. Suddenly,
everything changes. Suddenly, this quiet, ordinary
road explodes with glory. Light brighter than
sunlight. History... standing there in conversation,
the weight of glory pressing into the air. This
is the kind of moment that the religious people
were dreaming about. Light, voices, Moses, Elijah,
proof, power, vindication of everything they
had been doing. Finally, something undeniable.
And Peter thinks, this is it. The turning point.
The moment God fixes everything. The moment that
the power of the Messiah arrives. There's Elijah.
This is what we were expecting. This is the day
everyone finally understands the Messiah is here.
And of course he thinks that. Because he spent
his whole life under the weight of someone else's
empire. watching his people strain under taxes
and soldiers and shame, hearing promises that
someday God would act, really act, and set things
straight with someone powerful. So when the mountain
suddenly burns with glory, when the heroes of
Israel's story are standing there alive, when
heaven itself feels close enough to touch, how
could this not be the moment that everything
changes. And of course he wants to hold onto
it. Of course he wants to build something permanent.
Because if the glory could just stay, then maybe
the suffering wouldn't have to come. So he starts
talking. Because when humans encounter something
glorious, we either fall silent, or we start
building plans. Let's build tents. Let's organize
this. Let's capture the moment, because Peter
still expects a messiah of spectacle, of judgment
against their foes, of reversal of so much evil,
of fire from heaven to bring their victory. But
heaven interrupts him. Not with instructions
to build, not with strategy. Just a voice Listen
to my son Because the glory on the mountain is
that's not the destination It's a sign pointing
somewhere quieter, but far more costly Jesus
is not asking for people to perform. He does
not want this moment to become the focus be still
receive listen The glory is real, but the invitation
is quiet. They had already heard that invitation
once, from the voice crying in the wilderness,
prepare the way, repent, be made humble, and
many didn't listen. Which means they were not
going to recognize the kind of Messiah that Jesus
truly is. The one who doesn't come with spectacle,
but with presence. down the mountain, toward
the suffering, toward the table, toward the cross.
And that is much harder for people to accept
than fireworks, because we still prefer a dazzling
God over the present one we have. But the kingdom
keeps arriving in smaller ways. Water on a forehead,
bread in your hand, wine on our lips, love in
ordinary places. God's glory rarely shouts. More
often it sits quietly beside you and waits to
be noticed. Our witness then is not to be spectacular,
it is that we live faithfully in ordinary love.
Because God's glory so often appears not in dazzling
moments but in the quiet places where He is already
near. the places where we can truly know Him.
Not only as God above us, but as God with us,
as God in the flesh. And then comes the night
when everything falls apart. Betrayal was in
motion, denial was already whispering in the
shadows, and violence was only hours away. Jesus
knows what is coming. He sees the cross ahead.
If there were ever a moment for Jesus to display
power, this would be it. And what does He do?
He sets a table. No army, no escape plan, no
giant explanation or defense of His ministry,
no final miracle to leave with one final display
of glory. He sits down. He eats. He drinks. He
stays with the ones that He loves. the friends
who do not yet understand. He gives them the
holiest moment of all with an ordinary meal made
extraordinary by His presence. An ordinary room,
quiet, lit by flickering light, hands reaching
for the bread the way they always have, voices
murmuring, someone shifting in their seat, someone
avoiding eye contacts. Nothing that looks like
the end of the world, but nothing that looks
like salvation either. But Jesus gives them bread.
He gives them wine. He gives them Himself. When
the world was breaking, Jesus did not explain
it. He fed them. This is what communion is. And
this is what happens every time we gather at
God's table. Not perfection. Not spectacle. Not
something polished or impressive, but simply
this, the presence of Christ. Hungry people fed
at His table. Grace given freely and abundantly
to everyone. And we discover again that we belong
to one another as His body. Ordinary elements
with extraordinary mercy. Not because of what
we feel, but because of what He promises. And
just as in baptism, this is grace, not that we
achieve, but that's freely given. And in God's
hands, even bread and wine become more than ordinary.
They carry His presence. They proclaim His sacrifice.
They feed us with a life that is not our own,
a miraculous reality given in the simplest way
possible. Not distant, not just symbolic. but
God Himself drawing near to gather His people
at the table of His love. And suddenly, Sinai
makes sense. The mountain of glory makes sense
because they were always leading here to this
table, to God feeding His people. As we are entering
this season of Lent, we remember something simple
yet easily forgotten. The miracle is not in the
spectacular. It is in the ordinary presence of
God. A meal with the elders. Jesus feeding His
disciples. A quiet table of communion. The glory
is not in what we do to earn it, but in what
God has already done. Welcoming us, feeding us,
inviting us to sit at His table. Because God
is with us in the weakness. God is feeding us.
in His mercy. God is staying when we would have
walked away. So we don't come to perform. We
are here to receive. And having been fed, then
we are sent. Not to dazzle the world, but to
love it. To be salt, to be light, to carry everyday
ordinary grace into everyday ordinary times.
Because the table is not the end of the story.
It is the beginning of a people sent into the
world not to impress, but to remain faithful
in a thousand unseen moments. Because Christ
has already set our table. We are already welcomed.
We're already fed. We're already home. So as
you leave today and go back into the rest of
your life for the week, the presence of Christ
is with you. You carry it into kitchens, offices,
hospitals, classrooms, quiet conversations that
none of the rest of us will ever see. In your
relationships, in your work, in every quiet place
where love is given in His name. And that, more
than any mountain of light, is where the glory
of God keeps appearing. Because the glory of
God is not only on the mountaintop. It's here,
with you. with our everyday life. One day, after
all the long roads that you've walked, after
every sorrow that you've followed, after every
hunger you tried to hide, you will come to a
home you did not build, and the door will already
be open. The light will be on and the table will
be set. And your chair will be waiting with your
name. Not because you made it home on your own
but because Christ has made a home for you Welcome
home. Thanks be to God