Howdy. It's time to go home for Thanksgiving
break, and you're not really sure what you're
walking into as you come home from college. You
know that you and your dad cannot talk about
politics, not because either of you lacks opinions,
but because both of you have way too many. Your
mom has opinions, too, about everything that
you've done over the last few months. your sleep
schedule, your major, your laundry habits, possibly
your haircut, and definitely your diet. Your
brother is annoyed by your very existence because,
to be fair, that seems to have been his spiritual
gift since birth. And your sister loves you but
maybe resents that you left for college and she's
still the one who has to do the dishes. All of
this is waiting for you as you come home and
you walk in the door You drop your bag, you take
a breath, and suddenly you realize something
very simple. You're so hungry. Sure, you've survived
on pizza rolls, okay? Technically, they're edible
and legally considered food in most of the bottom
48. 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 home, there's a chair, and somehow
that chair is always your chair. Sometimes, though,
it's not even a holiday table. Sometimes the
table we find ourselves at is 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 grown lukewarm.
But still, even at the times when things feel
the most strained, someone is still saying, did
you eat yet? You should eat something. Not because
food fixes everything, and not because the moment
is not somehow 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 end up being, becomes
a place of mercy. So what does it mean when you
know that there's a table waiting for you? A
place that already has your name on it. When
that quiet longing, when that deep stubborn hunger
is closer to longing for God than we usually
admit. Not with the arguments that we had prepared
and not with the performances in front of relatives,
but with an 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 have seen in baptism, God
meets us in these ordinary ways. Water poured
on a humble head, promises spoken, a new life
quietly begun. Not with spectacle, not with performance,
just water, words, promise. And somehow, though
something may be so ordinary, God says, you are
mine, you belong, welcome home. God's presence
turns the ordinary into something extraordinary.
Coming to God's table, it's not about impressing
him. It's about coming home. It's about discovering
you were invited before you even knocked on the
door. Imagine being a people with the table set
before you go in the wilderness, not quite knowing
what to do with it. See, Israel has just left
Egypt and 400 years of slavery. Freedom... is
still a new thing for them. Generations who never
tasted freedom, generations who forgot what dignity
felt like, and suddenly they're free, which sounds
wonderful until you realize freedom also means
no easy 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, where they've been called, where they're
meant to be safe, named by God, but not sure
what's going to happen. And they are astonished.
But what's astonishing is not just the thunder,
the fire, the giant cloud and the ground trembling
beneath their feet. It is that God is here and
drawing them close to Himself. Not to destroy
them and not to test them about whether they're
worthy But to bring them to a stable See if you
were there you would expect judgment Keep a safe
distance a warning line in the sand do not come
near here But something astonishing happens instead
the leaders of Israel go up the mountain into
the presence of God His very feet right there
and they eat a meal Try to feel how strange that
moment really is Sandals were scraping against
the stone. The air was thick with smoke and thunder
still echoing in their bones every step upward
They're wondering if this is the step where the
holiness breaks out against them and it is all
over Because all their lives they had learned
that sinners do not stroll casually into the
presence of the living God. But there's no lightning
strike. There's no voice of condemnation. There's
no command to turn back. Only a table and food
and the quiet permission to sit and to live.
Because 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 of enemies,
it is welcome. We know that these are not perfect
people. We already know the failures that are
going to come. The golden calf with Aaron himself.
The complaining by the elders. The power struggles
with Miriam and Elder. Even the broken worship
with Nadab and Abihu. But still, God welcomes
them to eat in his presence. If God were waiting
for holiness to happen first, the meal would
never happen. God's table though. It's it's not
where the worthy are rewarded if that's what
you're expecting you are sorely disabused of
that notion but it is a place where the unworthy
are received and slowly transformed The meal
itself is the grace that transforms us and that
sounds strangely familiar doesn't it it sounds
something like the heart of God beautiful as
he welcomes us to eat, as he gathers near, as
he brings us to the table where we belong before
we became who we're 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 ones, the ones who are hungry.
And like the Beatitudes, God's blessing rests
not on being impressive, but on the humble, the
meek, the ordinary, the ones who are humble enough
simply to receive. At God's table, fear becomes
welcome, and welcome becomes the beginning of
everything new in your life. What a strange thing,
really. To sit in the presence of God and simply
eat. No fear, no proving something, just a presence
as powerful as we need it to be. But when we're
welcomed, when we finally find that place where
we belong, then we take it for granted. It feels
too normal. It feels too everyday. It feels like
we do this every week. Is it really that big
a deal? But I want you to fast forward a few
centuries. This is what we have been seeing these
past weeks from Jesus. In baptism where something
as simple as water is a doorway into the kingdom.
In the Beatitudes where the blessed are not the
impressive but the humble, the meek, the ordinary.
And in being salt and light where faithfulness
looks less like fireworks and more like feeding
the hungry, caring for the poor, loving a neighbor.
No light shows. No swinging down from the balcony.
Caring. for the ones in need now we're on another
mountain different people same god peter james
john they climb up with jesus and suddenly everything
changes the transfiguration 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
would have dreamed of. Light, voices, Moses,
Elijah, power, proof, vindication of everything
those disciples had been doing. Finally, something
undeniable. Everybody needs to see, right? And
Peter thinks this is it. This is the turning
point. This is the moment that God fixes everything.
This is the moment that the power arrives. There's
Elijah. This is what we were waiting for. This
is the day everyone finally understands what
Jesus the Messiah is doing, right? 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, set things right. So when the
mountain suddenly burns with glory and the heroes
of Israel's past are standing there alive, when
heaven itself feels close enough to touch, how
could this not be the moment that everything
changes, right? Of course Peter wants to hold
on to it. Of course he wants to hold something
permanent, build, because if the glory can stay,
then maybe the suffering will go away. And all
this stuff that Jesus had been talking about
won't have to happen. So Peter starts talking.
Because when humans encounter glory, we either
fall silent or we start making stupid building
plans. Let's build the tents. Let's organize
this. Let's capture the moment because Peter
still expects a Messiah as a spectacle Judgment
against their foes reversal of so much evil 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 not the
destination. It never was. It's a sign pointing
somewhere quieter. It's far more quiet, but far
more costly. Jesus is not asking Peter, James,
or John, or anybody to perform. 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,
remember him? Prepare the way, repent, be made
humble. People didn't listen then, which means
that they were never going to recognize the kind
of Messiah who doesn't come with spectacle. who
only comes with a quiet presence. So down the
mountain they come, toward the suffering, toward
the table, toward the cross. And that's a lot
harder to accept than fireworks. Because we would
prefer to have a dazzling God over the quiet
present one. The kingdom keeps arriving in these
small ordinary ways. the water on a forehead,
the bread in the hand, the wine on the lips,
the love in ordinary places, because God's glory,
it rarely shouts. More often it sits quietly
beside you and waits to be noticed. Our witness,
it's not about being spectacular. It's about
living faithfully in the ordinary love that is
sometimes so difficult for us. Because God's
glory, It doesn't appear in the fancy moments.
It's in the quiet places where He's already near.
The places where we truly know Him, not only
as God above, but as God with us in the flesh.
But what about that table? See, that's when the
night comes when everything falls apart. Betrayal
is in motion. Denial is already whispering in
the shadows. The violence is 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. But what
does He do? He sets a table. No army. No escape
plan. No giant explanation or defense of everything
He's done. 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 still don't understand. He gives
them his presence in the holiest moment of all.
As the hands reach for the bread, as the voices
murmur, as people shift in their seats, this
doesn't look like the end of the world, but it
doesn't look like salvation either. It looks
like bread and wine. Jesus gives them himself.
When the world was breaking all around them,
Jesus didn't explain it all. He fed them. This
is what communion is. And this is what happens
every time we gather at the table of the Lord.
Not perfection, not spectacle, not something
polished or impressive. Simply the presence of
Christ. Hungry people fed at his table. Grace
given freely and abundantly. And we discover
again that we belong to one another as his body.
Ordinary elements, extraordinary mercy. It's
not because of the things that we feel, but because
of what he promises. Just as how we receive grace
freely given in baptism with his hands, with
the bread, with the wine, his presence. His sacrifice
was proclaimed. A miraculous reality in the simplest
way possible. And suddenly Sinai makes sense.
The mountain of glory makes sense because they
were always leading here. Not with distance,
not with mere symbolism, but with God himself
feeding his people. So as we are entering this
season of Lent, we remember something simple
yet easily forgotten. The miracle is not in what
dazzles us, 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 by welcoming us, by feeding
us and inviting us to sit at his table. God with
us in weakness, feeding us in mercy, staying
when we would have ran away. So we do not come
here today to perform. We come to receive. And
having been fed, we are then sent. Not to prove
something to the world, but to love it. To be
salt, to be light, to be the ordinary grace in
ordinary days. 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 welcomed us and has already
brought us home. So as we leave today and go
back into the everyday lives, the presence of
Christ doesn't stay here. The presence of Christ
goes with us. as we have been fed and nourished
by his word. You carry it into kitchens, offices,
hospitals, classrooms, quiet conversations that
no one else will ever hear. In 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 on a mountain top alone. It is with you,
here and now, in the everyday. So this table
of the Lord is only the beginning. Because one
day after all the long roads you have walked,
after every sorrow that you've followed, after
every hunger that you have tried to hide that
God already knows, you will come home to a place
you did not build and live a life you did not
earn. And the door will be open for you. The
table will be set. and your chair that no one
else can take is waiting for you. Not in a home
that was your own, but because Christ brought
you to his home. So in his name, welcome home.
Thanks be to God.