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.