The Banqueting Table
The Concept
When my kids were little we had what we called “Family Time” around the dinner table. We talked about things that one or the other of us had encountered during the day, current events, and the challenges we faced. Any topic was allowed. There was only one rule - we would make our best effort to consider the topic in light of God’s word. We didn’t always agree but agreement was not the point. None of us were born (nor are we born again) with perfect theology. Our minds are supposed to be being transformed by His word. We are supposed to be growing in the wisdom and knowledge of Christ. If we are His disciples, we are supposed to be making disciples.
The invitation to “The Banqueting Table,” is an invitation to taste that the Lord is good and is a virtual extension of Family Time. It is a follow-up for those who have engaged with us and have interest in an ongoing conversation. At this table, we’ll talk about real things from a biblical world and life view, particularly as it relates to marriage and family.
The Backstory
I grew up in a Catholic family and went to a Catholic school for most of my elementary education. It was not that my parents were practicing Catholics or believing Christians, but that was the box we checked. I remember going to Mass with my grandmother on Sundays and thinking there was something wrong with my brain. I could see the priest standing up on the altar and hear the words coming out of his mouth, but I could not understand half of what he said. Some things made sense but for the most part I just followed my Memaw’s lead. I stood up, sat down, kneeled, and appropriately genuflected. I learned to respectfully make the sign of the cross when we went in and out - touching my forehead, my chest and both shoulders with my little fingers wet with holy water. After Mass my grandma watched TV church at home with a pink-haired preacher lady. At least, I could understand her words; it was a relief that the problem in my brain was not permanent. Years later, I realized my grandmother was taking me to Mass that was being said in Latin.
When it was time to take my first communion, the priest had started speaking English at Mass. As it turned out, I really didn’t understand much more than when I had heard the words in Latin - but that was okay. The big deal was that I was going to be allowed in line with the grown ups. I was going to get a taste, of what, I did not know, but that was irrelevant and a minor point at the time. I only knew that day would be special and the dress was going to be magnificent. I’d certainly never worn anything so beautiful. It was hand made of flawless snow-white organdy with layers and layers of ruffles. The pain of having to stand on the step stool for what seemed like an eternity while my great Aunt Dodo marked and pinned the hem would certainly be worth every second. No other six-year-old little girl could possibly twirl that fancy little piece better than I was going to - and then there were the gloves! Certainly, I would hear the angels sing as I made my first trip down the aisle for that little wafer. Well, the angels didn’t sing and that little wafer tasted a lot like dry cardboard. I didn’t get much twirling in either. The dress was pulled off and packed up as soon as we were home - so it wouldn’t get ruined.
I think I was in third grade when I stood in line with my classmates anxiously trying to satisfy the expectation that I was to identify three of my most recent mortal sins before it was my turn in the confessional. All I could think about was the fact that it was dark in there and I would be all alone. “Forgive me father for I have sinned. This is my first confession.” I lied. I didn’t know what mortal sins were so I made some things up. When I got out, the light made my eyes hurt. By the time I finished saying two “Our Fathers” and three “Hail Marys” my knees hurt too.
Sitting across the desk from the Reverend Mother at the age of twelve, I sat for the oral exam of the confirmation of my Catholic faith. My feet didn’t quite touch the floor; I searched for a place to rest them and stop their swinging. The nun witnessing the exam stood at my side and seemed annoyed with my fidgeting. At a particularly poignant moment, my mouth was dry and my palms were sweating. I didn’t know the answer so I guessed - “Jesus?”. Apparently, I passed because I got to pick a new name; it was “Angelica” or “Angelina” - I don’t recall exactly. I do remember a season of terrible disappointment as everyone continued to call me “Nancy.”
When I was in seventh grade, I started going to public school. At that point, church (and God) was an idea to be visited from time to time, but at my parent’s house it was a topic that was totally off the table. Prayer was said at Thanksgiving and church was for Christmas Eve - maybe. I had graduated high school when I met a family associated with a Southern Baptist church. They were like no other people I had ever met before. They loved me in spite of myself and talked about God like he was really real. My interest in them and attraction to them was undeniable even when they spoke to me clearly of sin and its consequences. I had heard about Jesus and the cross but never connected their implications to my own life. I wanted to be with those people. I found myself waiting in anticipation for the next little morsel of truth to be passed along. I would take it with me like a tiny treasure for further consideration.
One particular night, I fitfully lay awake in bed with a collection of them: these new understandings of sin, death, repentance, forgiveness, love, and life. As their weight grew, I prayed a pitiful prayer of surrender: “God, if it is true, I want to believe it” and rolled over to sleep as the sun was rising. I woke up to stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. There was a smile that I had never seen before. It was curiously genuine.
Please don’t get the idea that things were magically and suddenly easy. They were not. The path was narrow, the learning curve was steep, and there were ditches on both sides of the road, but the ultimate direction of my life had certainly changed.
The Title
I describe my early church experience like sitting as a spectator in a large theatre watching the actors on stage pretend to eat plastic food. After I had come to saving faith through the preaching of the gospel, the difference was like sitting down to a banqueting table and feasting myself. This difference was not the denominational expression but the condition of a regenerate heart. It is a gracious gift from the Lord Jesus Christ.
Like any large table of food, there were sweet recognizable offerings that were easy to swallow and quickly enjoyed. Other items were unfamiliar. These needed to be cut into bitesize pieces and chewed on for awhile in order to be fully appreciated. If I invited you to my house for dinner, you would expect there to be real food and drink - milk and meat, wine and water, honey and bread. You would not come for plastic food. We don’t serve plastic stuff at The Banqueting Table either.
You are welcome to pull up a chair; there is room at the table.
Love.
