Sunday Dinner with the Family of God
Meditations
FINGERPRINTS ON THE CHALICE
Contemporary Communion Meditations
I remember my junior high school best friend, Bobby Hillman. Sad to say, he died of cancer about ten years ago. But I remember him. We had a lot of good times, played a lot of sports together. We talked a lot about life together. We ate a lot of meals together -- in the school cafeteria, and in Paradise Sweets Shoppe after basketball games.
Bobby Hillman's father owned The Clothes Locker. It was a classy children's clothing store. Everything in it was fairly expensive because it was of high quality. My family never shopped there.
Bobby's mother didn't work, but she dressed. She was probably the best-dressed woman in town. And she wore makeup, wore it well. She was probably the best made-up woman in town. And her hair was always styled perfectly. She was probably the best coiffed woman in town. At least, in my mind, she was.
They always seemed to have a pretty new car; their house and lawn were well-kept. I heard rumors that the inside of the house was spotless, and that the furniture was never sat upon. I really didn't know, because it was years before they let me go past the back door into the house -- since I usually smelled like the barn.
Finally, though, they let Bobby invite me to dinner one night. I remember feeling very nervous. It would be different.
Mrs. Hillman, who always spoke very politely but firmly, told us to go wash our hands before supper. Then we sat down at this elegant dining room table. White lace tablecloth. I was afraid I'd spill something on it and get yelled at.
Everyone had matching tumblers instead of jelly glasses. I was used to jelly glasses. The milk was in a pitcher, not in a bottle. And there was a fancy little dish for ketchup and another for mustard.
We had two forks each. I couldn't imagine why.
Each place setting had a cloth napkin, which I had previously seen at Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas dinners. (Our family always used to share a couple of dish towels.) It was fairly quiet, and what conversation there was tended to be stilted, because the adults did all the talking. I got the clear message that kids weren't to talk. Not much nonsense or superfluous conversation.
When anyone wanted anything, it was, 'Please pass the butter?' The response: 'Thank you.' 'You're welcome.'
After supper I asked Bobby if it was always like that, and he said that that was a regular evening meal. I had survived it, but it was sure different from our supper table.
It wasn't long after that when I asked Bobby to come to our place for supper. He had been in and out of our house many times, because my mother had no restrictions. My dad once threatened to put in a revolving door to save on the heat loss and accommodate all the traffic.
Bobby had grabbed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the run for lunch at our kitchen from time to time, but he had never fully experienced a big meal with us.
We had hamburgers and rolls, French fries, corn on the cob. That was a fairly extravagant meal for us. It was me, my mother and father, my three sisters, my brother, and my two cousins from next door (who were often at our table). They practically lived with us. At any rate, it was a crowd around our kitchen round-table. (The dining room table was only used for special occasions like Thanksgiving or Christmas or Easter dinner.)
The noise level was fairly high, and behind us Mom was standing at the stove frying the hamburgers in two cast iron frying pans. She was doing the French fries in a kettle of grease over another burner, and had the corn on the cob in a big pot of water on the fourth burner. Between the talking, the French fries in the hot grease, and the sizzling hamburgers, it was noisy.
My friend Bobby Hillman looked stunned.
Then Mom put a plate of hamburgers and a plate of French fries down on the table.
They were gone before Bobby could make a move. In our farmhouse, at our kitchen table, it was every person for him or her self. (We eventually got some of the second batch.)
There weren't a lot of please-pass-the-butters or thank-yous or you're-welcomes. My mother encouraged such manners, but it didn't always happen. Instead, it was the sound of eating and talking, the airspace above the table filled with hands and arms reaching across in front of others or out into the middle of the table. Sometimes no more words than, 'Salt!' or 'Butter?'
One fork each, jelly glasses for everybody, ketchup bottles and mustard jars right there on the table.
It was sure different from the dinner we had shared in Bobby Hillman's dining room. But he survived it. I'm sure he came to our house with as much fear and trembling as I took to his.
Everything new and different. That isn't to say that it was right or wrong. It was just different. But we enjoyed a meal together. We shared the food and the experience.
I miss him. I miss my junior high school best friend, Bobby Hillman.
But somehow, over the Christmas holidays last year, when my in-laws were visiting, when we were sitting around the table sharing a meal, when everyone was sort of talking excitedly and grabbing ketchup and mustard -- I realized that none of the glasses matched -- and Bobby Hillman came to mind. He suddenly sprang to life in my heart and memory again. In the context of that holiday meal, in the context of that meal when he wasn't even present, Bobby was suddenly, momentarily, real. The meal, the setting, made him alive in my heart. It's funny what our minds can do.
Someone once said that what distinguishes human beings from animals is that we have the capacity to make meaning. We are meaning-makers. We're the ones who mint a dime and say, 'That stands for ten pennies.' Animals can't ascribe meaning to a coin that way.
We are the ones who design a flag and say, 'When you see this flag, salute it, because it stands for our country.' Animals can't ascribe meaning to a piece of cloth that way.
We are the ones who can write a wedding ceremony to unite two persons as life's companions. We say the words and they mean something. Animals can't write ceremonies.
We are the ones who can turn a tree into a Christmas tree, a band of gold into a symbol of commitment, a song into a national anthem.
But meaning isn't just something we give. Meaning is also something we get. We gain from it.
By giving meaning to our flag, we gain a sense of pride when our throats knot up and tears stream down our cheeks as we watch it raised over an American athlete who has taken first place at the Olympics. We gain because we have allowed that object to be meaningful in our lives.
Sometimes the meaning isn't tied to an object. It may instead be associated with a familiar ritual.
A funeral is a ritual that allows us to begin healthy grieving.
A family Thanksgiving dinner is a ritual that may have meaning for some of us. 'Over the river and through the woods, to grandmother's house we go.'
Ascribing meaning to certain objects and rituals allows the mysterious, the incomprehensible, the intangible to become somehow real to us.
The Viet Nam war becomes very, very real to those of us who weren't over there when we see 'The Wall,' the Vietnam Veterans' Memorial in Washington, D. C. The Wall isn't the war or the sacrifice. It's just a wall -- but it's a powerful symbol that can conjure up incredible memories and emotion to affect our lives.
The reality of God's love may become visible to some of us when we see the Nativity drama acted out.
Seeing a work of art like the Mona Lisa, or singing Handel's Messiah, or receiving an award -- all of these, by allowing us to extract meaning, can make something invisible real.
That's what we're doing today. We're sharing a meal we call Communion or the Lord's Supper. We're sharing it not so much to get the food -- there isn't that much bread on the plate -- but to extract and share the meaning.
William Willimon, a professor at Duke, has written a book about Communion, and in it he refers to Communion as Sunday Dinner. What a marvelous image. We're all here like a family to share Sunday dinner.
We'll all be fed, of course. But something more will happen. The invisible, the intangible, the mysterious, will become somehow suddenly real. Some of us will experience the real presence of God. Others a sense of family. Still others a feeling of security, of belonging to something bigger than ourselves.
Part of it may come from the ritual itself, from the repeating of it, and from the security that comes from doing something over and over, like feeding the birds every morning, or walking the dog, or going to work. Part of it may come from renewing a vow or a commitment, touching base with one's spirituality. Part of it may come from the meaning we draw from the objects themselves -- symbols: the bread, the cup, the body, the blood, the thinking about Jesus' sacrifice.
And since the Communion of saints is our belief that Communion unites Christians everywhere -- past, present, and future -- some of us will find the Bobby Hillmans become real and alive in our hearts and memories. We may expect it, or it may catch us by surprise.
Some of us who come from different backgrounds, from different churches, may find the dinner table set a bit differently, may find the manners and customs a bit strange, the glasses a bit different -- everything a bit more formal or perhaps less formal -- but it is still a meal, still a chance to commune together, still a chance to be together with each other before God.
Please join me today at the Lord's table… for Sunday dinner… with the family of God.
Bobby Hillman's father owned The Clothes Locker. It was a classy children's clothing store. Everything in it was fairly expensive because it was of high quality. My family never shopped there.
Bobby's mother didn't work, but she dressed. She was probably the best-dressed woman in town. And she wore makeup, wore it well. She was probably the best made-up woman in town. And her hair was always styled perfectly. She was probably the best coiffed woman in town. At least, in my mind, she was.
They always seemed to have a pretty new car; their house and lawn were well-kept. I heard rumors that the inside of the house was spotless, and that the furniture was never sat upon. I really didn't know, because it was years before they let me go past the back door into the house -- since I usually smelled like the barn.
Finally, though, they let Bobby invite me to dinner one night. I remember feeling very nervous. It would be different.
Mrs. Hillman, who always spoke very politely but firmly, told us to go wash our hands before supper. Then we sat down at this elegant dining room table. White lace tablecloth. I was afraid I'd spill something on it and get yelled at.
Everyone had matching tumblers instead of jelly glasses. I was used to jelly glasses. The milk was in a pitcher, not in a bottle. And there was a fancy little dish for ketchup and another for mustard.
We had two forks each. I couldn't imagine why.
Each place setting had a cloth napkin, which I had previously seen at Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas dinners. (Our family always used to share a couple of dish towels.) It was fairly quiet, and what conversation there was tended to be stilted, because the adults did all the talking. I got the clear message that kids weren't to talk. Not much nonsense or superfluous conversation.
When anyone wanted anything, it was, 'Please pass the butter?' The response: 'Thank you.' 'You're welcome.'
After supper I asked Bobby if it was always like that, and he said that that was a regular evening meal. I had survived it, but it was sure different from our supper table.
It wasn't long after that when I asked Bobby to come to our place for supper. He had been in and out of our house many times, because my mother had no restrictions. My dad once threatened to put in a revolving door to save on the heat loss and accommodate all the traffic.
Bobby had grabbed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the run for lunch at our kitchen from time to time, but he had never fully experienced a big meal with us.
We had hamburgers and rolls, French fries, corn on the cob. That was a fairly extravagant meal for us. It was me, my mother and father, my three sisters, my brother, and my two cousins from next door (who were often at our table). They practically lived with us. At any rate, it was a crowd around our kitchen round-table. (The dining room table was only used for special occasions like Thanksgiving or Christmas or Easter dinner.)
The noise level was fairly high, and behind us Mom was standing at the stove frying the hamburgers in two cast iron frying pans. She was doing the French fries in a kettle of grease over another burner, and had the corn on the cob in a big pot of water on the fourth burner. Between the talking, the French fries in the hot grease, and the sizzling hamburgers, it was noisy.
My friend Bobby Hillman looked stunned.
Then Mom put a plate of hamburgers and a plate of French fries down on the table.
They were gone before Bobby could make a move. In our farmhouse, at our kitchen table, it was every person for him or her self. (We eventually got some of the second batch.)
There weren't a lot of please-pass-the-butters or thank-yous or you're-welcomes. My mother encouraged such manners, but it didn't always happen. Instead, it was the sound of eating and talking, the airspace above the table filled with hands and arms reaching across in front of others or out into the middle of the table. Sometimes no more words than, 'Salt!' or 'Butter?'
One fork each, jelly glasses for everybody, ketchup bottles and mustard jars right there on the table.
It was sure different from the dinner we had shared in Bobby Hillman's dining room. But he survived it. I'm sure he came to our house with as much fear and trembling as I took to his.
Everything new and different. That isn't to say that it was right or wrong. It was just different. But we enjoyed a meal together. We shared the food and the experience.
I miss him. I miss my junior high school best friend, Bobby Hillman.
But somehow, over the Christmas holidays last year, when my in-laws were visiting, when we were sitting around the table sharing a meal, when everyone was sort of talking excitedly and grabbing ketchup and mustard -- I realized that none of the glasses matched -- and Bobby Hillman came to mind. He suddenly sprang to life in my heart and memory again. In the context of that holiday meal, in the context of that meal when he wasn't even present, Bobby was suddenly, momentarily, real. The meal, the setting, made him alive in my heart. It's funny what our minds can do.
Someone once said that what distinguishes human beings from animals is that we have the capacity to make meaning. We are meaning-makers. We're the ones who mint a dime and say, 'That stands for ten pennies.' Animals can't ascribe meaning to a coin that way.
We are the ones who design a flag and say, 'When you see this flag, salute it, because it stands for our country.' Animals can't ascribe meaning to a piece of cloth that way.
We are the ones who can write a wedding ceremony to unite two persons as life's companions. We say the words and they mean something. Animals can't write ceremonies.
We are the ones who can turn a tree into a Christmas tree, a band of gold into a symbol of commitment, a song into a national anthem.
But meaning isn't just something we give. Meaning is also something we get. We gain from it.
By giving meaning to our flag, we gain a sense of pride when our throats knot up and tears stream down our cheeks as we watch it raised over an American athlete who has taken first place at the Olympics. We gain because we have allowed that object to be meaningful in our lives.
Sometimes the meaning isn't tied to an object. It may instead be associated with a familiar ritual.
A funeral is a ritual that allows us to begin healthy grieving.
A family Thanksgiving dinner is a ritual that may have meaning for some of us. 'Over the river and through the woods, to grandmother's house we go.'
Ascribing meaning to certain objects and rituals allows the mysterious, the incomprehensible, the intangible to become somehow real to us.
The Viet Nam war becomes very, very real to those of us who weren't over there when we see 'The Wall,' the Vietnam Veterans' Memorial in Washington, D. C. The Wall isn't the war or the sacrifice. It's just a wall -- but it's a powerful symbol that can conjure up incredible memories and emotion to affect our lives.
The reality of God's love may become visible to some of us when we see the Nativity drama acted out.
Seeing a work of art like the Mona Lisa, or singing Handel's Messiah, or receiving an award -- all of these, by allowing us to extract meaning, can make something invisible real.
That's what we're doing today. We're sharing a meal we call Communion or the Lord's Supper. We're sharing it not so much to get the food -- there isn't that much bread on the plate -- but to extract and share the meaning.
William Willimon, a professor at Duke, has written a book about Communion, and in it he refers to Communion as Sunday Dinner. What a marvelous image. We're all here like a family to share Sunday dinner.
We'll all be fed, of course. But something more will happen. The invisible, the intangible, the mysterious, will become somehow suddenly real. Some of us will experience the real presence of God. Others a sense of family. Still others a feeling of security, of belonging to something bigger than ourselves.
Part of it may come from the ritual itself, from the repeating of it, and from the security that comes from doing something over and over, like feeding the birds every morning, or walking the dog, or going to work. Part of it may come from renewing a vow or a commitment, touching base with one's spirituality. Part of it may come from the meaning we draw from the objects themselves -- symbols: the bread, the cup, the body, the blood, the thinking about Jesus' sacrifice.
And since the Communion of saints is our belief that Communion unites Christians everywhere -- past, present, and future -- some of us will find the Bobby Hillmans become real and alive in our hearts and memories. We may expect it, or it may catch us by surprise.
Some of us who come from different backgrounds, from different churches, may find the dinner table set a bit differently, may find the manners and customs a bit strange, the glasses a bit different -- everything a bit more formal or perhaps less formal -- but it is still a meal, still a chance to commune together, still a chance to be together with each other before God.
Please join me today at the Lord's table… for Sunday dinner… with the family of God.
