“Perhaps the World Ends Here”
by Joy HarjoThe world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.
Early in my career as a pastor, I preached a sermon that ruffled some feathers. I don’t even remember what I said, but I do remember acknowledging afterward that my message was, at best, inartfully crafted. One of my parishioners, whom I knew to be very thoughtful and faithful, wrote to me after the service to express his displeasure. Inside, I felt defensive. When I told my senior pastor about it, he gave me wise advice: “Take him to lunch.” So I did. I sat across a table from this parishioner. I listened to his concerns and acknowledged my missteps. We both came away from the conversation with a sense of mutual appreciation and affection. That parishioner became one of my biggest champions, always effusive in his praise of my preaching and pastoral leadership. Sharing a meal, sitting across a table from another person, is a powerful experience.
On the Thursday evening after he arrived in Jerusalem, Jesus gathered with his disciples for a Passover Seder. For millennia, faithful Jews have gathered each year in the spring to commemorate their ancestors’ escape from slavery in Egypt. Passover is a celebration of liberation. When Jesus gathered his disciples for this Passover meal, he put a new spin on it, sharing bread and wine and telling them, “Do this in remembrance of me.” This meal became the model for Holy Communion. For Christians, it is a sacramental meal that has its roots in the Jewish celebration of liberation. It is a meal that holds the promise of new life.
Why do meals play such a central role in the Judeo-Christian tradition? It is because something sacred happens when we gather around a table. The poet captures this well. The table is one place where we come together to share stories, pass on traditions, and ground ourselves again in our core values. It is where we celebrate life’s victories and mourn our losses. It is also a place of transformation. At the table, we can connect with others on a deeper level, share our joys and sorrows, and support one another in our struggles. The table can be a place of dialogue and understanding, where people from different backgrounds and perspectives can share our experiences and rediscover our common humanity.
Many Christians will gather in churches tonight to remember Jesus’ meal with his disciples and share Holy Communion. Many more—perhaps including you—will gather as family this weekend for an Easter brunch. Our families’ kitchen tables haven’t always been comfortable places for LGBTQ folk, but I continue to believe that they can be places of healing and transformation. Whenever we gather around tables with family, friends, or strangers, may we remember the sacredness of this act and its potential for building relationships, fostering understanding, and deepening our faith.
Such warm and wonderful thoughts, Javen. Thank you!
Javen, what a beautiful devotional. As I read the poem I could see my Grandma's table and remember the laughter and the tears. I wonder if the still blind disciples shared laughter and tears that last evening? Thank you so much for these thoughtful and giving words. You have such an incredible gift. Peace Friend.