An Open Table

Last week I read a blog post from a woman named Jill titled “The Casserole Rules”. Speaking about her divorce after twenty-seven years, the lack of response from her church made for an isolating time of mourning. Shortly after a friend’s husband died, Jill noticed her friend’s freezer full of food, piles of mail offering prayer and encouragement, and an abundance of help. Nobody looked at her friend and told her she’d remarry one day and not to worry; no one asked her why her husband died and if she could have avoided it. Grace was extended for a physical death but not an emotional one.

As a child of divorce, albeit temporary, I remember my parents experiencing similar standoffish behavior in church settings. Though I was too little to remember firsthand how many casseroles were or were not offered, one memory stays with me almost twenty years later.

I was a shy kid. My brother, quite the opposite, introduced himself to older adults at age three with a handshake and a firm pronunciation of his name. I preferred to stick by my mom’s side, not letting go of my hold on her skirt unless I had to and certainly not calling attention to myself.

During that time my father wasn’t active in church, but I persisted in inviting him until he agreed to attend a Sunday service with our family. When the call for introducing visitors came before worship, I mustered up my little-girl courage and proudly announced to a full auditorium that my Daddy came to church with me today.

People smiled at me in my frilly socks and matching bow for speaking up, but nobody welcomed my father. He wasn’t greeted, wasn’t thanked for coming, wasn’t treated like a guest. Instead he was dismissed for his past and left standing on the fringes of what was called on paper a community of grace.

Later on in my teen years, a boy told me my father had no right to serve in church leadership because he had been divorced. My parents’ remarriage and my father’s spiritual transformation didn’t count. In this conversation it was my turn to experience a withholding of grace; it was my turn to understand how so many people feel when Christians choose to see the stains instead of seeing the redemption story. 

The church my parents belong to now is full of grace-offering, loving, open-armed families and individuals. My parents are not only welcomed there but encouraged to share their story and minister to those in need of counsel. Grace is not only put on display, it’s an integral part of the community’s identity.

Christians as a collective like to pick and choose who gets redemption and who doesn’t. My God, however, offers grace and a fresh start to any and all that ask Him.

It is not our job to decide who gets to sit at the table because none of our hands are clean.  It is, however, our job to make room for others despite their clothes, their cleanliness, or their story. A seat is always open because a seat was open for me.