The 24 Rhythms of Hearth & Hinterland: Sharing the Table

The Table as a Sacred Threshold

The Kingdom of God is not built sitting atop a conquered throne. It is cultivated around a shared table.

There is something holy about the way a table gathers people. It draws together the weary and the well-fed. It attracts the devout and the doubtful. It is equally inviting to the seeker and the skeptic.

In the pages of Scripture, we find meals acting as the setting of pivotal moments of transformation. Ordinary bread and wine became a sacred sacrament, fish and loaves feed a hungry crowd of thousands, Jacob’s stew buys a birthright–each of these meals became a vessel for the extraordinary.

It is at a table that Christ revealed himself to weary travelers (Luke 24:30-31), restored the shamed (John 21:12-19), and beckoned sinners into conversation (Luke 5:29-32). This is not a coincidence. The act of sharing a meal with those least expecting and deserving seems to be intentionally set as the chosen threshold where the mystery and spirit of God shows up—a human celebration uniquely positioned for the mundane and the miraculous meet.

For those of us shaped by the Celtic traditions, the table is more than furniture—it is an almost-altar where we offer the fruit of our labor with others and God shows up to join us.

Early Celtic Christians understood hospitality not as an act of charity but as a thin place where heaven and earth drew near. Setting the table was setting the stage for grace.

Likewise, Orthodox theologian Alexander Schmemann reminds us, “Man is what he eats.” The meals we prepare are a mirror of our participation in God’s sustaining life, and at its deepest, the Eucharistic table is our entry into divine communion.

A Table Open Yet Sacred

In a culture that increasingly fractures along lines of ideology, theology, and social standing, the invitation to the table must remain radically open.

Jesus most often dined with those whom religious authorities deemed unworthy: tax collectors, prostitutes, and the ritually unclean. He did not demand they fix themselves first; he simply welcomed the opportunity to share an intimate space with them.

His dining habits were revolutionary.
His dining parties were scandalous.

In this, we glimpse the heart of the Kingdom—an upside-down feast where the last are made first, the rich are made poor, and the lost are finally found (Matthew 22:1-10).

Within that tradition, the Eucharist, while offered freely, still maintains a particular sacredness. It is the meal for those who have chosen the way of Christ. The Didache, one of the earliest Christian texts that predates even some of the epistles, instructed that only those baptized in Christ should partake.

But what, then, of the curious, the hesitant, the forgotten, and the exiled—the ones whose heart aches toward the table but whose feet have not yet found the path of discipleship?

Should we turn them away?

The wisdom of the saints speaks here.

St. John Chrysostom writes, “Let no one who is a lover of God and a wayfarer be turned away from this divine mystery.”

The Eucharist is not a gate to be guarded but a grace to be given.

If one comes with hunger for Christ, we trust that Christ meets them in the breaking of bread.

We need not police the mercy of God.

Radical Hospitality as Witness

In opening our tables, we open our lives.

The early church understood this well.

The agape feasts—communal meals shared by believers and seekers alike—were a cornerstone of the early church’s prophetic witness in a culture built entirely on status and birthright. These were spaces where philosophical debate gave way to tangible love, where the stranger became family, and where bread and wine pointed to a greater spiritual reality.

St. Aidan of Lindisfarne, known for his radical hospitality, carried no purse, relying on the generosity of those he served. He believed the table was not his to possess but to steward.

When we live with such open hands, and open tables, we embody the Gospel more than any sermon could.

Paul exhorts us, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing so, some have entertained angels unawares” (Hebrews 13:2). The table is where the presence of Christ is made manifest, not just in the elements but in the faces across from us.

The Weight of the Meal

When we break bread together with spiritual intent, we enter into an ancient space and rhythm.

It is no light thing to eat with another—to take part in the same sustenance, to acknowledge our mutual dependence on God’s provision, to see each other as vulnerable and even, at times, messy.

In the Eucharist, this truth reaches its fullness.

We do not merely remember Christ’s life and sacrifice.
We believe that Christ shows up and meets us in this sacred act.

St. Irenaeus said it this way, “Our way of thinking is attuned to the Eucharist, and the Eucharist, in turn, confirms our way of thinking.”

The sacred table shapes us, forms us, calls us deeper into the mystery of faith. To come to the table is to confess that we are in need, that we do not live by bread alone (Matthew 4:4), and that our truest sustenance is found in Christ himself.

A Call to the Table

So, as we practice The Way of Hearth & Hinterland, we must continue to set our tables. Even if nobody shows up, we must still continue to make a place.

We invite the weary, the seeking, the ones who wonder if there is still a place for them in the story of God.

We do not demand those who share the table with us understand it all before they sit.

We simply pass the bread, pour the wine, playfully throw a grape to see if they can catch it in their mouth, and trust that Christ is among us and honoring our intent to really see one another.

If those we invite to the table take and eat, let them.

If those we invite can only sit with us and can not yet eat out of shame or distrust, do not rush them. Simply continue to offer what you have with generosity and with a gentle spirit.

If their hunger is sincere, we believe the Spirit will move them when it is time.

And as we partake, may we remember: this is not our table, but the Creator’s. The Host is Christ, the meal is grace, and the invitation has never been ours to withhold.

Let the table be set.
Let the invitations be open.
Let all who hunger come and eat.