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Come to the Table

by Andrew Stephens-Rennie

This blog post first appeared on Empire Remixed. Re-published with permission.

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I can see myself on that road

It’s not all that hard

It’s a road I’ve walked

A thousand times

Will walk

a thousand times again

Before I can walk no more

And tonight, standing before you

With you, amongst you

I find myself on that road

A road

Of pain and loss

Of heartache and disappointment

Of unmet expectations

And unrealized dreams…

It’s easy to place myself on that road

Because if I’m honest,

It’s a road I haven’t left in years

I have known pain and loss

Heartache and disappointment

I can tell you a thousand tales

Of unmet expectations

And unrealized dreams

Some days it almost feels

As though I missed the news

The others discovered

When they went to the tomb

And perplexingly found it

Empty

Two creatures in dazzling clothes

Tending to the door

Leaving those who came to it

Terrified. Questioning.

Yet with a strange, astounding

Sense of Gift.

Finding it difficult to believe

What they said,

Asking why they were there looking

For the living

Among the dead

Two creatures in dazzling clothes

daring to suggest

That the tomb’s former inhabitant

Had gone for a walk

And was planning

to tend his garden – of all things –

before returning home…

All of which seems unbelievable

Tho might have been moreso

During last night’s

parade of souls

moving from one door to the next.

Expectant knocking..

Rapt attention and excitement

At the wonder of it all

Of what they would find

On the other side of that door…

But that was last night

And here we are today

In this place,

A motley assortment

All Sinners. All Saints.

All Beloved.

In this place,

the time for masquerade

has passed

I can see myself on that road

And maybe you can too.

Cleopas and his companions

On the road

No towers, no service for miles

No way to receive

Instantaneous updates

Or moments of levity– cat videos, and the like –

That might jolt us out of the sadness

In which we dwell

The sadness that comes

After it all falls apart,

After everything solid

Melts into air…

The struggle that comes

When there are no guarantees

And there are no guarantees

And there are no guarantees that

All shall be well

And all shall be well

And all manner of things shall be well

Breathe.

From behind us on the road

A stranger

Moving at a faster pace

Catching up

Pulling out so as to pass

Quickly. Discretely.

Not wanting to interrupt

Until he finds himself drawn in…

Into our conversation.

Drenched with emotion

Heartache and disappointment

Pain and loss.

Worn on our bewildered sleeves

He cannot pull away

Chooses to stay

To enter in

And in so doing

Takes part of the burden upon himself

Shares the pain.

The sadness.

The upset.

Shares the road.

“What are you discussing with each

other as you go along?”, he asks,

“What could have possibly left you

in such a state?”

Anger wells up

Disbelief too

Ignorant

of all that’s happened

of all this world

has forced us to carry.

For my own part, it all fell apart years ago

When black and white faded to grey

When the stories I’d been told

And the answers I’d been sold

Lost solvency

More bankrupt than any

Political campaign this

World has seen.

And it’s been a long road.

And it’s a long road

And together with the stranger,

we take the long road home.

And it is a long road.

At least it has been for me.

It’s a long road home,

And half the time I don’t feel …

I don’t feel as though I’m there

I don’t feel as though I’m home.

Too many questions.

Too few answers

for a mind

obsessed with certainty.

Which is why the hovering haze

The mist over the mountains

The endless downpour

And the slick city streets

Can have such a profound effect

Keeping my eyes low

to the ground,

focused on my feet,

but rarely

on all that has led me

on all who have accompanied me

to the table.

The stranger walks with me

And talks with me

Reminding me

Subtly,

Slowly at first,

Speaking of all that has been

Of all that has come before

Looping this moment, this trauma

This pain and this loss,

This blow to my faith…

Enfolding it all

in a story far more resilient

Than I’d realized.

I’d always been taught

That the story was leading

To a particular end point

Was pointing to a particular destiny

But what I couldn’t figure out

What I can’t seem to grasp is how.

I’d always been taught that the story was

Pointing forwards, and it was my job

To jump on the track, and run the

Race that had been laid out for me.

Not a sprint

Won with a bolt of speed

But over hill and vale

If only I’d follow the map.

What do you do

When the old maps no longer work?

When the directions and directives

That used to guide you

That used to bring comfort

Lead you into the uncertain wilderness

Far from home?

What do you do

when words of comfort

have turned to pillars of salt

rubbed in deep-felt wounds?

The stranger walks with me

And talks with me.

No line on the horizon

Reframing the story

By which I’d always tried to live.

Reminding me of the many

Who have walked this road before.

Who have worn these same shoes.

Who have confronted the oppression of certainty

With prophetic energy

With fierce poetry

And with lives well lived

In the face of smug condemnation.

I turn around.

Take a moment to bask

In the witness of the saints

Gone before.

The stranger walks with me,

Drawing my attention to

Contours of the story I had

All but forgotten

Stories of the ones who didn’t fit

The mould.

Who called the whole colonizing enterprise

into question

and dared

Dared to suggest a new way forward.

A new future

a new humanity,

and indeed,

a new creation

in which the big story no longer

obscures

or obliterates

the little stories

in which the big story no longer

obscures

or obliterates

my story – or yours

A future in which every story matters.

A present

A gift to live

To live into who we are

who we are becoming

I can see him now,

The stranger on the road,

Turning towards me

Turning towards us

Hearing our stories

The real stories we carry

The real stories we bear

The real stories written

On our arms

Our hearts

Our inmost selves

The stories we tell

no one else

The stories we struggle

to tell ourselves

I can see him now,

The stranger on the road,

Turning towards us and

Reminding us that

Every story matters

That your story matters

And mine does too…

That there are stories

not present in this room

no longer present to us

and that their stories matter too…

Almost too quickly

Almost before I know it

We’re home.

The table is set.

There is bread. And there is wine.

In our midst, brokenness

Right here on this table

There is bread, and wine, blessing, and revelation.

And in this moment I see

Something I dared not see

That in the brokenness

Of this body

Of this heart

Of this community

That in the outpouring of mercy and grace

That in the midst of it all

We are beloved.

Our hearts aflame

And that we will know endless love

In this place.