A place at the table

My husband’s taste in music is considerably heavier, and he would tell you better, than mine. For this reason he has seen it as his mission throughout our marriage to broaden my musical palette, and as a result I am regularly required to participate in ad hoc rock quizzes. We’ll be driving along in the car and listening to the radio when a song will be played by an artist that is widely esteemed in great canon of rock music. Adrian will turn to me and, with a tone of child-like enthusiasm, ask me “Who’s this?”

Occasionally, after many years of musical re-education, I get it right immediately and he beams with pride. More often, however, I’ll say that I don’t know and in a tone that says I also don’t care that much. Unbowed by my lack of enthusiasm, Adrian will urge me to listen to the guitar sound, or listen to the vocals, willing me to recognise the band’s unique style.

Of course I have no such issues when I hear a song by a band I love. On my way home last week I heard the new Deacon Blue single on the radio. It wasn’t introduced before being played, but I didn’t need to be told who it was – there, very clearly, was Ricky Ross’s distinctive vocals, with Lorraine Mackintosh’s voice soaring in the background. Just at the point when I was pondering if it might be a new song by them as a duo, there came the Deacon Blue keyboard sound to seal the deal.

When we know something or someone well, we can recognise them in a moment, no matter how out of context they might be. When we know the voice of Jesus, the whispers of his Spirit, the call of the Kingdom of God, we can uncover them in all kinds of places.

Ken Gire is my all time favourite Christian author. His writing is so beautiful it makes me cry. If you haven’t discovered him, I urge you to go and find one of his books and enrich your life with his poetic genius. I was introduced to his writing nearly twenty years ago when I was given his book Windows of the Soul. In it, he talks about how God can speak to us in all manner of ways, including through the windows of stories, art, writing and movies. In his chapter about the latter he says,

Art, music and literature all come together in a movie, and when they all come together just right, something beautiful happens. A window opens, and you glimpse something in yourself that has been hidden from you for maybe all of your life. Or you glimpse something in someone else. Or, in a rare moment of transcendence, you glimpse something beyond.

And so it came to pass that I found myself crying in the cinema last weekend.

We had gone to see The BFG – not a film that immediately strikes you as a tear-jerker! For the first half I was mesmerised – it looks absolutely beautiful, Roald Dhal’s use of language is delicious and the portrayal of the giant by Mark Rylance is exquisite. And then about two thirds of the way through the story comes the part where Sophie and the giant need some help and, deciding to ask the Queen, make their way to Buckingham Palace. After explaining the issue to her majesty, she invites them both in for tea. Half way through the scene that follows I realised that I was crying – not just one solitary tear, but rivers of them. Given that I was enjoying the film in every way, I wondered what was going on, and as I asked myself that question, the window opened and revelation swept in.

I was watching a portrayal of kingdom hospitality.

table 1

The giant, with all of his awkwardness, his size that shouldn’t fit, his lack of knowledge about the rules and niceties of the situation, was welcomed in and accommodated with such a lack of fuss and with such genuine kindness that it took my breath away. He was given a seat at the table, no matter what had to happen for that to be achieved, and he was honoured and respected regardless of his clumsiness or just plain different-ness. The Queen (played brilliantly by Penelope Wilton), gave of her home, her resources and herself with an open-handed spirit that I saw as immediately beautiful and challenging.

 

I claim to be resident in a kingdom where the outsider is brought close, the excluded are ushered in and the down-trodden are given refuge. I claim to follow a King who came to the lowliest places so that, to once again quote Ken Gire, “out-of-place people would feel most welcome.” I found myself wondering how closely my life resembles that kingdom.

As I watched the film unfold I found myself asking what it would mean for me to truly open the doors of my life, my home, my heart. To set a place for those who might feel excluded. To bring in those who can so easily be left outside. Too often I allow people in only so far and then make it clear that I have no room or time for them to come closer. Or I accommodate them with such fuss that they have to know I’m doing them a favour, and so will move along promptly when their allocated time is up.

What if, instead, I threw open the doors, created space, lived each day with a spirit of welcome? What would it look like if each person I met knew that they had a place set for them around the table of my life, for a few moments or for as long as they needed to be there? I want my life to be a roaring fireplace of safety and warmth, rather than a mat that tells you to wipe the dirt from your feet before entering.

fireplace

What might it cost for me to become that person, that place? As I’ve been pondering this question this beautiful poem by Torri Horness has become my prayer:

If I have anything to do with it,

my very life will be a

shelter for every

weary wanderer.

It will feel like a

well worn sweater,

smell like

fresh-baked bread,

and it will sound like

the only thing we

become wayfarers only to hear:

here, you are wanted.

Welcome home.

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