Two guys are walking down a road. One says to the other, “Can you believe what’s been going on in town this weekend?
“I can’t make anything out of it,” says the other. “I was sure he was the Messiah.”
“Me too,” says the first traveler. “But what use is a dead Messiah?”
All the believers devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching, and to fellowship, and to sharing in meals (including the Lord’s Supper), and to prayer. (Acts 2:42)
What we’re finding out so far:
Throughout Scripture, the table is where God makes room for people who didn’t expect to belong. And when people try to control that table—He overturns it and sets it again.
But when Peter came to Antioch, I had to oppose him to his face, for what he did was very wrong. When he first arrived, he ate with the Gentile believers, who were not circumcised. But afterward, when some friends of James came, Peter wouldn’t eat with the Gentiles anymore. He was afraid of criticism from these people who insisted on the necessity of circumcision. As a result, other Jewish believers followed Peter’s hypocrisy, and even Barnabas was led astray by their hypocrisy. (Galatians 2:11-13)
Not all tables are welcoming. This incident in the life of the early church shows how a table can be exclusive or even be shunning to some in an act of judgment. It also shows how quickly our human tendency towards legalism can make ugly what grace has made beautiful.
Jesus got angry.
Not often—but when He did, it mattered.
He walked into the temple once, saw what was happening, and started turning over tables. Money went everywhere. People scrambled. And in the middle of it all, He says: “My house will be a house of prayer, but you have turned it into a den of thieves.”
Some passages of Scripture don’t yield easily to careful analysis.
We’re used to treating every word as serious, precise, and direct. And that’s good—to a point. But sometimes Jesus speaks with irony. Sometimes He exaggerates. Sometimes He sets something up just to see what we’ll do with it.
He was often more indirect than we expect. And sometimes, He was even playful.
There are lines you don’t cross. Places you don’t sit. People you don’t eat with. Everyone knows that.
So we stood outside where guests were spilling out onto the porch. Close enough to see through the doorway. Far enough to remain… clean.
We heard about Him before we ever met Him.
Hard not to. Everywhere He went, something happened. People got healed. Storms stopped. Demons left like they’d just been fired.
And then one day… Matthew left. Just got up from his booth. No warning. No explanation. One minute collecting taxes, the next—gone.
From the beginning, the heart of the Catch has been simple:
We are all about Jesus.
Not a political version of Jesus.
Not a cultural version of Jesus.
Not a version shaped by public opinion—even public “Christian” opinion.
Just Jesus—the Jesus of the gospels, as told by Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.
It had all been arranged. The first ones there had found everything just as he had said, so they prepared the table with the Passover meal, but with an undercurrent of unrest.
It was the beginning of the end. But it was not the end of the status quo that they feared. They had known no status quo for three years and had come to enjoy, instead, the freedom and security of His constant leadership.
You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. Psalm 23:5
What a strange place to prepare a table for a warrior. This could be interpreted in so many ways. I think probably the basic idea is provision. God provides us with what we need in the face of our enemies.
But I would like to take a definitely bolder approach to this. True biblical scholars should probably look away right now as I proceed to ignore every rule of hermeneutics known to man, and on the most studied, well-known Psalm the world over, no less. But when I read this, I think not only of provision for David, the Psalmist, in battle, I see an opportunity to bring others to the table, even one’s enemies.
