At the Table

It was at the table that
by the flickering glow of candlelight
you extended your weathered hands
giving bread to the ones
who would soon walk away and
scatter like mice when
the lights are turned on

It was at the table that
while the wax dripped and
the wicks burned low and
the light waned that
the cup was passed around the table
as a sign of a new promise to a world that
loved darkness and
avoided the light

It was at the table that
liberation was remembered as the
the call at a burning bush which lead to
the leading of slaves
out of captivity and into
a new relationship with
the one who heard their cries

It was at the table that
the hunger in the wilderness which
rumbled in stomachs that
longed for more than bread and
memories that longed for more than a
throne restored was remembered and
it was in the wilderness that
the masses who followed received a foretaste
of the feast to come

It was at the table that
you drew us into the story that
God had been writing all along.

A story of
creating and
promising and
hoping and
loosing and
searching and
hearing and
calling and
sending and
liberating and
shaping and
giving and
anointing and
sustaining and
crying and
longing and
waiting and
fulfilling and
surprising and
singing and
borning and
growing and
working and
calling again and
teaching and
healing and
feeding and
loving and
dying and
resurrecting and
bringing life out of death

It is at the table that
we break bread and
share the cup and
remember your death until
you come again