Thursday, April 17

Suppertime

Michael Andres

Reading

Just before the Passover Feast, Jesus knew that the time had come to leave this world to go to the Father. Having loved his dear companions, he continued to love them right to the end. It was suppertime.
John 13:1 (The Message)

Reflection

I get stuck in ruts with food.

I’ll go two weeks eating nothing but grilled chicken thighs and loving every bite—then go months before I even think of one again. Next up is spicy ramen with beef and an irresponsible amount of fresh green onion (best paired with an ice-cold Dr. Pepper—like, however cold you’re thinking, make it colder). Sometimes it’s a Mediterranean spinach salad, though honestly, there might be more olives and feta than greens.

The same thing happens with my kids, though they’re pretty content cycling through different variations of cheese-based dishes and fresh fruit. It makes grocery shopping both straightforward and painfully frustrating.

Before I had kids, I had Rockwellian dreams of us eating around the table each night—talking through our days, reflecting on the headlines, and trying to make sense of our little family in a wild world. But then I got a little older. My friends did too. And they started experimenting with children and tables of their own.

Eventually, I gave up the nightly meal ideal and tried something more accessible: Sunday is family dinner.
Church.
Low and slow cooking.
Family.
And friends who feel like family.
And neighbors too.
Anyone who needed a spot at the table.

I fought for that rhythm—mostly with myself—for a good long while. And somewhere along the way, I let it slip.
Except on the days when my ducks are mostly in a row.
Or when I’ve spent the afternoon dreaming of futures and tables that may never come to pass.

Family Dinner.
That means something to me.

I used “low and slow” without thinking—but that’s exactly what I mean when it comes to people, too. Relationships forged over time. Ritual. Repetition. Stories told and re-told. Space where you can be earnest, honest, unedited. Supper has that feel. There’s something everyday about it. Barefooted, even.

I was struck reading John’s Gospel in preparation for today.
“It was suppertime.” (John 13:1, The Message)

The word lands different.
It sits at the table different.

It smells like bread in a basket and sounds like thick ice in a heavy-bottomed glass. Supper’s not going anywhere. It’s already arrived. You don’t come to supper aiming to leave.

It’s not “grabbing a bite” or “running through somewhere” on the way.
Supper tastes like the cornmeal on garden-cut okra and the smooth grit of hot oil and salt.
It starts with the sun in one place and ends with the moon in another.
It’s less about food, and more about being.
About presence.
About meaning.

Jesus knew what was ahead of him.
He knew who would run.
Who would betray.
Who would watch.
Who would be close enough to wail.

He knew the creases and turns in their mouths, the way their eyes darted across the table. He knew who chewed too loud, whose wine pours were generous, who laughed for real, and who laughed to deflect.

He knew the smell of the dust on their feet—just as he knew the paths they’d walked and the people they’d passed.

And still, he sat down for supper.
To be with his people, just like they had always done.

Only this time was different.
He took what was familiar and gave it eternal weight.

Jesus reclaimed the table as sacred space.
He loved slowly, assuredly.
He loved to the end.

And that kind of love takes time.
Time to listen.
Time to forgive.
Time to serve.
Time to know someone well enough to wash their feet.

A guy I know says, “You can’t love someone in a hurry.”
I like that. I want to do that.

I want to eat slow and sit for a while.
Cook richly and linger longer.
Tell stories. Share lives.

I want to eat supper with folks at a table that’s less about the food and always about the people.
A table about love.
Because that’s what it was for Jesus.

And he loved them—loved us—to the very end.