Prelude: A Table in the presence of my enemies

by Luke Calvin

While Psalm 23 has been a source of encouragement for so many, in the last 4 years there’s been a verse that has taken the sense of comfort and security out of it entirely.

“You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.” 

Nothing about this sounds safe.  Throughout the debate my denomination has had regarding the ordination of men who experience same sex attraction, or might call themselves gay, I’ve experienced the abuse and neglect of many ordained shepherds, and, though I may not like to admit it, these men have felt like enemies to me.  Their presence has wrecked my sense of safety and security in the church, and have made it impossible for me to attend these days.  As part of an attempt to find my way back to peace and security and back to the church, I began meditating on Psalm 23 and this is the product of that extended time of meditation.    

David said you made him lie down in green pastures.
And, maybe you are trying to make me lie down, too.
But I can’t lie down.  
When I lie down, my mind gets up.  
Replaying, rehearsing, rehashing.  
Circling.  Circling.  
Circling like the precious dog that I 
try to make sit by my side, 
Try, by force, to break the loops his anxious mind is forcing him to make.
The incessant clicking of his nails against the floor
sounding out the restlessness of my own heart

Sometimes I succeed.
I take him into my lap and hold him still, 
he relents, 
and allows his body to go slack.
But often, no sooner than I release my hands, he is back up,
Pacing.
Clicking until the required number of circles, 
or requisite number of steps, 
triggers his little body to release, and then lie down

I want to relax 
I want to let go
I want to open my hands to receive the overflowing cup you hold out to me,
but should I allow my clenched fists to relax
Who will hold the sense of sanity and worth I’ve fought so hard to keep
Who will hold the memory of what it cost me to follow the path of righteousness?
And so, 
I stand up 
and I click out my circles and stories to remind myself:

“I followed you outside the gates of that crumbling kingdom, 
that failing city of failing men,
And I, too, bore disgrace along this path
I followed you as you went out 
to gather those scattered by the devourers
To comfort those burned by the purifiers
To offer yourself in death to the mortifiers
I stood true
I remembered the face of my Father”

You led us along the path of righteousness,
To a place of still waters and green pastures
But this path wound through the valley of death
And I am still haunted.
Rattled by war and rumors of war
“Yes, there is unmuddied water here, and untrampled pasture,
But, are we safe?” 
You show me your rod and your staff, 
and you tell me that you will hold to account
Those who burned us,
Those who ate us,
Those who didn’t even notice we were gone
And I want to believe we’re safe

But, 
On the other bank I see, a table and my enemies
“Why would you put the source of my soul’s restoring in such a dangerous place?
Yes, you’ve anointed my head, and overflowed my cup,
You’ve made yourself my host and home
But, you’d have me take and eat in front of them?

Am I to eat and run, fleeing for safer pasture, once again?
Am I to feel forever despised, knowing they think this table is for them, and not for me?

Or, worse yet…
Am I to invite them to sit and eat with me?
Am I to forgive them with a feast?!”
“Peace.  Be still,”  
You speak to the raging river of fear
You hold my rigid, panicked body in your strong and loving arms
until I go slack
You make me lie down by the quieting waters
You tell me the story of how
You ate with your betrayer,
And reclined at a table with one who would deny your friendship,
And how, even still, you make a feast of yourself 
to those who would sacrifice you over and over for their pharisaic purity and peace.
And in so doing, Sunday after Sunday, 
you heap coals upon the heads of those who take your cup and eat your bread.

You cast a vision over the now quiet waters, 
You show me those who’ve long in darkness lay
Drawn to these burning coals and Spirit’s fire.
A church of “others” gathered, of slaves and outcasts made.
A table fenced, a meal laid and gratefully received. 
But, then, these once shamed saints, they turn and
find themselves surround by slaughtering shepherds and blinded guides,
The host steps forth, and offers up, a mercy and a way.
“Come, once feared enemies, take and eat, for my mercy it is free.  

But, to be filled, you must receive from those you’ve once betrayed.”
The once bloodied now lovely sheep, hold out the cup and bread
To those who hurt and burned and ate them;
To those who turned the other way.
Humbled, some come to receive, contrition in their tears.
But others gnash their impotent rage.
Their hateful speech and vile contempt 
Held at bay by the Shepherd and the Sheep, 
His rod and staff,
Their Strength and Love
Their Word and Will

Is this how you protect your sheep?  
Is this the way you’ll drive out fear?
By making us the heaper of coals, and not the ones engulfed in flames?
By making us the hosts who remain, and not guests to be removed?
By making us the offerers of the feast, and not the ones devoured?

Yes…yes

There’s something of this way that rings of truth and art.
Of last made first
Of dead made ‘live
Of powerless made strong

“But, first,
Come rest, 
this dream will hold 
Until those tight clicking loops you run 
expand, 
then slow, 
then cease.
Until your tight fists find release to trust 
I hold your heart, 
your history, 
your crown.
Only then will we rise, throw wide the gates,
And invite them all:
The Strong
The Sleek
The Weak
To come, surrender to the feast”

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For part one of my series on the book of John and Deconstruction click here.