Dinner with Jesus
The three small flames of my fig and bergamot candle flicker on the table. Steam billows from the pile of rice on my plate as I scoop it and the thick ground beef mixture onto a blanket of lettuce before wrapping it all up snuggly. My music plays on the TV in the living room, cycling through the songs on my easy playlist—"Mariella" by Khruangbin and Leon Bridges, right now.
I'm sitting at the dining room table, alone.
It's not something I usually do, have dinner by myself. In fact, I do anything I can to avoid it. I live with two roommates. When they're not here and I'm having dinner in, I'll watch a movie or a show. The actors and the plot keep me company—occupied and entertained.
But, it's Lent. I'm foregoing movies and TV. And I've felt an invitation from the Spirit to be more present, to go slow, to pay attention, to notice what I normally wouldn't. It's maddening. In the best way.
So tonight, I thought I'd try something. I'll make one of my favorite dinners. I'll listen to some music I like. I'll sit at the table instead of the couch. And I'll invite Jesus to join me and see what happens.
I take a couple of deep breaths, the discomfort catching up with me. I rest my hands on the table in front of me, palms up.
"Jesus, thank you for this food. Will you come share this meal with me?"
The moment I voice the words aloud, the room feels different, warmer. The atmosphere dances. A wave of emotion and deep realization washes over me.
He's here.
Tears fall down my cheeks and I can't help it. I can sense his joy. I don't know what I expected, or better yet, why when I invited him I was surprised that he showed up.
All this time, I'd been avoiding this very scenario. I was scared. Maybe of the discomfort of being alone. Or maybe it's the deep-seated existential dread that the moment I let myself be really alone, a deeper, realer loneliness will settle in, and hope will be exposed as mere unfounded wishful thinking.
Isn't it fascinating that if we let what we're running from catch up to us, we'll realize it was never trying to hurt us. In fact, it has something to give us.
In Brennan Manning's book Abba's Child, he shares a conversation that happened between a recently converted GK Chesterton and a reporter.
The reporter said, “Sir, I understand that you recently became a Christian. May I ask you one question?”
“Certainly,” replied Chesterton.
“If the risen Christ suddenly appeared at this very moment and stood behind you, what would you do?”
Chesterton said, "He is."
Brennan Manning uses this anecdote in a chapter entitled "Present Risenness." He argues that the resurrection of Jesus is not just of creedal, theological, apologetic significance. It is a matter of how we experience reality, personally.
The extent to which we allow the present risenness of Jesus to affect our everyday lives is the extent to which we will know true peace. The extent to which our inner brokenness will be mended and our souls finally filled to the brim with hope. The extent to which we will be united with the Trinity in love for the sake of the world.
I am nowhere close to that. Maybe none of us is—though many have made progress toward this vision and inspire us as we walk forward.
But, regardless of how close I am to living fully in the reality of Jesus' presence, his presence remains as real as can be, in and around me regardless of my fears and doubts. My guess is the more I invite him to share a meal with me, the less surprised I'll be when he shows up.