CMLC 2026-02-15 Sermon

Howdy. It's time to go home for Thanksgiving

break, and you're not really sure what you're

walking into as you come home from college. You

know that you and your dad cannot talk about

politics, not because either of you lacks opinions,

but because both of you have way too many. Your

mom has opinions, too, about everything that

you've done over the last few months. your sleep

schedule, your major, your laundry habits, possibly

your haircut, and definitely your diet. Your

brother is annoyed by your very existence because,

to be fair, that seems to have been his spiritual

gift since birth. And your sister loves you but

maybe resents that you left for college and she's

still the one who has to do the dishes. All of

this is waiting for you as you come home and

you walk in the door You drop your bag, you take

a breath, and suddenly you realize something

very simple. You're so hungry. Sure, you've survived

on pizza rolls, okay? Technically, they're edible

and legally considered food in most of the bottom

48. Nutritionally questionable, but don't even

get started on the ramen. There's a deeper hunger,

though. a hunger for a place where you're safe,

where no one is grading you, where you don't

have to prove anything, where you can just be

you. And somehow, even with all the opinions

and tensions and unresolved group chats, home

is still that place. Because at home, there's

a table, and at home, there's a chair, and somehow

that chair is always your chair. Sometimes, though,

it's not even a holiday table. Sometimes the

table we find ourselves at is a hospital room

with cold takeout balanced on a rolling tray,

family members who haven't slept, paper cups

of coffee that have long since grown lukewarm.

But still, even at the times when things feel

the most strained, someone is still saying, did

you eat yet? You should eat something. Not because

food fixes everything, and not because the moment

is not somehow fragile and frightening, but because

sitting down together, even in the middle of

fear, is a quiet way of saying you are not alone.

You still belong here. And that small ordinary

table, wherever it may end up being, becomes

a place of mercy. So what does it mean when you

know that there's a table waiting for you? A

place that already has your name on it. When

that quiet longing, when that deep stubborn hunger

is closer to longing for God than we usually

admit. Not with the arguments that we had prepared

and not with the performances in front of relatives,

but with an invitation. Because scripture keeps

telling the same story. God does not meet us

with a test. God meets us with a table. And if

you remember what we have seen in baptism, God

meets us in these ordinary ways. Water poured

on a humble head, promises spoken, a new life

quietly begun. Not with spectacle, not with performance,

just water, words, promise. And somehow, though

something may be so ordinary, God says, you are

mine, you belong, welcome home. God's presence

turns the ordinary into something extraordinary.

Coming to God's table, it's not about impressing

him. It's about coming home. It's about discovering

you were invited before you even knocked on the

door. Imagine being a people with the table set

before you go in the wilderness, not quite knowing

what to do with it. See, Israel has just left

Egypt and 400 years of slavery. Freedom... is

still a new thing for them. Generations who never

tasted freedom, generations who forgot what dignity

felt like, and suddenly they're free, which sounds

wonderful until you realize freedom also means

no easy food supply, no army, no map, no idea

what comes next. Freedom is glorious, and freedom

is also terrifying. And now they stand at Mount

Sinai, where they've been called, where they're

meant to be safe, named by God, but not sure

what's going to happen. And they are astonished.

But what's astonishing is not just the thunder,

the fire, the giant cloud and the ground trembling

beneath their feet. It is that God is here and

drawing them close to Himself. Not to destroy

them and not to test them about whether they're

worthy But to bring them to a stable See if you

were there you would expect judgment Keep a safe

distance a warning line in the sand do not come

near here But something astonishing happens instead

the leaders of Israel go up the mountain into

the presence of God His very feet right there

and they eat a meal Try to feel how strange that

moment really is Sandals were scraping against

the stone. The air was thick with smoke and thunder

still echoing in their bones every step upward

They're wondering if this is the step where the

holiness breaks out against them and it is all

over Because all their lives they had learned

that sinners do not stroll casually into the

presence of the living God. But there's no lightning

strike. There's no voice of condemnation. There's

no command to turn back. Only a table and food

and the quiet permission to sit and to live.

Because holiness did not consume them. Holiness

made room for them. And the most astonishing

miracle on that mountain was not the fire or

the cloud or the shaking earth, it was that sinners

sat down in peace and ate in the presence of

God. Not a table in the presence of enemies,

but a table in the presence of holiness. Because

God's first instinct is not destruction of enemies,

it is welcome. We know that these are not perfect

people. We already know the failures that are

going to come. The golden calf with Aaron himself.

The complaining by the elders. The power struggles

with Miriam and Elder. Even the broken worship

with Nadab and Abihu. But still, God welcomes

them to eat in his presence. If God were waiting

for holiness to happen first, the meal would

never happen. God's table though. It's it's not

where the worthy are rewarded if that's what

you're expecting you are sorely disabused of

that notion but it is a place where the unworthy

are received and slowly transformed The meal

itself is the grace that transforms us and that

sounds strangely familiar doesn't it it sounds

something like the heart of God beautiful as

he welcomes us to eat, as he gathers near, as

he brings us to the table where we belong before

we became who we're meant to be. Blessed are

the poor in spirit, blessed are the meek, blessed

are the hungry, not the impressive, not the powerful,

not the put together ones, the ones who are hungry.

And like the Beatitudes, God's blessing rests

not on being impressive, but on the humble, the

meek, the ordinary, the ones who are humble enough

simply to receive. At God's table, fear becomes

welcome, and welcome becomes the beginning of

everything new in your life. What a strange thing,

really. To sit in the presence of God and simply

eat. No fear, no proving something, just a presence

as powerful as we need it to be. But when we're

welcomed, when we finally find that place where

we belong, then we take it for granted. It feels

too normal. It feels too everyday. It feels like

we do this every week. Is it really that big

a deal? But I want you to fast forward a few

centuries. This is what we have been seeing these

past weeks from Jesus. In baptism where something

as simple as water is a doorway into the kingdom.

In the Beatitudes where the blessed are not the

impressive but the humble, the meek, the ordinary.

And in being salt and light where faithfulness

looks less like fireworks and more like feeding

the hungry, caring for the poor, loving a neighbor.

No light shows. No swinging down from the balcony.

Caring. for the ones in need now we're on another

mountain different people same god peter james

john they climb up with jesus and suddenly everything

changes the transfiguration suddenly this quiet

ordinary road explodes with glory light brighter

than sunlight history standing there in conversation

the weight of glory pressing into the air. This

is the kind of moment that the religious people

would have dreamed of. Light, voices, Moses,

Elijah, power, proof, vindication of everything

those disciples had been doing. Finally, something

undeniable. Everybody needs to see, right? And

Peter thinks this is it. This is the turning

point. This is the moment that God fixes everything.

This is the moment that the power arrives. There's

Elijah. This is what we were waiting for. This

is the day everyone finally understands what

Jesus the Messiah is doing, right? And of course

he thinks that. Because he spent his whole life

under the weight of someone else's empire. watching

his people strain under taxes and soldiers and

shame, hearing promises that someday God would

act, really act, set things right. So when the

mountain suddenly burns with glory and the heroes

of Israel's past are standing there alive, when

heaven itself feels close enough to touch, how

could this not be the moment that everything

changes, right? Of course Peter wants to hold

on to it. Of course he wants to hold something

permanent, build, because if the glory can stay,

then maybe the suffering will go away. And all

this stuff that Jesus had been talking about

won't have to happen. So Peter starts talking.

Because when humans encounter glory, we either

fall silent or we start making stupid building

plans. Let's build the tents. Let's organize

this. Let's capture the moment because Peter

still expects a Messiah as a spectacle Judgment

against their foes reversal of so much evil fire

from heaven to bring their victory but heaven

interrupts him Not with instructions to build

not with strategy just a voice Listen to my son.

Because the glory on the mountain is not the

destination. It never was. It's a sign pointing

somewhere quieter. It's far more quiet, but far

more costly. Jesus is not asking Peter, James,

or John, or anybody to perform. Be still. Receive.

Listen, the glory is real, but the invitation

is quiet. They had already heard that invitation

once. From the voice crying in the wilderness,

remember him? Prepare the way, repent, be made

humble. People didn't listen then, which means

that they were never going to recognize the kind

of Messiah who doesn't come with spectacle. who

only comes with a quiet presence. So down the

mountain they come, toward the suffering, toward

the table, toward the cross. And that's a lot

harder to accept than fireworks. Because we would

prefer to have a dazzling God over the quiet

present one. The kingdom keeps arriving in these

small ordinary ways. the water on a forehead,

the bread in the hand, the wine on the lips,

the love in ordinary places, because God's glory,

it rarely shouts. More often it sits quietly

beside you and waits to be noticed. Our witness,

it's not about being spectacular. It's about

living faithfully in the ordinary love that is

sometimes so difficult for us. Because God's

glory, It doesn't appear in the fancy moments.

It's in the quiet places where He's already near.

The places where we truly know Him, not only

as God above, but as God with us in the flesh.

But what about that table? See, that's when the

night comes when everything falls apart. Betrayal

is in motion. Denial is already whispering in

the shadows. The violence is only hours away.

Jesus knows what is coming. He sees the cross

ahead. If there were ever a moment for Jesus

to display power, this would be it. But what

does He do? He sets a table. No army. No escape

plan. No giant explanation or defense of everything

He's done. No final miracle to leave with one

final display of glory. He sits down, he eats,

he drinks. He stays with the ones that he loves,

the friends who still don't understand. He gives

them his presence in the holiest moment of all.

As the hands reach for the bread, as the voices

murmur, as people shift in their seats, this

doesn't look like the end of the world, but it

doesn't look like salvation either. It looks

like bread and wine. Jesus gives them himself.

When the world was breaking all around them,

Jesus didn't explain it all. He fed them. This

is what communion is. And this is what happens

every time we gather at the table of the Lord.

Not perfection, not spectacle, not something

polished or impressive. Simply the presence of

Christ. Hungry people fed at his table. Grace

given freely and abundantly. And we discover

again that we belong to one another as his body.

Ordinary elements, extraordinary mercy. It's

not because of the things that we feel, but because

of what he promises. Just as how we receive grace

freely given in baptism with his hands, with

the bread, with the wine, his presence. His sacrifice

was proclaimed. A miraculous reality in the simplest

way possible. And suddenly Sinai makes sense.

The mountain of glory makes sense because they

were always leading here. Not with distance,

not with mere symbolism, but with God himself

feeding his people. So as we are entering this

season of Lent, we remember something simple

yet easily forgotten. The miracle is not in what

dazzles us, it is in the ordinary presence of

God. A meal with the elders, Jesus feeding his

disciples, a quiet table of communion. The glory

is not in what we do to earn it, but in what

God has already done by welcoming us, by feeding

us and inviting us to sit at his table. God with

us in weakness, feeding us in mercy, staying

when we would have ran away. So we do not come

here today to perform. We come to receive. And

having been fed, we are then sent. Not to prove

something to the world, but to love it. To be

salt, to be light, to be the ordinary grace in

ordinary days. Because the table is not the end

of the story. It is the beginning of a people

sent into the world. Not to impress, but to remain

faithful in a thousand unseen moments. Because

Christ has already welcomed us and has already

brought us home. So as we leave today and go

back into the everyday lives, the presence of

Christ doesn't stay here. The presence of Christ

goes with us. as we have been fed and nourished

by his word. You carry it into kitchens, offices,

hospitals, classrooms, quiet conversations that

no one else will ever hear. In relationships,

in your work, in every quiet place where love

is given in his name. And that, more than any

mountain of light, is where the glory of God

keeps appearing. Because the glory of God is

not on a mountain top alone. It is with you,

here and now, in the everyday. So this table

of the Lord is only the beginning. Because one

day after all the long roads you have walked,

after every sorrow that you've followed, after

every hunger that you have tried to hide that

God already knows, you will come home to a place

you did not build and live a life you did not

earn. And the door will be open for you. The

table will be set. and your chair that no one

else can take is waiting for you. Not in a home

that was your own, but because Christ brought

you to his home. So in his name, welcome home.

Thanks be to God.