It is an old oak table. It is stained and marked from over a hundred years of daily use. It has five leaves that allow it to expand to seat fourteen people quite comfortably or twenty slightly squeezed.

It has an interesting history. Although there's no label underneath, I've been able to track its history back as far as the turn of the century in Greeley, Nebraska. It belonged to the Swain family who were a prominent family in that not so prominent town. Mr. Swain was a district judge and Mrs. Swain found herself entertaining some of the nearly famous who found themselves, whether they liked it or not, in Greeley, Nebraska. Rumor has it that every governor of the Cornhusker State in those early years of this century had, at one time or another, rested their gubernatorial bottoms underneath the Swains' fine and favored table. The great orator and Christian fundamentalist William Jennings Bryant even broke bread over those illustrious boards...which is nothing if not ironic considering just where the table wound up, which is what I am about to tell you.

When the Swains passed away, the table was bequeathed to a daughter by the name of MacDermott who lived in the fine Nebraska town of Broomfield, and from there the table made its way to my grandmother who happened to be a preacher's wife, and, as everyone knew or assumed in Broomfield, a preacher's wife is always willing and eager to receive the cast-offs, be it furniture or clothing, from those whom God has blessed more bountifully than God usually decides to bless the families of preachers.

From there to our house was a matter of fifty years or so and for the last twenty it has served us quite well. Its place in the Mayfield home is, I am sure, not that different from its other habitats. It is a place of discussion, debate and occasional disagreement. Life-changing announcements have been made around that old table and, I suspect, there will be several more to come. It is where most days in our family begin and most days end. It has borne the burden of countless meals, endless conversations and random acts of semi-violence. Just this past week, my nephew Max decided to throw up on it but at the last minute was dissuaded, I believe, by that table's semi-sacred aura and so he threw up over himself instead.

In any case, it is a fine old table. Sturdy and well-built, to be sure, but its substance comes, I am convinced, not so much from the oak as from the occasions that it serves as host to. It is, without question, the center of our family life...or at least the place where our family centers. It is a symbol and a reminder to all of us what it means to be a family. It is a place of relationship and it is as holy as any altar could ever be.

The Bible says that God became flesh and dwelt among us. Well, that old table is where God chose to dwell with us. God sits at our table and joins in the conversation. God listens as we share our problems and promises, our hopes and our always welcomed hilarity. God has laughed at that table and God has cried. And without, I hope, being too dramatic, I believe that God has died at that table and risen from the dead, as well...many, many times.

Our table is made of oak and is over a century old but any table can do. We all need a place for the nurturing of relationships, a place where we can gather to gather ourselves, a place where we can welcome God.