One of the most audacious declarations in scripture, that perhaps sums up all of scripture, is from none other than the 23rd Psalm. “My cup runneth over.”
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
If the language sounds a bit out-dated it’s only because we’ve been hearing this for as long as there’s been air to breathe.
“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.” This is, I believe, the love of God, though it makes me want to scream out, “What the hell?” What kind of shepherd goes to the trouble of laying out cloth napkins and lighting candles so I can sit down with people who make my blood boil? I much prefer the shepherd who doesn’t hold my own stupidness and stubbornness against me, who leaves a herd of 99 faithful sheep behind to set out in search of me. Then, finding me, throws me on his, or her—I’m going to say her. In this case you got to figure on the shepherd being a kind grandmotherly type—she throws me on her shoulders and skips me home. But lay me out in green pastures, lead me alongside quiet waters, restore me right down to my soul, only to sit me down with my enemies? Take me back to Death Valley please!
Of course, there is no place that begs us to be friendly more than a table. Is this the love of God? To provide a six-course meal and enough beer and wine to keep us at the table until all the enemies have drunk themselves into friendship? Given that we know drunkenness wears off, this would be a strange way to show love and make friends. For we would wake up the next morning only to see a less-dazzling version of ourselves in the mirror. We’d remember what we did or did not do the day or night before and we’d loathe, resent, and hate ourselves. What is more, our enemies would not be our friends. They’d still be our enemies. No, this is not the love of God.
Indeed, in coming to any table we might play the enemy as much as the friend, or at least the stranger, which is too often taken to be the enemy. We have nothing in our hands, no gift to offer by which we might even win a friend. We’ve just stepped out of death’s shadow. We’re barely breathing. Before us, a table; we sit down, and if we see only our enemies sitting across from us, who’s to say that they don’t see it the same way? But our cup runneth over! Someone has decided to treat us like we are a friend, to show us not just a little bit of generosity, but more generosity than we can contain. God makes us her friend and gives us a spillover of kindness in hopes that we’ll use it to make more friends.
This is the love of God.
A three year old—specifically, mine—is standing in the hallway trying to put his shoes on. His older sister is going outside to play with the neighbors and he wants to go too, if only he could get his shoes on. He is leaning against the stairwell bannister. He can hear the doors to the shed opening and the squeals of children proclaiming liberty as they climb aboard their bicycles. He can see that someone who doesn’t even know how to ride a bike is using his Spiderman Big Wheel! Anxious and terrified, he begins to pound his left heel into his right shoe. His right heel is simply pounding directly against the hardwood. His shoes are velcro. He won’t need to tie them, but the harder he pounds the more the back of his left shoe is getting folded, smushed underfoot.
“Can I help you,” I ask him.
“No, I can do it,” he reverberates.
He is quite clearly growing not only into his shoes but also into his heart that wants what it wants. I leave him there to work things out. A few minutes later I come back to check on him. He’s still wrestling.
“Buddy, let me help you.
“No.” He yells at me this time and throws a punch; it’s harmless, a swat at the breeze, except he knows that I know: he wasn’t really swatting at the breeze.
“Time out,” I tell him. And up to his room he goes.
I listen to him sob for a bit before pushing the door open. He’s sitting on the floor inside his closet trying to get a different pair of shoes on now.
“Daddy, can you help me?”
This is, I believe, the love of God. Having been turned away more times than not, God asks us if we can help.
Then, with her own divine hand she bends down to show us how it’s done. She tucks her thumb into the back of our shoe, just enough so our heel can slide into place and we can stand up to run outside and play.
PleaseGrace 