A place at the table (Bread for the Journey 14)

 

Back in the 1980s I saw a remarkable film called Babette’s Feast. Set in a remote and austere Danish village in the 19th century, it tells the story of two elderly sisters living in a small, devout Christian community marked by simplicity, restraint, and a certain spiritual severity. Into their world comes Babette, a once‑famous Parisian chef who has lost everything. When she unexpectedly receives a large sum of money, she spends it all preparing an extraordinary feast for the villagers — a feast through which joy is rediscovered, old wounds are healed, and hearts long closed begin to open.

What has stayed with me over the years are the film’s themes of generosity, community, and forgiveness. Food becomes more than nourishment; it becomes a medium of love, healing, and redemption. A meal can be a type of sacramental action mirroring the Sacrament of the Eucharist. ‘And they devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers’ (Acts 2:42).

Earlier today, at the annual general meeting of a local community group, we shared a simple meal together. And it reminded me how important shared meals truly are. In many ways, we have lost the sacredness of eating together. Busy schedules, scattered routines, and the constant intrusion of screen

s have eroded the daily or weekly gathering around a table. In some cultures, it is still customary to invite neighbours — not just friends or family — for a meal from time to time. In Ireland today, that practice has nearly vanished.

Yet the point of sharing a meal is not the food alone. It is the presence. The conversation. The stories. The sense of belonging. A shared meal says: You matter. You are welcome. Sit with us.

And that brings me back to the Eucharist.

It would be unthinkably rude to invite someone into our home, sit them at our table, and then forbid them to eat while we ourselves tuck in. By analogy, our celebration of the Eucharist should be a moment of joy, welcome, and inclusion. Yes, it is sacred and solemn — far more than a family dinner — but it is not devoid of warmth, peace, or the joy of being gathered with those whom God has placed in our lives.

At the Lord’s table, there is room for everyone. It is the Lord's table and not ours.  He invites us and them more than we invite whom we chose.  No one is meant to be an onlooker. No one is meant to feel like an outsider. The liturgy is not a mechanism for creating outcasts; it is the place where Christ gathers the wounded, the weary, the searching, and the hopeful. It is the feast where grace is offered without price.

Babette’s Feast ends with a community transformed by a meal they did not expect and did not fully understand. Perhaps that is the invitation for us too: to rediscover the sacredness of eating together, to welcome those who cross our paths, and to ensure that in our churches — as in our homes — no one is invited only to watch while others are fed.