A Table in the Valley

 

A Table in the Valley

I went to a fine dining establishment the other night.

And by fine dining, I mean one of those places where you stand in line, order at the counter, and hope everyone working there is having at least a decent enough day to get your order right.

They were not.

The whole thing was a train wreck.

There was a line almost to the door if you wanted one thing, but if you wanted actual food, there was no line. So I walked up with my wife and my mom, ordered our food, and sat down. My sister and her family were meeting us there, but they were just getting ice cream.

By the time they got there, we already had our food. By the time they got through the ice cream line, we had already eaten. My wife and mom had already left. I’m sitting there feeling rude because I don’t want to leave. They came to sit down, eat ice cream, and talk with us, but at this point I had already eaten my food, sat there for a while, and watched the whole place slowly fall apart.

The employees were not exactly thrilled to be there. Nobody was especially kind. Nobody seemed like they cared. The food was fine, but the environment made the whole thing frustrating.

And it got me thinking.

Most of us have had some version of that experience. You can have good food in a bad environment and still not want to go back. The thing being offered might be good, but the atmosphere makes it hard to receive.

I started wondering how often that happens with us.

With churches. With homes. With conversations. With relationships. With the way we handle people who are hurting, lost, confused, frustrated, or trying to find their way back to God.

Because we can have truth. We can have doctrine. We can have conviction. We can be right.

And if the environment we create is cold, harsh, sarcastic, careless, impatient, or judgmental, people may never be able to receive what we are trying to give them.

I think we have made hospitality way too small.

Most of the time, when we hear the word hospitality, we think about being polite. We think about smiling at the door, shaking hands, opening doors, handing out bulletins, making coffee, or helping somebody find a seat.

And sure, all of that has its place.

But I don’t think that is the heart of hospitality.

Hospitality is creating an environment where life can exist.

It reaches farther than the front door of a church. It reaches into what happens when someone comes into contact with my life.

Can they breathe around me?

Can they heal around me?

Can they grow around me?

Can they take a step toward God around me?

Can something in them come back to life?

Or do they leave feeling more wounded than when they came?

The Hospitality of God

Psalm 23 is probably one of the most familiar passages in the Bible. Most of us can quote at least part of it.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

David starts by showing us a God who provides.

“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.”

There, in that pasture, you find peace. Rest. Stability. Healing. Restoration.

From the very beginning of the psalm, God is creating an environment where David can live and thrive.

Then the passage shifts.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”

The scenery changes completely. Green pastures and still waters give way to fear, pressure, uncertainty, and the kind of place where life is not supposed to thrive.

David does not say God removed the valley.

He says, “I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.”

God stepped into it with him.

Then David says something that almost does not make sense in that setting.

“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.”

Before the enemies are gone. Before the problem is solved. Before the pressure lifts.

In the middle of it, God prepares a table.

That is hospitality.

God creates a place of life in a place surrounded by death.

He anoints David’s head with oil. There is personal care in that. There is attention. There is the touch of a Shepherd who knows exactly what has wounded His sheep.

Then David says, “My cup runneth over.”

That is abundance. More than survival. More than barely making it. David is walking through a valley, surrounded by enemies, and still somehow talking about overflow.

Then he ends with confidence.

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”

When you step back and look at it, David is describing the hospitality of God.

God provides, leads, restores, protects, prepares, anoints, and overflows.

And if that is how God treats us, that is how we are called to treat others.

Hospitality is something God does for us, and then He expects it to flow through us.

So the question is simple, but it is not easy.

When people step into my life, are they stepping into something that looks like Psalm 23?

Or are they stepping into something that feels like the valley, only without the table?

Because real hospitality says, “I know where you are. I know this is not easy. I know everything around you may feel like death. I am going to help create a place where you can still live.”

The Overflow Is Not Just for Me

David said, “My cup runneth over.”

We love that phrase. We sing about overflow. We pray for overflow. We talk about living in the overflow.

And I get it. I like the idea too.

I think sometimes we misunderstand what overflow is for.

We are not supposed to live in the overflow.

We live in the cup.

The cup is what God gives me. The cup is what sustains me. The cup is the grace, mercy, goodness, strength, patience, and provision God pours into my life.

The overflow is for everyone around me.

If the cup is full, my needs are met. When the cup starts running over, everything around it starts getting touched by what is inside.

That means people should not only hear me talk about the goodness of God. Some of that goodness should be felt when they get around me.

If God has given me grace, grace should come out of me. If God has shown me mercy, mercy should come out of me. If God has forgiven me, forgiveness should come out of me. If God has been patient with me, patience should come out of me.

The question is not just, “Is my cup full?”

The question is, “What is spilling out of me?”

Because whatever is filling my life will eventually overflow.

If I am full of bitterness, bitterness is going to spill out. If I am full of cynicism, cynicism is going to spill out. If I am full of judgment, judgment is going to spill out. If I am full of pride, pride is going to spill out.

And if God is filling me with grace, mercy, goodness, patience, and love, then sooner or later somebody around me should feel it.

Pressed Down, Shaken Together, and Running Over

There is a verse we love to quote.

“Give, and it shall be given unto you; good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, and running over…”

Most of the time, we quote that during offering. We attach it to money.

And I am not saying there is no principle there, but if you actually read Luke 6, Jesus is talking about how we treat people.

He is talking about mercy. Forgiveness. Judgment. Condemnation.

Right before He says, “Give, and it shall be given unto you,” He says, “Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.”

So when Jesus says give, the question is, give what?

Give mercy.

Give forgiveness.

Give grace.

Give the same things God has already given you.

Then He says, “With the same measure that ye mete withal it shall be measured to you again.”

In other words, the way I measure it out is the way it comes back.

If I give people harshness, I should not be shocked when harshness finds its way back to me. If I give people judgment, I should not be shocked when judgment finds its way back to me. If I give people no room to grow, no room to struggle, no room to ask questions, no room to heal, then I probably should not be surprised when I find myself in an environment where I cannot breathe either.

But if I give grace, if I give mercy, if I give forgiveness, if I create room for people to come toward God, Jesus said that kind of thing has a way of coming back good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over.

So this is not about money.

It is about what my life is giving away.

Everything God has poured into me was never meant to stop with me. It was meant to flow through me.

Maybe the Ground Was Never Supposed to Prepare Itself

There is a parable Jesus tells about a sower who went out to sow seed.

Most of the time, when we talk about that parable, we focus on the ground.

Be good soil. Do not be rocky. Do not be thorny. Do not be shallow.

And I understand that. There is truth there.

But I wonder if we have missed part of the point.

Because I do not know anybody who walks outside to plant a garden, looks at the dirt, and says, “Alright ground, I am about to plant something. You need to get yourself together.”

Nobody does that.

If I want something to grow, I have work to do. I have to break up the ground. I have to pull weeds. I have to move rocks. I have to make sure the soil is actually ready to receive what I am about to plant.

The preparation of the soil is not just on the soil. It is on the one getting ready to sow the seed.

Because the Word of God is good seed. Truth is good seed. The issue is not the seed.

Even good seed can struggle in an environment that has not been prepared.

That is hospitality.

Hospitality does not water down truth. It does not pretend doctrine is unimportant. It does not compromise conviction.

Hospitality does the work to create an environment where truth can actually take root.

If I have good seed, and I am careless with the environment, I should not be shocked when nothing grows.

Truth without hospitality can fall on ground that is too wounded, too guarded, too defensive, or too broken to receive it.

The truth may be right.

The ground may not have been prepared.

When Truth Is Right, But the Environment Is Wrong

There was a girl I knew several years ago. We will call her Sandra.

We met at a gas station, and she wasn’t Pentecostal like me. She had experiences with Pentecostals before, and those experiences had left her hurt and closed off to people like me.

We ran into each other multiple times over a couple of months, and eventually I got the nerve to ask for her number. We started talking.

She had tried Pentecostal church before. It did not go well. She had wounds. She had questions. She had reasons to keep her distance.

But little by little, she started opening up. She was actually considering attending some services with me.

And I was working the old flirt-to-convert strategy.

That may not be the official evangelism strategy, but it felt like we were making progress.

Then one night, a friend of mine said something to her that had to do with how she was living her life.

Now, I understood what he was trying to say. This was not really an issue of whether there was truth in what he believed.

The issue was that there was no grace in how it was handled.

No mercy.

No hospitality.

No attention to the environment.

And just like that, everything changed.

Every conversation. Every bit of trust. Every open door. Gone.

She never came. I never heard from her again.

That story still bothers me.

Because the problem was not that truth does not matter. Truth absolutely matters.

The problem was that the environment was not prepared.

And truth without hospitality will only fall on ground that cannot receive it.

This Hits Me First

I am not writing this because I think everybody else needs to get it together.

This hits me first.

Because I know me.

I can be sarcastic. I can be cynical. I can say something because it is funny and not always stop to think about whether it gives life.

And sarcasm gets laughs. Cynicism can feel smart. A quick comment can create a moment.

But I have had to start asking myself a harder question.

When I speak, am I giving life?

Am I creating an environment where someone can breathe?

Am I helping prepare the ground?

Or am I shutting something down before it ever has a chance to grow?

Because hospitality is not just personality. It is responsibility.

We are called to be hospitable. Not just polite. Not just friendly. Not just nice at the door.

We are called to create environments where life can exist.

That means when broken people come into contact with us, they should not leave more broken. When wounded people come around us, they should not feel like they have to protect themselves from us. When lost people encounter us, they should not feel like there is no room for them to take a step toward God.

They should feel something that reminds them of Psalm 23.

A table in the valley. Oil for the wound. A cup that runs over. Goodness and mercy close behind.

That is hospitality.

Everything God has poured into my life, His grace, His mercy, His goodness, His patience, His forgiveness, was never meant to stop with me.

It was meant to overflow.

So maybe the real question is not whether I am right.

Maybe the better question is this:

When people come in contact with me, are they experiencing life?