Jomar didn’t say much. I watched his feet dangle over the front side of Nate’s living room sofa as he gave one or two-word responses. It’s his birthday this month. He’d like to go to the beach. I wondered for a moment what it would be like to share his experience, how I would respond if it was my family that was displaced from our apartment because the police teargassed the complex searching for an armed suspect. The thought was fleeting, though, and my attention turned to how effortlessly our kids made friends with their peers, united by the common purpose of connecting the farthest reaches of the house with a plastic railroad track.

A small group of strangers had gathered at the Millheim’s home in Oakland for a four-week experiment in loving our neighbor, and over the course of the evening we started the journey of learning each others’ stories, honoring each other, serving each other. We met new friends and deepened existing ties. These are the building blocks of true affection, and by the end of the night we had found enough common ground to really look forward to next Tuesday.

Jesus told his disciples that the kingdom of God is like a master who prepared a great banquet, but received a handful of lame excuses when it was announced to his invited guests. So the master told his servants to “Go out quickly into the streets and alleys of the town and bring in the poor, the crippled, the blind and the lame.” And when they had come for the meal and it was discovered there was still more room, the master told his servants to “Go out to the roads and country lanes and make them come in, so that my house will be full,” (Luke 14). I’m beginning to learn through my participation in this experiment that I am less hospitable, loving and patient than I would like to believe when I look in the mirror. I’m one of those lucky guests who was invited because there was room at the table, and the Master so passionately desires a good party with a full house.

I’m not sure I can explain it fully, but something spiritual happens when we break bread around a common table with people who are different from us. We are required to be vulnerable, to be human. To share a meal, we have to step down from the pedestals we work so hard to climb – eating is a noisy, physical, visceral, messy, human experience. When we become intentional about entering that sphere with perfect strangers, when we choose to recognize and celebrate what we hold in common instead of rally around what separates us, we become more whole. There’s still room at the table next Tuesday at 6pm. Come join the love feast!