Midweek Musing-October 22, 2025

A New Scene

“You (Yahweh) prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.”

If Psalm 23 were a film, this would be the scene where the camera angle shifts. The landscape fades from the dusty wilderness and dark valley to something unexpected — a table. And not just any table, but one prepared by God.

Previously we had been walking through fields and valleys, led by the Shepherd with his rod and staff steadily leading us.

But as the new scene emerges there is a major change. When everything comes into focus as the dust settles and the shadows lift; we find ourselves no longer in the wilderness or valley or in a pasture besides still water but at a table.

And not just any table. A table prepared by God. That’s where we begin with the camera focused tightly on us at holy table of abundance.

That scene would be initially comforting and even joyous.

However, quite quickly the camera angle widens as the psalmist adds these words, “in the presence of my enemies.”

Now, I don’t know about you, but if I have enemies, the last thing I want to do is sit down to eat with them.

In fact, I think my gut instinct would be to ask for a doggie bag or to grab a to-go plate and wrap it in aluminum foil as I head out to another location. But it is clear that these are not options here.

God has set the table right in the middle of trouble. Right in the middle of deep conflict. And it seems we are required to stay.

This meal has not arrived after peace has come. It has not been set up for a post-conflict banquet. This table isn’t for when everything is fixed — but it’s set up right there, in the very midst of tension.

I once saw something like that happen — a table set right in the middle of old pain.

You see several years ago; my dad officiated a funeral for a family whose members hadn’t spoken to each other in decades. I mean decades. The grief of their shared loss finally brought them to the same place.

The church, as it often did, provided a meal in the church fellowship hall and I was recruited to help with serving and the clean-up.

I watched as they stood awkwardly beside the fellowship hall buffet, holding paper plates full of covered dish delights and glasses of tea. Initially it was quiet, and folks were working to not make eye contact.

But as the meal progressed, slowly, someone passed the sweet tea. Another offered to refill a cup. Before long, I heard laughter — quiet at first, then real. The meal didn’t erase the hurt, but it became the first small act of peace. That over time grew into real reconciliation.

I can tell you that now years later this family continues to gather together each holiday season for a meal together.

As I think back on that day in the church fellowship hall I am reminded of this verse.

God has a way of setting tables where we’d least expect them — even in the presence of the people we never thought we could sit beside again.

As I shared before with you, in the ancient world, a shared meal was more than food. It was even more than gracious hospitality.

A shared meal was covenant. To eat at someone’s table meant safety. You couldn’t harm a person you broke bread with. It was the final part of the peace process. It solidified a treaty or agreement.

So, when the psalmist says, “You prepare a table before me,” it’s not just about food; it’s about reconciliation.

God doesn’t merely remove our enemies — sometimes God redeems them or at least redeems the space between us.

Old Testament scholar Dr. Walter Brueggemann points out that this verse “marks the transformation of threat into hospitality.” The valley of shadows gives way to a table of grace. What once frightened us now feeds us.

If you’ve ever hosted a holiday meal, you know what it’s like to have people around the table who don’t all see eye to eye — the uncle with strong opinions, the cousin who brings up politics as the rolls hit the table, the relative who burns both the turkey and the gravy. And yet, in the middle of it all, there’s laughter, forgiveness, and bread shared. That’s the miracle of the table.

And yet, in the middle of it all, there’s laughter, forgiveness, and — most importantly — bread shared. That’s the miracle of the table: it’s a place where differences don’t disappear, but where they lose their power to divide.

That’s what God does here in the text. God doesn’t promise to remove conflict; God promises to meet us in it and to feed us there.

The psalmist goes on to say, “You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.”

This isn’t fine dining — it’s divine dining. It’s not about impressing guests but welcoming the unworthy. The host is God, and the guest list is grace itself.

In Hebrew culture, to anoint someone’s head with oil was a gesture of deep honor. In a sense you are declaring them to be as important in your sight as royalty. Additionally, to let a guest’s cup overflow was to say, “There’s more where that came from — abundance without end.”

When we’ve spent time in the valley, we can forget that abundance exists. Just like when we are struggling through pain, grief, and despair we may forget about the abundant gifts of beauty, love, and grace that surround us every day.

But the Shepherd — now dinner party host — reminds us that the same God who walked with us through shadows now sits with us at an abundant love feast of grace.

Eugene Peterson, who interprets rather than translates Scripture for our modern world, renders this verse in The Message:

“You serve me a six-course dinner right in front of my enemies. You revive my drooping head; my cup brims with blessing.”

I love Peterson’s use of humor in that — a little over the top holy extravagance.

God doesn’t just give us enough; God gives us more than enough. Grace isn’t stingy — it spills over the edges.

I’ve had my own “table moments” — times when I’ve been seated beside someone that I wasn’t sure I wanted to share a meal with and yet, in the breaking of bread and the sharing of stories I discovered that we had more in common than I ever realized.

In that sense, the meal itself became a miracle.

Friends, that’s what this part of the Psalm invites us to remember: that God is both Shepherd and Host, guiding us not only to safety but to reconciliation, nourishment, and joy.

The Shepherd who defended us with rod and staff now welcomes us to sit and rest, to eat and be filled and to do so even surrounded by what once terrified us.

And, here’s even more good news: God doesn’t wait until all our conflicts are resolved before spreading the table.

God doesn’t wait until the enemies leave the room or the tension disappears.

Right in the middle of life’s messiest moments, grace sits down and says, “Let’s eat.”

Every time we come to the Communion table, we echo this verse — enemies and friends, sinners and saints, all welcomed by the same Host.

The table is God’s declaration that grace gets the final word. Because at this table, enemies can become guests, bitterness can turn to blessing, and empty cups overflow with love.

Thanks be to God.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Alleluia, Amen.

Reflection Question:

Where might God be calling you to sit at the table — to share grace, forgiveness, or peace — even in a place of tension or hurt?

Prayer:

Gracious Host, thank you for preparing a table of abundance even in the midst of life’s conflicts. Teach me to trust your hospitality more than my fear. Where there is bitterness, bring healing; where there is distance, bring peace; and where there is emptiness, let my cup overflow with your love. Amen.