This promise is immense. All the food you can eat—and not just to fill you but to fascinate you with flavours; wine to intoxicate and delight and lift the heart; oh, and the utter defeat of death and ruin’s rout; the end of pain and decay; the passing of shame, of fear, of loss. And all this … for all. For friend and foe; for lover and orphan; for those we have lost and those we have never found. Ancient and modern. Far and wide. The party couldn’t be complete without them, without every soul of every nation and every age. And they’re coming. Walking, running, dancing. Coming. And in among them—as surely as already there to greet them and welcome them home—the one they have known and loved, each in their way—their God, our God, God in as many shapes as souls have stories. This is the bash of the century, any century, all centuries; the party to end all parties.
But when? … And where?
Here and now—or sometime, someplace, very like it. The invitation comes to ordinary people doing ordinary things. Hard at their ordinary work or daydreaming down the road or watching videos with ice-cream melting in the bowl. In twos and threes, look at them, creating, talking, speaking. Around a table passing time, passing salt. Laughing, listening, crying, sighing—breathing our best. Crossing the road, or opening the door, or sitting like this in a circle, one with another, waiting for a final guest to make the meal complete.
He is here already. Always. Now. Taking the place we leave for him in plate and cup, in lips and heart. Familiar and fascinating and easily overlooked. Guest and host and gift.
He is here. He is most truly here.