matt bell words

Ahh…the Olympics. They are here every four years and yet, it always seems I underestimate their ability to pull me in, show me to my seat on the couch, and entice me to watch hours of sporting events I would never normally be drawn to. Case in point: my wife laughed as she walked in the room yesterday to find me intensely watching team rhythmic gymnastics. Ribbons. Hoops. Things that look like maracas. I’m in. Go team.

So after putting the kids to bed last night, I said goodbye to the Olympics while watching the closing ceremonies. Nearing the end of the broadcast, Chris Collinsworth, normally of NFL analyst fame, took a moment to dream about “what could be.” He wondered out loud how, if for two weeks, the world can unite around sports, how in the world can we not live in peace with one another. I often wondered the same thing, Chris just happened to say it. And this is the great paradox. The teams that square off on the soccer field today will square off on the battlefield tomorrow. Sprinters running towards a finish line will be sprinting away from the shrapnel of a suicide bomber. Athletes embracing in victory and defeat will embrace in loss and mourning. Something is seriously wrong here.

This is not a commentary on war but more a hope for life. There has to be more than two weeks of peace out there somewhere. I know a kingdom is coming with no need for sword or gun, but when will it be realized? How much longer must we hate our very own brother?

Something is seriously wrong here.

Spending a few days thinking about my last post, my mind continually drifted to the same place. Maybe it was because I recently heard our teaching pastor speak from this passage, but my thoughts were drawn to the parable of Jesus in Luke 14. It turns out Jesus has a thing or two to say about tables.
As the guest of a dinner party one night, Jesus noticed that the other guests were choosing the places of honor at the table, for in 1st century Jewish culture, the closer the proximity to the host, the “more important” the guest. So as they jockeyed for position, Jesus told this story:

When Jesus noticed that all who had come to the dinner were trying to sit in the seats of honor near the head of the table, he gave them this advice: “When you are invited to a wedding feast, don’t sit in the seat of honor. What if someone who is more distinguished than you has also been invited? The host will come and say, ‘Give this person your seat.’ Then you will be embarrassed, and you will have to take whatever seat is left at the foot of the table! “Instead, take the lowest place at the foot of the table. Then when your host sees you, he will come and say, ‘Friend, we have a better place for you!’ Then you will be honored in front of all the other guests.

In this parable, I think Jesus lands on something crucial for understanding this whole kid’s table deal. Self-promotion is a slippery slope. The moment we start deciding where we belong is an opening to be humbled. To be honest, I don’t know how to chew on this. I have been in the “professional” world long enough to know that it is rare for the quiet wheel to get any attention. It always seems like it makes sense to squeak if you want to be noticed. The problem is, I can’t resolve this in my mind or heart well. I always sense that I should just work hard and do my best on everything I do and hope that my efforts are rewarded…that the host calls me forward…that the adults find a place for me at their table, all the while remembering that I should not work simply to be seen and appreciated in this way. Man is that difficult.

I was talking with my friend Mike the other day and he brought up this analogy when referring to how it seems many of his friends have a kid’s table mentality in life. I have to say, I hadn’t thought about it before in exactly those terms, but I think the shoe fits well. Thanks Mike.

Most everyone in life starts out at the kid’s table. The kid’s table is that place where you are old enough to be left alone but still not quite ready to join the elite adult crowd. Sure you get your own butter dish, but you have to wait for the rolls to make their way around the grown up table before they cross the great divide that is “table hierarchy.” By that point, the best you can hope for is a lukewarm wheat roll, for uncle harry deemed it quite acceptable to take 3 piping-hot white rolls on the first pass…
Along with the endless years at the kid’s table comes a celebratory moment that even the most stoic of persons can rejoice in – that fateful day when we could not find our name placard at the kid’s table, for our place was no longer among mere children. We belonged with the big boys. We exchanged our talks of TV shows and school subjects for politics and the family health update. Sure the conversation may not have been as interesting to us, but we gladly accept it in order to be rid of the card table, for this was our destiny.
This dose of nostalgia has got me thinking about where I am at in my own life. I sit here today, 28 years old. I have been married 7 years as of two weeks ago, and I have 3 amazing children. At the risk of sounding hokey, I love my life. I think the struggle is when I approach this idea of being a “grown up.” What is expected of me? What should I desire? When I see those around me that are my age or younger that appear more “successful” or “professional,” what is that awful feeling deep in my gut? That urge to accept that I am less of a person or at least less of an adult. The pull to become something I am not to find the affirmation I crave. The conclusion that I am just not the kind of person that gets to leave the kid’s table.
Now please, I do not say all this to evoke pity or elicit affirmation. More, I speak honestly about something I don’t think we speak enough about. Younger people than I have changed the world (for better or for worse) without thinking twice about their age. Yet I catch myself staring at the adult table, waiting for a seat to open up – hoping for that celebratory moment when I can no longer find my name placard among children.