The Last Deviled Egg

It weren’t nothing but an egg.

A deviled one at that.

The line was long in the church fellowship hall. I was one of three pastors scrambling around.

The Baptists, Lutherans, and Presbyterians decided to get together to eat. Our congregations share a neighborhood, and we’ve been told to love our neighbors as ourselves.

We’re all trying to do that the best we can.

We chose to eat together because the faith we claim talks a lot about coming to the table to communion.

We also did it because we love to eat. We love covered dishes. We are passionate about potlucks. A few of us wanna show off what we can do in the kitchen. We want folks to see our grandmother’s CorningWare.

This was a Dinner Church, a movement for these post-modern times. A radical idea that worship and fellowship can take place around a meal that's more than a sip of juice and a nibble of wafer.

Our intentions were to sup’ together. And Lord knows we did.

I made bread that was nothing more than a gigantic biscuit. Still warm from the oven, my hand’s tore it apart in front of hungry eyes. The steam erupts from its center into the air around me.
It found its way into baskets and soon into the mouths.

Next came a blessing. Said over food made in dozens of kitchens. The sound of tinfoil being pulled away and Tupperware tops popping off coconut pies echoed off the walls.

People in the South know how to serve themselves. The lines formed without fuss.

I stayed near the back, jawing with people. Too afraid to be first because I know the first will be last in the kin-dom of the Lowly Galilean.

Yet I couldn’t stop my eyes from working over the tables.

That’s where I saw them - a tray of perfect deviled eggs.

Their dabs of sunshine rested on perfectly smooth white clouds.

They say the Lord hears the prayer of a righteous man. I said one anyway, hoping those eggs would be there when I strolled through.

I said as much to Mama Jo.

She is of my flock.
She is what my mother would call “our people.”
She is a “BRB” - Back-row-Baptist.
She and a few other ladies keep a section of the sanctuary interesting.

“My God. Jo,” I said. “Reckon I’ll luck out and snag one of them eggs before they get gone?”

“I knew they would,” she said back. “I got me one.”

And then a pause, the Holy Spirit moved, and she turned to me.

“If you don’t get one, I’ll give you half of mine,” she said.

I smiled. The thought of splitting a deviled egg was enough to keep my hope in humanity alive for another day.

The service continued.

We talked to strangers who soon had names.
We sang songs. By the second go round of “Welcome Table,” everybody found their rhythm.

“I'm gonna sit at the welcome table
I'm gonna sit at the welcome table one of
these days, hallelujah
I'm gonna sit at the welcome table
Sit at the welcome table one of these
days, one of these days”

After we filled our bellies, we filled a cup. The contents poured into pitchers for each table.
We toasted the goodness of the divine that we claim to know.

Somewhere between the already and not yet, Mama Jo appeared in front of me.

“Here’s your egg,” she said.

Halved for me.
Broken for me.
Given to me.

I picked it off her plate and thanked her.

What makes a table holy?
It’s not the bread or the cup.
It’s not the liturgy.
It’s not even the prayer.

It's the moment when someone gives up part of what they have so another person can belong there too.

It weren’t nothing but an egg.

A deviled one at that.