“I don’t think he was a wealthy person and don’t know if he was an accomplished one. But he was a loving parent. One night the family visited and stayed to eat. Their patriarch had little to say. My friend says that in his younger days he was bone-shakingly funny, and an unending cheerleader to his children. Mostly now he repeats simple questions.

When dinner was over and everyone was getting ready to leave, he became suddenly agitated. Some distress had come upon him. The cause was a mystery, and he himself, of course, was the last source of explanation. He seemed in no physical discomfort. That was all anyone could discern.

They tried to ask in a dozen ways what was wrong. Finally, his daughter-in-law had a thought. She handed him a paper napkin and someone found a pen. He scratched away, at peace, then handed the napkin back. This was the check, you see, and he was paying it. His joy was to take his family to dinner.

At this moment, my friend says, he saw his father both as he had been and as he had become. In the dementia, he did not know himself any longer, and often enough, the family did not recognize him either. Yet one old and protective habit of love had survived into the unselfconscious present; the essence of who was left.

Whenever the family eats with him now, my friend’s father picks up the tab that does not exist…. I don’t know if the writing is legible or whether he can read the name he signs. But he signs with finality and satisfaction. The very action makes him content. He is taking his family to dinner.”

There are no direct parallels here, but I do believe Elissa Ely’s poignant column casts some light onto what may be an unappreciated deeper truth about the gift Jesus gives us in the Sacrament of Holy Communion. That truth seems to be at least three-fold.

First, in this sacrament, as we gather at this table, we are the family Jesus is taking to dinner. Perhaps we are not a perfect family if such has ever existed anywhere at any time. We are full of characters and cranks and curmudgeons, not one without a special gift, not one without an aspect that they would just as soon change, not one who in this or that regard has been a disappointment to their fellow beings and their Creator. And yet, through the love of Jesus Christ, we are one family, and there is always room here at the table of Jesus Christ for each and every one of us. Whoever wrote that “You can’t go home again” got it wrong – here you can always come home, here Jesus always welcomes you.

Second, at this meal Jesus is the one who picks up the tab. Two short stories here.

I remember as a young child that my family very rarely took us kids out to dinner. It may have been that there were less restaurants back then geared to families with children, few Friendly’s and the like, or perhaps it was because my parents would not have considered spending hard-earned wages on kid food. In any event, going out to dinner was a very rare and special occasion, and we kids realized it. I do remember this one incident though, as it has stuck with me ever since – I was told that it was impolite to order the most expensive item on the menu. Whatever the merit or wisdom of this counsel, it has stuck with me on all my life.

The other story – a friend tells me of how, back in his high school days, he accompanied a rather well-healed schoolmate to one of the exclusive old clubs in Boston, a haunt of generations of Boston Brahmins, blue-bloods all. Plebian cash was never sighted in this establishment – after the meal was completed, one signed a chit and matters of lowly finance would be taken care of in some other way. Cut to the end of the sumptuous repast these two young men had enjoyed, and the friend, summoning over the old waiter with the beck of a finger, haughtily asks for the check. The stiffly erect, silver-haired waiter, veteran of decades of service to the wealthy and powerful, replies with some asperity, “Young sir, while I am sure you would very much enjoy still another check, what your father shall receive is the bill.”

As we gather as family at this table, as we enjoy this meal hosted by Jesus, we do so in the warmth of the assurance that the tab has already been picked up, the bill paid. Jesus himself was and always will be the most expensive thing on the menu; the peace he offers, the hope he shares, the kingdom without end, these are all offered here. They are and were not without cost – perhaps nothing worthwhile really is. But Jesus paid that cost, once and for all, through his incarnation, his life and ministry, right up to and including the suffering he endured for us.

Third, and finally, come to this table knowing that as you do so, Jesus welcomes you with joy. Just as the patriarch in Elissa Ely’s column rejoiced in taking his family to dinner, so Jesus rejoices in welcoming us to this table. You remember how it was with Jesus, it was the very worst of times, and he knew it, he knew that he was to be betrayed and handed over that very night. And yet still he gathers his friends around him for one last celebration, one last meal. No last minute fast-food this; no, Jesus goes all out to make this a memorable gathering. A large room, upstairs in the crowded capital, up where the cooling breezes come wafting through the windows; all the fixings for the traditional Passover Meal, a meal which would have had as much if not more meaning for those who followed Jesus as our traditional Thanksgiving feast has for us. Jesus comes to that meal in joy; and it is in joy that Jesus welcomes us to this table, for he knows, as do we, that this table is but a foretaste of the heavenly kingdom of God, of that banquet to which Jesus invites us all, in all its fullness, in all its joy.

This is the heart of the joy of Jesus, taking his family to dinner.