Yeshua At The Table: Who Gets A Seat?

When we picture Yeshua, we often see Him standing in the synagogue, teaching on a hillside, or walking with His disciples through dusty paths in Galilee. But one of the most overlooked yet deeply powerful places where He revealed the Kingdom of God was at the table. Meals in the ancient world were never just about food. They were about belonging. They were about honor, shame, status, and relationship. And Yeshua, with His astonishing grace, had a way of upsetting every expectation about who got a seat.

Let’s start with a simple truth: Yeshua loved to eat with people. The Gospels show Him at the table so often, some of His enemies accused Him of being a φάγος (phágos – “glutton”) and a οἰνοπότης (oinopótēs – “wine-drinker”) in Matthew 11:19. Why? Because He didn’t just eat with the “good people.” He ate with tax collectors, sinners, and even pharisees who wanted to trap Him. If you look at who He dined with, you’ll discover something scandalous: Yeshua’s table was big enough for everyone. When I was (much) younger (and had the strength), I built a table for my large family. Even then, I made it big enough to fit several more people. I loved having company, no matter who it would be. THAT'S what Yeshua wants of us.

Now, in Jewish culture of the first century, table fellowship was sacred. It wasn’t just “let’s grab a bite.” It was covenantal. To share a meal was to say, “I accept you, I welcome you, I consider you part of my circle, part of my family.” The Hebrew word for table, שֻׁלְחָן (shulḥan – “table”), carried a sense of a place of provision and fellowship. And to sit at someone’s table was to sit in fellowship with them. No wonder the Pharisees were scandalized when Yeshua sat down at a tax collector’s table. They weren’t just upset about His menu choices—they were horrified at His guest list.

Take Levi, (also called Matthew). When Yeshua called him, the Gospel of Luke 5:29–32 tells us Levi made a great feast for Yeshua at his house. And who showed up? “A large company of tax collectors and others reclining at table with them.” The Pharisees began grumbling, asking, “Why do you eat and drink with tax collectors and sinners?” Yeshua’s reply is one of the most grace-filled statements ever spoken: “It is not the healthy who need a physician, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.”

Notice that He doesn’t deny that they’re sinners. He doesn’t brush over their brokenness. Instead, He says, “These are exactly the people I came for.” That’s grace. And it’s uncomfortable. Because if we’re honest, most of us would rather not have dinner with the people who make our skin crawl, the ones who wronged us, or the ones who don’t fit neatly into our idea of holiness.

Think about Zacchaeus, the chief tax collector in Luke 19:1–10. This man wasn’t just disliked; he was despised. He had sold out his own people to work for Rome, likely cheating many in the process. And what does Yeshua do when He sees him perched in that sycamore tree? He says, “Zacchaeus, hurry and come down, for today I must stay at your house.” Not “I’ll meet you at the synagogue later.” Not “Let’s talk when you’ve cleaned up your act.” But “I’m coming to your table.”

The Greek word here for “must” is δεῖ (dei – “it is necessary”). It wasn’t optional. Yeshua was saying it was divinely necessary for Him to go to the house of this sinner. And when He did, salvation came to that house. Zacchaeus was transformed—not by a lecture, not by shame, but by the grace of being seen, welcomed, and invited to fellowship. 

Now let’s pause and ask: who gets a seat at our tables? It’s easy to invite the friends we love, the ones who make us laugh, the ones who never argue about politics or chew too loudly. But what about the ones who wronged us? The ones who annoy us? The ones we secretly judge? If Yeshua’s table tells us anything, it’s that grace doesn’t just invite the easy ones. It welcomes the hard ones.

Even His last supper, the most intimate meal of His ministry, wasn’t a table of perfect friends. Among the twelve was Judas. Let that sink in. Yeshua knew Judas would betray Him. In fact, in John 13:27, He looks Judas in the eye and says, “What you are going to do, do quickly.” And yet, He still washed Judas’ feet. He still gave him bread from the same table. The Aramaic word likely spoken that night for bread, לחמא (laḥma – “bread”), echoes the intimacy of shared sustenance. Judas was not excluded. He was loved to the very end.

If I’m honest, I sometimes wish Yeshua hadn’t done that, because it leaves me with no wiggle room. If He could break bread with Judas, then I have no excuse to cut someone off just because they’re hard to love. And don’t we all have a Judas or two in our lives? The co-worker who undercuts us. The neighbor who gossips. Maybe even the family member who broke our trust. We’d rather they sat at someone else’s table. But Yeshua pulls out a chair and says, “There’s room here.”

Of course, grace doesn’t mean ignoring sin. Yeshua never winked at wickedness. But He showed that the way to call people out of darkness was not to slam the door in their face but to open the table and say, “Come and see.” The Greek word for grace, χάρις (charis – “grace, gift”), literally means a gift that is freely given, not earned. And when Yeshua gave people a seat, He was showing them that the Kingdom is not about earning a place—it’s about being welcomed by the King.

Now, we need to talk about one more meal. After His resurrection, in John 21, Yeshua meets His disciples on the shore of Galilee. They had gone back to fishing, maybe feeling like failures after denying Him and running away at the cross. And what does He do? He cooks breakfast. Fish and bread, laid on coals, waiting for them... another 2 piece fish... breakfast, if you will lol. And He says, “Come and have breakfast.” The Greek word there, ἀριστήσατε (aristēsate – “come have a meal”), is tender. It’s as if He was saying, “You still belong. You still have a seat.” Peter, who had denied Him three times, was restored not with a scolding, but over grilled fish and bread.

That’s the pattern of Yeshua’s ministry: calling the lost, welcoming the sinner, restoring the broken, all at the table. And it leaves us with a question: who gets a seat at our tables?

If we claim to follow Him, we can’t shrink our tables to only those we like. Sometimes grace looks like setting one more plate, even when your heart doesn’t feel like it. Sometimes it’s inviting the person who drains you, the one who never says thank you, the one who disagrees with you on everything. Because when we do, we reflect the heart of the One who welcomed us when we were still sinners (see Romans 5:8).

Maybe you’re thinking, “But what if they never change?” That’s not your job. Your job is to set the table. Let God do the changing. Remember, Yeshua didn’t say, “Clean yourself up and then I’ll come eat with you.” He said, “I came to seek and save the lost.”

And here’s a smidgen of humor for you: if you’re worried your table isn’t Pinterest or youtube worthy, relax. Yeshua multiplied loaves and fishes; He’s not impressed with your centerpiece. He’s after hearts, not matching plates and flatware. Sometimes grace looks like pizza boxes on the counter and paper plates, because what matters is not the table setting but who gets a seat.

So today, ask yourself: who in my life has been left standing outside? Who have I silently decided doesn’t deserve a place? And then, in the spirit of Yeshua, pull up another chair. Because grace, real grace, always makes room.

If we’re being honest, it’s not hard to nod along when we hear about Zacchaeus or Levi. After all, they lived two thousand years ago and don’t sit across the street from us. It’s safe to cheer for their redemption because we don’t have to share a fence line with them. But what happens when the “Zacchaeus” in your life is your own neighbor?

I’ll tell you something real. I have a neighbor who did me some wrong a few years back. It wasn’t small, either—it cut deep. And every time I see that person outside, part of me wants to turn the other way. If I’m being really honest, it’s easier to think, “They don’t deserve a seat at my table.” But then I look at Yeshua, standing under that sycamore tree in Jericho, calling Zacchaeus down with urgency, “Hurry and come down, for today I must stay at your house” (Luke 19:5). He didn’t wait until Zacchaeus apologized. He didn’t test him first. He walked right into his home and sat down. And I realize, that’s the same grace Yeshua calls me to.

And then there’s another neighbor. You know the type: the one who is always right about everything, especially the Bible. He can quote verses faster than a search engine, yet his temper is sharp as a knife. He knows the Scriptures, but he forgets the Spirit. Sitting with someone like that? Oh, I’ve thought, “Lord, maybe give him his own table somewhere far away.” But the Spirit whispers, “And what did you think the Pharisees were like at Yeshua’s meals?” They were men of Scripture, too. And often quick to anger when Yeshua didn’t line up with their expectations. Yet Yeshua ate with them. He reclined at their tables, knowing full well they weren’t inviting Him with pure hearts.

And then, the hardest one: someone I love very much has hurt me more times than I can count, not just once, but over the span of decades. The pain isn’t fresh anymore, but it lingers, like an old bone that aches when the weather changes. I can hear my own heart whispering, “Surely I don’t have to keep setting a place for this one, Lord. Surely I’ve done enough.” But then I see Yeshua breaking bread with Judas in John 13. Judas, who wasn’t just careless or ignorant. He was deliberate in his betrayal. Yet the Bread of Life handed him bread. The hands that would soon be pierced washed the feet that would walk out into the night to hand Him over. And I realize, if Yeshua could make space for Judas, I cannot shut my table to the one who has wounded me.

This doesn’t mean the pain disappears. It doesn’t mean trust will magically return or boundaries vanish. Grace isn’t about pretending sin didn’t happen. Grace is about refusing to shut the door. It’s about saying, “I may not be able to fix you, but I can still keep a chair open.” That’s hard grace. It’s not sentimental; it’s costly. But it’s the kind Yeshua lived and the kind He calls us into.

It’s easier to keep a small table, one that seats only the safe and the easy. But when I sit in my kitchen and look at the chairs, I can almost hear Him saying, “Add one more. Make room for the neighbor who hurt you. Make room for the one who thinks he’s always right. Make room for the loved one who left scars. Because once upon a time, I made room for you.”

And truth be told, none of us earned our place at Yeshua’s table. As Paul reminds us in Romans 5:8, “God shows His love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” The Greek word there, ἁμαρτωλός (hamartōlós – “sinner”), doesn’t soften the blow. It means exactly what it sounds like—broken, rebellious, wrong. That was me. And yet, there was a seat waiting.

So now, when I look at my neighbors, or when my heart aches over the one I love who hurt me again, I have a choice. I can close the door and guard my little table, or I can trust Yeshua enough to set another place. Maybe that person won’t change. Maybe they’ll never say the words I wish they would. But if salvation could come to Zacchaeus’ house because Yeshua sat down with him, who knows what God might do when I dare to do the same?

If you're worried about inviting someone difficult and then burning the roast, don't stress—Yeshua didn’t say, “Feed My sheep gourmet meals,” He simply said, “Feed My sheep” (John 21:17). 

Sometimes grace looks like overcooked chicken and a good laugh about it. What matters isn’t the food, but the fellowship. The truth is, the hard ones in our lives may never thank us for making room, but every time we do, we’re reflecting the Kingdom. We’re saying with our actions, “There’s a seat at this table because there was a seat for me at His.” It won’t always look perfect, sometimes the conversation will be awkward, and old wounds won’t vanish with just one meal. But the act of inviting is in itself an expression of grace. Opening the door and setting another plate is where the Gospel is truly lived out in everyday life. And that’s what Yeshua’s table calls us to: not the easy seat, but the one that’s messy, uncomfortable, and costly. Because when we make room for the hard ones, we’re living the Gospel.

So, who’s sitting at your table today?

image done by a chatgpt ai at my direction