Clearing space at the table
Last week, we did a poll about how to help each other grow deeper in the spiritual life. Lots of people replied about needing help connecting with God around the meal table. On Saturday over brekkie, we chatted more specifically about how to purposely make space in our lives and around our tables for different folk to join in. We are a mixed bunch—people with families, couples, singles, house-shares and everything in between.
Personal hospitality feels a little counter-cultural in Poole. One vicar said they have been here 3 years without being invited around someones house for food. Our phones screen calls, our headphones build invisible walls, and doorbells have been replaced by "I’m outside" texts—all tiny signals that say, 'I’m busy, not now.' In fact, UK data finds that over 60% of under‑35s won’t answer an unexpected call, choosing texts or voice notes instead. And with nearly half of all UK adults reporting loneliness at least occasionally, it’s clear the spaces between us have widened.—all tiny signals that say, 'I’m busy, not now.' And yet we ache for a place where someone remembers our name, where there's some food left in the pot, where there’s a seat kept open on purpose. In a world that monetises attention, an unhurried meal is gentle rebellion.
We talked on the beach about the little Greek word oikos. It shows up all over the New Testament and usually gets flattened into “house” or “household,” but in the first-century imagination it was bigger: the whole web of relationships that centred on a home—family, workers, neighbours, strangers who arrive at dusk and somehow stay till dawn. When Acts says entire oikoi were turned upside-down by the Jesus story, it’s not talking about the housing crisis; it’s describing social ecosystems being re-patterned around grace. Oikos is every life your life regularly touches, stitched together by shared food and experience.
Jesus moves through oikos after oikos, sometimes as host, sometimes guest. He multiplies a kid’s packed lunch and feeds five thousand—host. He throws a Passover dinner that cracks history wide open—host again. But he also invites himself to Zacchaeus’s place—guest. He reclines in Simon’s house while a woman anoints his feet—guest. The Son of Man who “has nowhere to lay his head” shows us that real hospitality isn’t about lowering the drawbridge; it’s about reciprocal presence.
So how might we practise that here at Ocean Church? A few nudges:
Busy parents – think small. Invite someone to chop veggies while the kids orbit the table. Attempt one meaningful question about life.
Flat-sharers with tiny lounges – Use what you’ve got—floor cushions, snack bits, and one candle. You don’t need a dining room to make people feel at home.
Road-warrior commuters – practise guesting: ask your host city where it hurts? Buy a colleague a meal, listening more than you speak.
Strapped for cash – Pot-luck is old-school brilliance: everyone brings a bit, and together we tuck in.
Living solo – tag-team with another singleton and co-host. Shared work, shared joy, shared washing-up.
But just to be clear—this isn’t about adding another thing to your already full calendar. This isn’t about performing hospitality or competing with Instagram-worthy dinners. It’s about presence. Simplicity. Letting others into your actual life, not your curated one. If you need a permission slip: here it is. You already have what you need.
Which brings me to a teaser: this October we’re launching a little experiment—four weeks of shared meals in different homes, where we rotate houses, menus, and stories, discovering how host and guest blur. Details soon. For now, maybe we could keep clearing a little space for someone else.
