Another piece from, you guessed it, Richie’s Drunk Writer’s Club
I spent much of my youth trying to prove to a segment of society that I belonged at the saints’ table and definitely not the sinner’s. I wasted the better part of my life lost in the delusion that it was even possible for me to belong at the saint’s table. I thought, “if I can just sit here long enough and not get noticed I can prove myself.” It didn’t matter that the so-called saints were no fun. Once upon a time, I yearned to be accepted by them.
Maybe freedom really is just another word for nothing left to lose, because despite all my efforts to fit in with the squares my reputation ended up being shredded to less than tatters, anyway, literally through no fault of my own. It took a campaign of lies and slander to give me the freedom to realize that my place has always been at the sinner’s table.
My reserved seating at the sinner’s table is no consolation prize, either. I sit at the sinner’s table because that’s my table. That’s where I belong. I feel no guilt at all about that fact, and I think it should be impossible for any Christian to look down on me or any of my tablemates for where we sit. I was steeped in enough Bible to know that that’s the table Jesus sat at, too. It fascinates me how many Bible thumpers seem to miss that obvious fact in the book they carry around everywhere with them. If they’d carry it less and read it more they’d see that the fact that Jesus was the life of the party at the sinner’s table is inarguable.
The man’s first miracle? Anyone?
Water into wine? Hello? Am I ringing any bells, yet?
Jesus sat at the head of the sinner’s table.
The Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Here is a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners.’ But wisdom is proved right by her deeds. — Matthew 11:19
I don’t have myself completely figured out, yet, but I am unapologetic for being one of the outcasts. You can’t change who you are, and the outcasts are more fun, anyway. Let the sainted sit in front of their food with no seasoning, bread with no leaven, goblets of water, and not a cuss word to be heard among their vile, whispered gossip.
At my table we’re cussing, breaking bread, drinking wine, laughing, and proposing toasts to all the saints that got lucky and became sinners.