Chapter Five - The Table

CHAPTER FIVE

The Table

HE DIDN’T BUILD a temple.
He didn’t form an army.
He picked twelve nobodies and sat them down to dinner.

A fisherman.
A tax man.
A zealot.
A traitor.
And a few more with calloused hands and rough tongues.

No scholars.
No kings.
Just men who could be taught to see.

And when he sat at the table,
he didn’t lecture.

He broke bread.

“This is my body.”
He tore it. Gave it.
Not in death — in dinner.
So they would know
what love feels like in your teeth.

He poured wine.
Deep red.

“This is my blood.”
Not blood from a wound, but from a vineyard.
The kind that stains your lips and warms your chest.
So they would know
what sacrifice tastes like.

And he said,

“You do the same.
Feed them.
Wash their feet.
Invite the ones nobody wants.”

He didn’t build a kingdom with walls.
He built one with a table.

And once they had eaten,
he stood up.

“Now go.
Find the broken ones.
Find the blind, the lepers, the thieves,
and the women with shame in their eyes.
Feed them too.”