Much of my ministry as a college chaplain happens around a table: the communion table, a lunch table, a high-top at the local coffee shop. So many holy moments are ordinary moments touched by God. That was true again the other night.
When I arrived at a local restaurant for my weekly dinner with students, a former student walked up beside me. He was meeting the “old crew,” a group of young alums I used to mentor. As I sat down with my current students, my former students gathered at a table just a few feet away.
As a young chaplain, I assumed I understood the transformation a table can bring. I knew a shared meal could reshape a relationship. But it wasn’t until I began gathering with students week after week that I started to understand what they were teaching me about the church.
I used to think it mattered how the meal was prepared or who prepared it. I worried that conversation needed to go in a particular direction. I wondered whether we were really growing in faith if we didn’t explicitly talk about church or religious life.
But as the years went on, I realized none of that mattered as much as simply being present. Some weeks I was late. Some weeks only a few students came. Other weeks we were underprepared for the number who showed up or had to change locations at the last minute.
My students taught me that consistency mattered more than perfection. They didn’t care what meal we were sharing or know about the failed plans behind the scenes. They just knew that on Mondays at 6 p.m., they could come and share a meal.
When dinner with my current students wrapped up that evening, I made my way over to the table of former students. Years had passed, but we quickly entered the familiar rhythm of asking questions, listening, laughing and sharing stories.
The church often has preconceived notions about college students: what they will like, what they won’t and how they want – or don’t want – to be in relationship with the church. We can spend so much time worrying about those questions that we miss the college student in our midst.
I learned that lesson early in my ministry.
One week, a couple from the church hosted our meal. They set out their best dinnerware and linen napkins and prepared a meal that accommodated the group’s various food allergies. They wanted everything to be perfect.
Then a rainstorm knocked out the power.
We ate by candlelight. Some of the carefully prepared dishes weren’t fully heated. We laughed as the evening unraveled and we continued to pivot.
The students talked about that night for weeks — and continued talking about it after graduation.
The care our hosts had put into the evening mattered. The perfection didn’t. A power outage, some candles and a good sense of humor allowed us to be ourselves. That imperfect night helped lay the foundation for relationships that continued to grow.
Sitting with my former students years later, I remembered why we had begun gathering for meals. They were the first class to participate in a larger program I was leading, and we had committed to meeting at the table together. Over time, something unfolded: The church met them where they were, and they felt safe, seen and cared for.
As we caught up that evening, they asked questions about their alma mater, a place many had considered home for four years. Memories and updates wove together. At one point, I jokingly told them, “Don’t forget your little old chaplain.”
One of them replied, “We can’t forget you. You make coming back here feel like home.”
Tears formed in my eyes. His words reminded me how much it matters for the church to be present with young adults in ways that make sense to them — not with perfection, but with presence.
As we said our goodbyes, another former student hugged me and said, “I hope that program is still running. It was so helpful for me. I learned so much about myself and built lasting relationships, many of which are standing here. And it was thanks to the church being new and different from what I was used to.”
I assured them the program is still going strong. Other students have gathered at those tables since, building relationships and imagining new possibilities for their relationship with the church.
That night reminded me again that the table is holy space. The church knows this. We proclaim it every time we gather around the communion table.
But perhaps we misunderstand whose table matters.
We may think that if we offer young people a chair at our table, they will come. That is not what my students have taught me.
They have taught me to be present where they are and meet them as they are. We do not need to create another place setting at our table for young people. We need to take a chair and join them at theirs.
When we do, we may discover that they are not the only ones being transformed.
