“’Don’t be afraid,’ David said to him, ‘for I will surely show you kindness for the sake of your father Jonathan. I will restore to you all the land that belonged to your grandfather Saul, and you will always eat at my table.’ Mephibosheth bowed down and said, ‘What is your servant, that you should notice a dead dog like me?’ Then the king summoned Ziba, Saul’s steward, and said to him, ‘I have given your master’s grandson everything that belonged to Saul and his family. You and your sons and your servants are to farm the land for him and bring in the crops, so that your master’s grandson may be provided for. And Mephibosheth, grandson of your master, will always eat at my table.’ (Now Ziba had fifteen sons and twenty servants.) Then Ziba said to the king, ‘Your servant will do whatever my lord the king commands his servant to do.’ So Mephibosheth ate at David’s table like one of the king’s sons. Mephibosheth had a young son named Mika, and all the members of Ziba’s household were servants of Mephibosheth. And Mephibosheth lived in Jerusalem, because he always ate at the king’s table; he was lame in both feet.”—2 Samuel 9:7–13 (NIV)

I love having people over for dinner. Whether I’m firing up the old smoker to make a brisket, grilling burgers, pressing Cuban sandwiches, or tossing homemade pizza into the oven, I love crafting a meal that makes someone feel seen and valued. 

In the ancient world, that kind of table fellowship meant even more. Sharing a meal wasn’t just about nourishment—it was a sign of acceptance, belonging, and relationship. To eat with someone—especially in a setting like a king’s table—meant peace, trust, and intimacy. You didn’t break bread and dip into the same bowl with an enemy. You didn’t recline at the table with someone you didn’t have relationship with. A shared meal was covenantal; it was an invitation into family.

That’s what makes what David does in today’s passage so staggering.

Yesterday, we saw David seek out Mephibosheth, the crippled, forgotten grandson of his former enemy Saul. But here, he speaks to this broken man with royal kindness: “Don’t be afraid, for I will surely show you kindness. . . . I will restore to you all the land that belonged to your grandfather Saul, and you will always eat at my table.”

Let that sink in.

Mephibosheth had nothing to offer. In his world, a man who couldn’t walk couldn’t fight, farm, or lead. He was lame in both feet. That detail, repeated twice in this chapter, wasn’t just physical—it was cultural shorthand for powerlessness, dependence, and, in many people’s minds, disqualification. He likely saw himself as a burden, a remnant of a rejected dynasty, a walking reminder of Saul’s downfall. His response says it all: “What is your servant, that you should notice a dead dog like me?” 

In his eyes, he was utterly worthless to the king. He likely assumed he was being brought to Jerusalem to be executed, not honored. And yet, David welcomes him with honor, restores his inheritance, and seats him at the king’s table “like one of the king’s sons!

Again, friends, we’ve seen it clearly for three days . . . We are Mephibosheth. We come before the King of kings spiritually broken, empty-handed, unworthy. We know the depths of our sin, shame, and failure. We have nothing to offer. Like David in Psalm 8:4 (NIV), we wonder, “What is mankind that you are mindful of them?” Like the prodigal son in Luke 15:19, we think, “I’m not worthy to be called your child.”

But the King sees us differently. Like the father in the parable, God runs to meet us. He wraps us in robes of righteousness. He restores what sin tried to destroy. He doesn’t simply tolerate us—He rejoices over us. And like David, King Jesus says, “Don’t be afraid. I will show you kindness for My name’s sake. I will restore to you all that sin, death, and hell have robbed you of. You will always eat at My table.” 

I’m literally weeping as I write these words to you, friend. Because none of this is hyperbole. It’s the reality of the eternity of all those who are in Christ Jesus our Lord. Revelation 19 gives us a glorious vision of what’s coming: the wedding supper of the Lamb: a feast, a table, a celebration that never ends for those whom Christ has redeemed.

And guess what? This isn’t just a message for a hopeful tomorrow; we’re not just waiting for heaven. Today and every day until the day of the Lord, we get to recline at the table of the Lord, we get to sit in His presence, walk with Him, know Him, enjoy Him, and be found in Him. On top of that, we get the incredible honor and privilege to live as ambassadors of that coming kingdom to the people around us by opening our tables!

The grace we’ve received, we now get to pour out in the way we live, love, and host. Jen Oshman wrote, “Because God has welcomed you, it falls to you to welcome others.” In The Gospel Comes With a House Key, Rosaria Butterfield exhorts us to use our “Christian home in a daily way that seeks to make strangers neighbors, and neighbors family of God.”

Make your home an embassy of grace. Every meal shared, every chair pulled out, every moment of radically ordinary hospitality serves a whisper of eternity—a glimpse of the feast to come. People need to taste and see that the Lord is good—and often the first taste comes through a meal, a conversation, a welcome.

You and I were Mephibosheth, and now we get to sit at the King’s table. Let’s never stop pulling out chairs for others.

Pause:
Take a moment to thank God for the seat He gave you—when you had nothing to offer.

Practice:
Ask God to show you someone who needs a seat at your table. Invite them in. Reflect the King’s welcome.

Pray:
Father, thank You for Your undeserved kindness. Thank You for calling me by name and giving me a place at Your table. Help me live with open hands, open doors, and a heart full of welcome. Use me to show others just how good You are. Make my home an embassy where people can taste and see that You are good and get a glimpse of what it means to be a citizen of heaven. In Jesus’ name, I pray. Amen.