Fellowship at the Table

Poetry & Prose by Britt Wolfe

What if the table was always meant
to be wider than we imagined?
What if your God
never asked for a guest list,
never demanded credentials of the soul,
never once said, earn your seat?

The table was never meant to be guarded.
It was meant to be gathered around.
It was built from mercy,
polished by hands that had been hungry,
set with forgiveness instead of silver.

Bring your contradictions.
Bring your anger and your wonder,
your doubt and your devotion.
Bring the parts of yourself
you’ve been told are unholy.
They are holy too.

This is not professional faith—
it is radical hospitality.
It is abundance without agenda.
The art of saying,
Come sit with me anyway.

Your God is not a bouncer at the door.
Your God does not count heads,
or ask who you voted for,
or check how well you’ve hidden your pain.
Your God does not have
a diversity threshold.
Your God knows that humanity itself
was the only requirement for belonging.

And yet—
we built walls where there should have been chairs.
We turned invitation into initiation,
fellowship into filtration,
religion into résumé.

We forgot that love
was supposed to be the only doctrine.
That faith was never meant
to be performance art.

So let us return to the table—
the one made sacred by its openness.
Let us honour every story
that arrives hungry.
Let us serve compassion in overflowing cups,
and learn to taste the holiness
of someone else’s truth.

Because fellowship is not sameness.
It is proximity.
It is the radical act of sitting beside
what you do not yet understand
and calling it beloved anyway.

Pull up a chair.
Bring all of yourself—
your past, your questions, your becoming.
This table is big enough for the world.
Your God wouldn’t have it any other way.

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Poetry and Prose by Britt Wolfe