I used to feel like I was just outside of the room.
It’s hard to explain, but I carried this feeling that I wanted a seat at the table of thinkers but could never quite get invited in. I wanted to be part of the conversation. Not simply to talk, but to listen. To hear what great minds were saying. I was thirsty for real truth, real understanding, and somewhere along the way I became convinced that only certain people had access to it.
I remember one time talking to a group of men and feeling genuinely excited to share something I had studied in Scripture. I elaborated on a theological theory I had been thinking through. In my mind, these were the men to talk to. These were the men who sat at the table.
But rather than an invitation to sit, I got plastered smiles, nodded heads, and silence.
That kind of response was familiar to me.
And afterward, I would replay those moments in my head wondering if I had misunderstood everything. Maybe I got it wrong, I would think. Maybe I wasn’t articulate enough. Maybe I didn’t know enough yet.
Those interactions sent me down emotional spirals trying to fit into a system that never quite felt open to me. I studied harder. Read more books than I can remember. Dug deeper into theology. Eventually I even enrolled in school on that track.
But no matter what I did, I never fully felt like I belonged at that table.
At the time, I interpreted that feeling spiritually.
If I was not welcomed there, then maybe I was somehow being rejected by God too.
But over time I realized those were two entirely different things, and I had tangled them together.
I had confused my desire for knowledge with my desire to worship God.
I had confused intellectual acceptance with divine acceptance.
And because of that, every closed door felt spiritual.
But Christianity was never supposed to terminate at human approval.
Somewhere along the way I had reduced the Gospel almost entirely to grace and the grave.
I am saved from sin.
Saved from death.
Saved from separation.
Saved from missing the mark.
Beautiful truths.
But eventually another question emerged in my heart.
Yes, we are saved from.
But what are we saved to?
Scripture says we are saved to a living hope.
Not wishful thinking.
Not religious performance.
Not smoke and mirrors.
Not endless conversations that sound deep but somehow leave the soul empty afterward.
A living hope.
A confidence anchored in the resurrection of Christ Himself.
Christianity is not built merely upon the death of Jesus, but upon the fact that He lives.
Oh death, where is your sting?
Where is your victory?
Truth, then, is not just information to collect.
Truth is meant to free us.
Free us to see clearly.
Free us from deception.
Free us from fear.
Free us from the terror of death because we understand it is not the end.
Truth should give mobility to the soul.
The ability to move differently through suffering.
To walk through grief with hope.
To believe crooked things can still be made straight.
To believe resurrection is still possible.
I think sometimes about those buff men walking around Florida who never actually do anything with their muscles. They are just for show.
And sometimes knowledge can become that too.
All appearance.
No transformation.
All flexing.
No freedom.
My desire for knowledge, though sincere, was still short of the Omnipotent One.
Because knowing about God and worshipping God are not the same thing.
I think about a scene in C.S. Lewis’ The Great Divorce. There is a man who would rather stand outside endlessly discussing theology than actually ascend further upward toward God. He keeps philosophizing. Keeps analyzing. Keeps talking around truth rather than entering into it.
And I understand him more than I wish I did.
Because there is a kind of safety in discussing God without fully surrendering to Him.
Knowledge can make us feel near the fire without ever asking us to step into it.
But eventually I realized something:
The invitation of Christ was never simply to think about Him endlessly.
It was to follow Him.
To commune with Him.
To eat at His table.
There is something sacred about bowing.
About seeing yourself honestly for who you are while simultaneously seeing Him for who He is.
Holy.
Living.
Merciful.
Risen.
I do not desire a seat at that table anymore.
I have, however, accepted the invitation to another one.
The table of blessing.
The supper of the Lamb.
Every Mass the Lord pulls out a chair and says:
Come.
Sit.
Eat of Me.
If this post spoke to you…
Share it with someone who might need it, too. Whether it’s a quiet encouragement or a new way of seeing things, these reflections are meant to be passed along.
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Martina Griffin is a Catholic convert, writer, wife, and mother of four. She writes about faith, motherhood, beauty, books, and the quiet ache of transformation. A lover of popcorn, deep questions, and old classics, she shares her heart at Big Bowl of Popcorn—one post at a time. Instagram | Facebook | Email Me |
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