In Jesus’ Name to the Table We Go

On the windowsill above our kitchen sink, sits a small ceramic tile with a mealtime prayer.

“I Jesu namn till bords vi gå, välsigna Gud den mat vi få.

Gud till ära, oss till gagn, så få vi mat i Jesu Namn. Amen.”

Here’s the English translation: “In Jesus’ name to the table we go, bless, God, the food we get.

To God the honor, to us the gain, so we have food in Jesus’ name. Amen.”

The prayer was a gift from my grandmother, whose parents migrated from Sweden in the late 19th century. My great-grandparents packed two wooden trunks, left their small farming village in Sweden, and set sail for America. Like millions of Scandinavians of their time, they were fleeing crop failure, severe economic hardship, and religious restrictions.

While many Scandinavians settled in the Midwest – Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois – my relatives came through the port of Galveston and settled near Round Rock, Texas, an area that became known as New Sweden. Through the Homestead Act of 1862, they received free farmland as immigrants so they might help feed the growing American population. They arrived in this country speaking limited English, with limited possessions, and a deep, abundant faith. Their story is not unique; in fact, for most of us living in rural America today, it is the precise foundation upon which our families, churches, and towns were constructed. This is most certainly true of the strong Czech and German roots throughout Fayette County.

Migration and exile are woven into nearly every chapter of the Bible. Abraham and Sarah were called to leave their homeland for a land they did not know. Jacob and his sons migrated to Egypt to escape famine. The Israelites walked through the desert as displaced refugees seeking a promised home. Even Jesus spent his earliest years in exile, as Mary and Joseph fled to Egypt under the cover of night to escape King Herod’s brutal violence.

Scripture compels people of faith to embody the mercy and steadfast love of God. The Old Testament commands hospitality toward the alien and stranger dozens of times, grounding the directive in a shared human vulnerability: “for you were once foreigners yourself.” In the New Testament, Hebrews 13:2 gently urges us, “Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.”

Today, the topic of immigration sparks intense political debate. It is easy to view complex global realities through abstract numbers or polarizing rhetoric. Yet, as Christians living in tight-knit rural communities, we are called to view these challenges through the lens of Christ’s love and mercy. Recent migrant families—whether fleeing violence, political persecution, or severe economic distress— are driven by the same human longing that moved my Swedish ancestors: the desire to protect their families, work hard, and build a safe, peaceful life.

While I tend to be exceedingly optimistic about most things, I am not naïve. I know that nations require good order to safeguard citizens and sustain communities. I also know that, as a follower of Jesus, my primary calling is always one of grace, compassion, and love of neighbor. How can I balance these competing demands? How can I be good citizens of this nation, while trusting that my ultimate citizenship is in the Kingdom of God? I do not fully know, but I am willing to have the conversation.