The Table and the World…

I’m not really sure where to begin or what to even say. I hope this takes off in some way, but I do have my reservations. Still, like most things in my life, I took a leap of faith.

That leap wasn’t blind, though—not a jump into a deep black abyss with nothing to catch me. I had help. I have help. I was only able to quit my job as a long-term care activities director and chaplain because of my incredible, supportive partner—and, well, his well-paying corporate job (thank God for insurance and spreadsheets).

I’ve been torn about how to start this story. Should I begin with my background, or my passion? Should I talk about what drives me—the dream of building an inclusive community where we all care for and celebrate one another—or should I start with the name that’s come to mean so much: Open Table Herbarium?

It all began in the autumn of 2024. The presidential election was looming. Thomas and I were hopeful, but realistic. We knew if He won, things would get bad. Very bad. And they have. As I’m writing this, we’re only nine months into the presidency, and a lot of people are going to starve in November due to his shutdown.

But we were planning for this—not in a doomsday-prepper way, but in a community-care way. I started researching scientifically backed folk remedies, how to forage, how to grow and locally source herbs we might need. You know—just in case. I didn’t expect this to become a calling. I thought it would just be a backup—a way to support our neighbors with natural remedies that work.

And that, really, is where Open Table was born.

I chose the name Open Table because of my theology—my base. I’m a priest in the Lutheran tradition (though these days I spend more time in church as a layperson). My center lies in community and justice. I believe we’re called to build the Kingdom of God here—not some faraway heaven, but here, among us. And that Kingdom is built through dismantling the systems of oppression that harm the marginalized.

When I served as a chaplain in long-term care, nearly every sermon included the same line:
“Tear down walls to build bigger tables.”
Those walls were—and are—the systems of oppression we’re called to break down.

I don’t want Open Table Herbarium to just be a shop where people buy teas, ritual items, and sundries. I want it to be a community. A refuge. A gathering place for those who have been told they don’t belong at anyone’s table. And what better way to create community than with a hot cup of tea, gathered around a table?

Now, I keep talking about my beliefs—but this isn’t just my calling. There’s another heart in this work: Thomas.

Thomas isn’t a Christian. In fact, he really hated Christians before he met me (but honestly, who could resist me? I’m a damn delight). He’s a green witch—a practitioner of earth-centered spirituality that’s older than most churches and wiser than many of them, too. He finds the sacred in the soil, in the wind, in the pulse of the moon and the roots beneath our feet.

When we met, I think we were both surprised by how much common ground we shared. My faith taught me that God is present in all creation—that the Spirit moves through water, breath, and bread. His practice taught him the same thing, in a different language: that every living thing carries energy, purpose, and divinity.

Somewhere along the way, we stopped worrying about whose rituals were “right.” I have my altar; he has his. But at both, we light candles, we give thanks, we bless what sustains us. His rituals, like mine, are acts of remembrance and reverence. He calls them spells; I call them sacraments. But the truth is, they’re not that different.

Through our relationship, I’ve learned something life-changing: everything can be a sacrament.

In church, the sacraments are the moments we touch the holy through ordinary things—bread, wine, water. But maybe the saints and mystics were right: the whole world is a chalice, every breath is a baptism, every act of love is communion.

When Thomas tends his plants or stirs herbs into oil, that’s liturgy. When I steep tea for a neighbor who’s grieving, that’s eucharist. When we light a candle for those who suffer, that’s prayer. We’re not just mixing ingredients; we’re blessing creation by participating in it.

So, Open Table Herbarium isn’t just a business. It’s a practice. A living expression of what happens when faith and witchcraft, prayer and plant, word and root, table and world—all meet in the same sacred space.

Here, we don’t draw lines between the spiritual and the ordinary, or between the Christian and the Pagan. We tear down walls. We build bigger tables. And at this table, there’s room for everyone who hungers—for healing, for justice, for peace, for belonging.