Why build bigger tables?
"There is no power for change greater than a community discovering what it cares about." – Margaret J. Wheatley
We have a deeply ingrained impulse to categorise and delineate, to separate what feels familiar from what seems alien. Cultural, ideological, or personal differences often prompt us to fortify our positions and construct more formidable barriers. This is a natural reaction to uncertainty: when faced with the unknown, the primal instinct is to protect, shield, and divide.
Yet, while walls may offer a semblance of security, they fail to address the quiet yearning that often underlies conflict—the yearning to be understood, acknowledged, and seen. Walls are impermeable by their very nature.
They block not just threats but also light, air, and the possibility of connection.
What if, instead of reaching for bricks to shore up our defences, we extended our hands toward planks to craft something entirely different: a table—spacious, inclusive, and sturdy enough to bear the weight of our collective uncertainties?
Tables are unique in their symbolism. Unlike walls, which delineate boundaries, tables invite convergence. They are spaces of equality and dialogue where voices can meet on common ground. Around a table, hierarchies soften; power diffuses. Sitting together inherently suggests a willingness to engage, share, and, perhaps most importantly, listen.
This act of gathering is not without discomfort. Invitations to sit at a larger table, especially one populated by those whose perspectives we do not yet understand—or worse, whose perspectives we resist—can feel profoundly unsettling. But herein lies the quiet power of such an invitation: it challenges us to confront the unfamiliar not with antagonism but with curiosity.
The larger table does not demand immediate agreement; it merely asks for presence. And sometimes, presence is the first step toward understanding.
Building a bigger table requires more than planks and nails. It requires courage—the courage to let go of our certainties and open ourselves to the possibility of being changed. This is no small task. Certainties are comforting; they anchor us in a world that often feels adrift.
Questioning them can feel like stepping into a void. But the alternative—clinging so tightly to our perspectives that we refuse to engage with others—leads to intellectual and emotional isolation. It is a walled garden, lush and private but ultimately stifling.
The discomfort of expansion is not a sign that we are doing something wrong; it is a sign that we are growing.
In the words of the philosopher Emmanuel Levinas, true ethical engagement requires us to confront "the face of the other"—to recognise the humanity in those different from ourselves. This recognition does not require us to abandon our beliefs or convictions, but it does ask that we hold them with a certain humility, acknowledging that our perspective is not the only one.
One of the most profound misconceptions about dialogue is the belief that it aims to agree. This assumption places undue pressure on the conversation, turning it into a debate rather than an exchange. However, the actual connection is focused on something other than consensus. It thrives in the space where differences coexist, where disagreement is not a barrier but a bridge.
Building a bigger table is not merely a symbolic act but a practical one. It involves tangible actions:
Inviting others into our spaces.
Seeking out perspectives that challenge our own.
Creating environments where vulnerability feels safe.
It might mean reaching out to a colleague whose views we find baffling, inviting a neighbour of a different background to share a meal, or simply listening—truly listening—to someone whose experiences differ from ours.
In these acts, we model the world we wish to inhabit: a world where walls give way to bridges, isolation is replaced by connection, and our shared humanity takes precedence over our fears.
Of course, tables are not just spaces for dialogue but also places where burdens can be shared. When we gather, we do not merely exchange words; we distribute the weight of our collective struggles. In sitting together, we affirm that we are not alone—even in the face of profound differences, we are united by our shared human condition.
This act of sharing is profoundly generous. It acknowledges that the table is not just for us but for others—for those who came before us and those who will come after. Building a bigger table is to leave a legacy of inclusion, a testament to our belief in the possibility of connection.
The world will always offer us bricks for walls. Fear, division, and uncertainty will ensure their constant supply. But if we wish to transcend these impulses, we must instead reach for planks. We must choose to build tables wide enough to accommodate our differences and strong enough to hold the weight of our shared humanity.
