August 28-29, 2010
14th Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 14:1, 7-14
Salem Lutheran Church
As I sat with Jesus' commentary on seating assignments at a banquet, I was carried back to he house where I grew up, where we always sat in the same place when we sat down for supper.
Yes, this was back in the time when people somehow actually had schedules which allowed them all to sit down together to share a meal. Even then, breakfast was always on the run and lunch was eaten at work or at school. But at 5:30 every night we all found our way to the dining room table.
My mom sat in the chair nearest the kitchen. My sisters and I were on either side of the rectangular table. And my dad sat at the head of the table in the chair with the arms.
The menu varied of course, but some things were always true. We waited for everyone to get there. We always offered prayer before we ate --- usually "Come Lord Jesus." And if there was meat to be carved, my dad carved it and served it at the table, passing the plates around. For while my mom may have done a great deal of the work to put the actual meal on the table, by virtue of where he sat and how he served, he was the host.
Except on birthdays. Then whosever birthday it was got to choose the menu and have a special friend or two join us for the meal. And whosever birthday it was got to sit in the chair with the arms.
It wasn't always that way though. In fact, I have to go so far back I can barely remember it, but there was a time when we would sit wherever we wanted at the table --- choosing from the four places on either side. But, as you might imagine, this often didn't go well and often someone was to sit next to or across from someone other than whoever they were sitting next to or across from and we would squabble until the night my folks put their collective feet down and said, "That's it. From now on you'll sit where you're sitting now." And from then on we did. Showing some measure of humility the likes of which Jesus describes in our Gospel lesson, as we did what we were told. For that matter, we sat in those same places for as long as my mom remained in that house with that dining room and with that dining room table. Except after my dad died, we never did really sort out who was to sit in the chair with the arms.
We needed the order I would guess. That rule, however arbitrary it may have been, helped us know where we were to be. And it kept the peace.
And so it has always been. Rules help us to keep order. We pay attention to them and we know where we belong. They may well keep the peace.
Only Jesus enters the scene in today's Gospel reading and throws our very human, very fragile, very contrived peace right out the window. For while my parents, and the people he was speaking to so long ago, may have been doing the best they could, those rules don't begin to reflect the Kingdom of God. And not only in terms of who sits where, but even more than that in terms of who's invited to the party altogether.
For one of the rules we have always lived by, is that normally we eat with people we know. People with whom we have something in common. People with whom we share a history or a future. And people who have the ability and the inclination to return the favor and pick up the tab next time. But what we hear today is this: When we're part of God's Kingdom, it's all different. That now we're not only to invite the people we know who can one day return the favor. Rather, we are to invite those we don't know: and those who may be most in need of a meal who most likely can never pay us back. Because here we remember that Jesus is the host, not us. Jesus is sitting in the chair with the arms, passing the plates around… for God has given us all we have to put on our tables anyway. And God's guest list is larger and broader and no doubt more surprising than any one of ours.
Surely we model this here in this place every week where we speak aloud the certain truth that all are welcome at the table. And where we make room for everyone who comes forward for a bit of bread and a taste of wine. And don't you think sharing in this meal together in this place in this way possibly leaves us changed --- better able to extend God's gifts to others… even or especially those who have no chance of returning in kind?
I got to be part of this meal in a different place a few weeks ago. I had stepped outside to visit with one of our own who was by then so frail that she couldn't easily climb down out of the passenger seat to come in and visit with me. I knocked on the car window and she rolled it down. I asked how she was feeling and she shrugged and said not so good. But she moved past it then and asked if I would bring communion out to the family that next week-end. For everyone would be home.
What went unspoken was the certainty that this would be the last time such a meal would be shared between these people bound up together by the bonds of family.
So I went. First we shared a meal of bratwursts and sweet corn together. We had homemade coconut cream pie for dessert. It was a summer feast. Only the table wasn't big enough to include everyone, so some sat on stools at the bar in the kitchen. But when I pulled out a couple of communion kits everyone crowded around, sitting almost on top of one another so as to be able to get as close as possible. I found I had to keep my head down and bite my lip once or twice as I spoke these oh so familiar words about Christ sharing a meal with his disciples --- about his offering of his own body and blood. I kept my head down because whenever I looked up I caught the sight of another person with tears streaming down their face. Except for the one who sat next to me. The one who had issued the invitation. The one whose living and whose soon dying had brought all of these people together for this time. It was as though she already had her eyes, her mind, her heart fixed elsewhere. It was as though, at least in that moment, this meal was more important than even the grief that lived on the edge of her consciousness. She wanted those she loved to have that gift, that reminder, that promise one more time when she could be a part of it with them. A meal that binds us to one another across everything that would separate us… how much we have, where we live, the language we speak or the time we live in. A meal which is God's own gift to us. Just as all the meals we share actually are. A meal where Jesus is the host.
It was different from the bratwursts and sweet corn. There were no tears then. This meal, however, brought us to a different place. One where everyone had to acknowledge the wonder and mystery of life and death. One where we were carried by the promises of Jesus. One that left us somehow changed. One that allowed us, at least for a moment, to see into eternity with the eyes of God.
May this meal always be this for us. Enabling us to see with the eyes of God. And to begin to live by the values of God's Kingdom. Where Jesus sits at the head of the table and the rest of us gather around. Where we crowd closer together to make room for the stranger, the poor, the suffering, the hurting. Where we give up our seats for those who may need to be closer than we do. Or who may need to sit while we can stand. May all of our meals look more and more like this one. Where everyone is welcome, especially those we might not normally think to invite. But who come first on God's guest list. Amen.