Guess Who’s Coming to the Unpower Banquet?
October 9, 2011
Guess who’s coming to dinner? Well, if we take the gospel to heart the answer is: not the ones you thought.
That simple observation raises all kinds of questions, and, in particular, questions that ought to press in on us here as we live through the fascinating challenges of the present moment. If part of what we’re doing here is asking fundamental questions of ourselves about the very nature of “church,” then one of those fundamental questions is going to be, “who is included?”
And if we ask those fundamental questions about church, pretty soon we’re going to find ourselves confronted by equally foundational questions about who is included in all kinds of other social arrangements from family, to neighborhood, to citizenship, to economy, to political power.
Clearly, I don’t think Jesus was just talking about a dinner party.
But before getting too far along this morning, it’s worth our time to understand just a bit of the cultural context of the parable. Matthew is writing to a community that has experienced the destruction of Jerusalem a generation after Jesus. Matthew’s retelling of Jesus’ parable includes a morality play that understands the destruction of Jerusalem as punishment for a lack of faithfulness.
There was yet another article in the Post this week reporting that worship attendance in Christian, Jewish and Muslim houses of worship in the United States has decreased by more than 15 percent over the past decade. At the same time, the news is full of stories from occupied Wall Street, from debt-crushed Greece, from tea partying conservatives, to a still war torn Afghanistan.
Toss in earthquakes and hurricanes for a bit of dramatic background and Matthew’s moralism might suggest that God is punishing all of us for a lack of faithfulness.
I hold that reading out there not because I think it’s true, but rather to indicate the inherent dangers of using ancient texts to interpret our times. After all, the ancient texts don’t agree with each other about their own time, why should we expect that they would offer clarity about our own?
For example, Luke’s version of the same parable does not go the route of easy moralism, but, instead simply notes that "the poor, the crippled, the blind, and the lame," accept an invitation to the party after others better off have made their excuses for not coming.
For our present circumstances, I find Luke’s telling more helpful. If we stick only with Matthew’s account we might find ourselves stuck in asking “who’s responsible” for the current situation. Trying to place blame, as Matthew seems to do, is the perfect recipe for getting stuck in the past.
That does not mean that we avoid accountability and responsibility when codes and rules and laws have been clearly violated, but it does mean we don’t get stuck there because our larger challenges have arisen through an incredibly complex mix of social and cultural shifts that we have yet to fully comprehend.
Take just the church, for starters. Lots of folks have turned down the invitation to have dinner with Jesus’ friends. Look around. The powerful community leaders who used to fill pews in Mainline Protestant congregations are mostly absent now.
So, guess who’s coming to dinner now that the better classes have declined. To figure out who might be on the revised guest list let’s ask ourselves what would happen if we did take the gospel seriously. What would happen here if we invited in the 25 percent of Arlingtonians who speak Spanish as a first language? What would happen here if we truly invited in the thousands of Arlingtonians who receive a handout at AFAC or from A-SPAN? What would happen here if we invited in our African-American sisters and brothers? What would happen if we invited in the kids occupying K Street?
By these questions what I really mean to ask is, what do we have to change about ourselves in order to make such invitations authentic? For more than my entire lifetime it has been true that 11:00 on Sunday morning is the most segregated hour in American life. It is segregated not just by race, but also by economic status, political persuasion, language, and almost every other category by which we can wall ourselves off from each other.
If we believe, and we say that we do, that the church is somehow and in some small way a provisional expression of the kingdom of God on earth, then what are we saying about that kingdom? Well, let’s start with concerns about the patriarchal language of kingdom. When we use that language, which we’ve inherited from the tradition, we immediately set up a hierarchy and hierarchies are all about exclusion. Is that what heaven is all about? And if we’re building a bit of it here and now, are we building it inside of high walls and locked doors and stained glass barriers?
It’s worth noting in passing that our passage this morning from Paul’s letter to the Philippians ignores one critical traditional hierarchy. When Paul writes about Euodia and Syntiche he is writing about women who have worked alongside him for the sake of the gospel. So the tradition itself provides some of the tools and some of the history that we need for rereading that very tradition, and for reading the signs of our own time.
But let’s not fool ourselves for a moment into thinking that we are not also inheritors of the most difficult aspects of our tradition, and all of the hierarchies it sets up. The tradition having set them up, we recapitulate them in all kinds of subtle and not so subtle ways. Male over female. Straight over gay. Rich over poor. Majority over minority. Well educated over less educated. “High” culture over “low” culture, and so on and on to degrees that vary by location but in a pattern that is long-established and often simply left unquestioned. Even in communities such as ours.
But in this quirky little parable about the banquet, Jesus, the messiah, the savior, the lord, the king, says, “no” to all that.
How does he do that? He insists that God is among the lowly, always, and from the beginning; and this gospel insistence on the lowliness of God raises questions for us about the entire way we think about God. What if, instead of reaching for a “higher power,” Jesus is, instead, pointing in the opposite direction? What if God – the God who chose to be made known through the life of a baby born in an animal stall who grew into an outcast crucified on a barbaric instrument of state execution – what if that God is the essence of powerlessness, calling us to let go of all pretensions to power, such that we really do look at one another as fundamentally equal beings?
The guy I handed soup and sandwiches to last week in the soup line down in Rosslyn? The one who didn’t smell so good because he hasn’t had a shower in while? That one. Fundamentally, in every way that matters to God, my equal. That woman next to him? The one who was talking to herself? Same thing. The auto mechanic who wrecked my car after changing my tire? In every way that matters to God, my equal. The kids currently occupying Wall Street and K Street? Fundamentally equal to the investment bankers and lobbyists who look down upon them from their corner suites. How about the guy who stole my Macbook a couple of years ago? Fundamentally equal to Steve Jobs, and to me.
None of this means that we allow people to abuse others, but it does mean that we are called to live together differently and thus to think anew about accountability, responsibility, punishment and forgiveness, to name just a few constructs that we still rarely get right because we have not begun to learn to live together differently in the way that Jesus calls us to.
We are called to live together differently as church. We are called to live together differently as families. We are called to live together differently as schools. We are called to live together differently as neighbors, as colleagues, as citizens.
When we begin to consider such changes to basic patterns of life, the metaphor of a great banquet in a single room gives way. We can’t sit still; we can’t even stand in one place. We don’t have a lot of solid ground for building any great banquet halls these days. Indeed, in many ways, we are less like builders of banquet halls and more like small craft tossed about on a mighty and stormy sea.
It is quite clear that we are living through an age of massive cultural, economic and political change. Many have noted that the church is ripe for another reformation, and that Christianity has lived through historic shifts roughly every 500 years since the time of Jesus.
It is naïve in the extreme to imagine that massive shifts touching almost every aspect of contemporary life would somehow leave a little church in Arlington untouched.
It is impossible, in the middle of a sea change, to see the shape of the shore toward which we sail.
Moreover, Jesus never promised his followers smooth sailing. Instead, he promised to be with us in the boat when the storm is raging.
His life shows us a way to live together in the midst of stormy seas, and one thing seems abundantly clear even through the fog of uncertainty: we’re all in the same boat now.
So let’s acknowledge that reality, and sail forward with two key commitments. First, we can celebrate where we’ve been and remember it fondly, but let’s not let the past be an anchor dragging us back toward a time that will never be again. And second, let’s get rid of the imagined hierarchies with all the barriers that come with them. We don’t have first class and steerage on this boat. We really are all in it together: one human family, bound together lightly and subject to only one power – the power of love. Let love guide the way. Amen.
Guess who’s coming to dinner? Well, if we take the gospel to heart the answer is: not the ones you thought.
That simple observation raises all kinds of questions, and, in particular, questions that ought to press in on us here as we live through the fascinating challenges of the present moment. If part of what we’re doing here is asking fundamental questions of ourselves about the very nature of “church,” then one of those fundamental questions is going to be, “who is included?”
And if we ask those fundamental questions about church, pretty soon we’re going to find ourselves confronted by equally foundational questions about who is included in all kinds of other social arrangements from family, to neighborhood, to citizenship, to economy, to political power.
Clearly, I don’t think Jesus was just talking about a dinner party.
But before getting too far along this morning, it’s worth our time to understand just a bit of the cultural context of the parable. Matthew is writing to a community that has experienced the destruction of Jerusalem a generation after Jesus. Matthew’s retelling of Jesus’ parable includes a morality play that understands the destruction of Jerusalem as punishment for a lack of faithfulness.
There was yet another article in the Post this week reporting that worship attendance in Christian, Jewish and Muslim houses of worship in the United States has decreased by more than 15 percent over the past decade. At the same time, the news is full of stories from occupied Wall Street, from debt-crushed Greece, from tea partying conservatives, to a still war torn Afghanistan.
Toss in earthquakes and hurricanes for a bit of dramatic background and Matthew’s moralism might suggest that God is punishing all of us for a lack of faithfulness.
I hold that reading out there not because I think it’s true, but rather to indicate the inherent dangers of using ancient texts to interpret our times. After all, the ancient texts don’t agree with each other about their own time, why should we expect that they would offer clarity about our own?
For example, Luke’s version of the same parable does not go the route of easy moralism, but, instead simply notes that "the poor, the crippled, the blind, and the lame," accept an invitation to the party after others better off have made their excuses for not coming.
For our present circumstances, I find Luke’s telling more helpful. If we stick only with Matthew’s account we might find ourselves stuck in asking “who’s responsible” for the current situation. Trying to place blame, as Matthew seems to do, is the perfect recipe for getting stuck in the past.
That does not mean that we avoid accountability and responsibility when codes and rules and laws have been clearly violated, but it does mean we don’t get stuck there because our larger challenges have arisen through an incredibly complex mix of social and cultural shifts that we have yet to fully comprehend.
Take just the church, for starters. Lots of folks have turned down the invitation to have dinner with Jesus’ friends. Look around. The powerful community leaders who used to fill pews in Mainline Protestant congregations are mostly absent now.
So, guess who’s coming to dinner now that the better classes have declined. To figure out who might be on the revised guest list let’s ask ourselves what would happen if we did take the gospel seriously. What would happen here if we invited in the 25 percent of Arlingtonians who speak Spanish as a first language? What would happen here if we truly invited in the thousands of Arlingtonians who receive a handout at AFAC or from A-SPAN? What would happen here if we invited in our African-American sisters and brothers? What would happen if we invited in the kids occupying K Street?
By these questions what I really mean to ask is, what do we have to change about ourselves in order to make such invitations authentic? For more than my entire lifetime it has been true that 11:00 on Sunday morning is the most segregated hour in American life. It is segregated not just by race, but also by economic status, political persuasion, language, and almost every other category by which we can wall ourselves off from each other.
If we believe, and we say that we do, that the church is somehow and in some small way a provisional expression of the kingdom of God on earth, then what are we saying about that kingdom? Well, let’s start with concerns about the patriarchal language of kingdom. When we use that language, which we’ve inherited from the tradition, we immediately set up a hierarchy and hierarchies are all about exclusion. Is that what heaven is all about? And if we’re building a bit of it here and now, are we building it inside of high walls and locked doors and stained glass barriers?
It’s worth noting in passing that our passage this morning from Paul’s letter to the Philippians ignores one critical traditional hierarchy. When Paul writes about Euodia and Syntiche he is writing about women who have worked alongside him for the sake of the gospel. So the tradition itself provides some of the tools and some of the history that we need for rereading that very tradition, and for reading the signs of our own time.
But let’s not fool ourselves for a moment into thinking that we are not also inheritors of the most difficult aspects of our tradition, and all of the hierarchies it sets up. The tradition having set them up, we recapitulate them in all kinds of subtle and not so subtle ways. Male over female. Straight over gay. Rich over poor. Majority over minority. Well educated over less educated. “High” culture over “low” culture, and so on and on to degrees that vary by location but in a pattern that is long-established and often simply left unquestioned. Even in communities such as ours.
But in this quirky little parable about the banquet, Jesus, the messiah, the savior, the lord, the king, says, “no” to all that.
How does he do that? He insists that God is among the lowly, always, and from the beginning; and this gospel insistence on the lowliness of God raises questions for us about the entire way we think about God. What if, instead of reaching for a “higher power,” Jesus is, instead, pointing in the opposite direction? What if God – the God who chose to be made known through the life of a baby born in an animal stall who grew into an outcast crucified on a barbaric instrument of state execution – what if that God is the essence of powerlessness, calling us to let go of all pretensions to power, such that we really do look at one another as fundamentally equal beings?
The guy I handed soup and sandwiches to last week in the soup line down in Rosslyn? The one who didn’t smell so good because he hasn’t had a shower in while? That one. Fundamentally, in every way that matters to God, my equal. That woman next to him? The one who was talking to herself? Same thing. The auto mechanic who wrecked my car after changing my tire? In every way that matters to God, my equal. The kids currently occupying Wall Street and K Street? Fundamentally equal to the investment bankers and lobbyists who look down upon them from their corner suites. How about the guy who stole my Macbook a couple of years ago? Fundamentally equal to Steve Jobs, and to me.
None of this means that we allow people to abuse others, but it does mean that we are called to live together differently and thus to think anew about accountability, responsibility, punishment and forgiveness, to name just a few constructs that we still rarely get right because we have not begun to learn to live together differently in the way that Jesus calls us to.
We are called to live together differently as church. We are called to live together differently as families. We are called to live together differently as schools. We are called to live together differently as neighbors, as colleagues, as citizens.
When we begin to consider such changes to basic patterns of life, the metaphor of a great banquet in a single room gives way. We can’t sit still; we can’t even stand in one place. We don’t have a lot of solid ground for building any great banquet halls these days. Indeed, in many ways, we are less like builders of banquet halls and more like small craft tossed about on a mighty and stormy sea.
It is quite clear that we are living through an age of massive cultural, economic and political change. Many have noted that the church is ripe for another reformation, and that Christianity has lived through historic shifts roughly every 500 years since the time of Jesus.
It is naïve in the extreme to imagine that massive shifts touching almost every aspect of contemporary life would somehow leave a little church in Arlington untouched.
It is impossible, in the middle of a sea change, to see the shape of the shore toward which we sail.
Moreover, Jesus never promised his followers smooth sailing. Instead, he promised to be with us in the boat when the storm is raging.
His life shows us a way to live together in the midst of stormy seas, and one thing seems abundantly clear even through the fog of uncertainty: we’re all in the same boat now.
So let’s acknowledge that reality, and sail forward with two key commitments. First, we can celebrate where we’ve been and remember it fondly, but let’s not let the past be an anchor dragging us back toward a time that will never be again. And second, let’s get rid of the imagined hierarchies with all the barriers that come with them. We don’t have first class and steerage on this boat. We really are all in it together: one human family, bound together lightly and subject to only one power – the power of love. Let love guide the way. Amen.
posted by David Ensign at
12:02 PM
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