Sermons
Jesus Throws a Dinner Party
The Rev. Gia Hayes-Martin
St. Matthew's Episcopal Church
August 29, 2010
Jer 2:4-13; Ps 81:1, 10-16; Heb 13:1-8, 15-16; Lk 14:1, 7-14
I want to tell you a story about a dinner party.
Imagine with me, if you will, that one day Jesus was flipping through the gospels, reading what had been written about him, and he noticed he had taught his followers a lot about meals. So he decided to take his own advice and throw a dinner party. He selected the guests carefully, mailed the invitations the old-fashioned way, and checked his voicemail with delight as the replies came in. He ironed his best tablecloth and polished his grandmother’s silverware until it was bright as a mirror. He planned the menu with care, especially the dessert––Jesus liked dessert.
The night of the party arrived. One by one, the guests entered the room where Jesus was serving drinks and appetizers. As they nibbled on creamy fresh goat cheese and salty olives, they began to size each other up. And they wondered to themselves who would get to sit at the place of greatest honor. Of course, there would be a long, rectangular table. Jesus would sit at the head of the table, with the most exalted guests sitting on his right and on his left. The guests who didn’t matter, the nobodies, would be sitting way down at the other end. So where would everyone sit?
The banker didn’t have to ask where he would be sitting. He just knew he’d be right there at the head of the table. All you had to do was look at his perfect haircut, immaculately tailored suit, and brilliant even teeth to see that he was the most exalted guest. Although he wasn’t going to show it, he was relieved that he’d get to be so close to Jesus. He wasn’t really a churchy kind of person, but he had accepted this invitation because his favorite sister was dying. Losing her was tearing him up inside. He remembered from Sunday school that Jesus healed people, even raised them from the dead, and the banker wanted to ask Jesus to heal his sister. Dinner would be the perfect time to talk about it.
It was the Tea Party member who finally said out loud what they were all thinking. She cleared her throat and said in a loud, carrying voice, “Jesus, I’m going to sit in the place of greatest honor, aren’t I? I mean, look around the room. That guy over there in the expensive suit must be a banker, and I bet he bought that suit with money from the bailout. That brown-skinned man in the corner, I heard him speaking Spanish, and I’m sure he’s one of those illegals. I lost all my savings when the market crashed. I can’t afford to retire now, and I didn’t get a bailout, nobody gave me any help. Those people are just sponging off honest, hard-working Americans like me. They don’t deserve to sit next to you. I do.”
The progressive Christian overheard and sidled up to Jesus to make his case. “Jesus, I don’t understand how you could sit next to someone that judgmental. Didn’t you tell us, ‘Do not judge, so that you may not be judged’? Now, far be it from me to exalt myself, but I’d love to sit next to you. I wanted to ask your advice about this homeless person who’s been sleeping under the bushes at our church. He seems to be mentally ill. I know you want us to reach out to him, but I’m scared of him and I don’t know what to do. Besides, I know we have so much in common: I’m an Episcopalian, and I’ve heard you’re an Episcopalian too!”
The Army officer couldn’t take any more of this. He burst out, “You think being nice to some homeless guy makes you exalted? How naive can you be? My job is to make sure America is the greatest country in the world. And I’ve paid the price for it: I’ve been wounded twice, and I’m away from home so much that my children don’t know me. Jesus, it’s because of me and my sacrifice that it’s safe for you to have this dinner party. Surely I’m going to sit next to you.”
The homeless woman stood by herself and gripped her child’s hand harder. She’d been so excited to receive Jesus’ invitation. It was the first dinner party she had been to since she had left her abusive marriage and lost her job and lost her house. She’d even saved for weeks to buy outfits from the thrift shop for herself and her preschooler. She didn’t want much, just a few minutes to thank Jesus for his kindness in treating her like a real person, but it was starting to seem like she wouldn’t even get to talk to Jesus, much less sit near him. Once again, the world was telling her that she didn’t matter, she didn’t count. Silent tears began to slip down her cheeks.
The illegal immigrant saw the homeless woman’s distress, but he felt powerless to help her. As soon as he’d walked into the dinner party, he had been sure he didn’t belong here. He wasn’t sure there was any place he really did belong—not in California, and not back home in El Salvador any more either. He had always believed that America was the land of opportunity for anyone who was willing to work hard. So when the civil war had devastated his village and killed his family, he had come here to try to make a new life. Yet everywhere he went, he could feel people’s eyes on him, accusing him. Coming to this dinner party had been a mistake. Maybe it was best to slip out the side door before anyone could notice.
Jesus, hearing and seeing everything that was going on, cried, “Wait! You don’t understand!”
But no one listened to him. The Army officer and the banker were now in a shouting match with the progressive Christian. The homeless woman wept silently, and the illegal immigrant looked despondent. The Tea Partier continued to glare suspiciously at them, as though she wanted to get them both deported.
Jesus, numb with disbelief, could only whisper, “But don’t you see…”
Finally, a bell rang in the distance, and the shouting match stopped abruptly. Dinner was ready! The doors of the dining room opened and everyone trooped in. Standing on the sideboard were two elegant silver trays. One was holding the finest wine, the other a basket full of fresh bread. There were only eight of them for dinner, but it looked like enough food for the Army officer’s entire division. The scent of the bread wafted out to the guests, warm and yeasty and carrying a hint of sun shining on wheat.
Jesus gestured with a wide sweep of his arm. “Your table awaits. This way,” he said, leading the guests further into the room. Then, and only then, did they see that table they’d argued over. They had expected a long rectangular table, where the exalted guests could sit right next to Jesus, while the nobodies sat far away.
This table was round. There was no head and no foot; there was an equal place for everyone.
When all the guests were seated, there was one chair left empty. The progressive Christian perked up. “Jesus, this must be for you! Come and sit here, right next to me.” But Jesus smiled and shook his head, as he tied a towel around his waist. “No, I’m here to serve you. You came to my party grieving and frightened and hurting, and I’m going to send you home with comfort and hope and full bellies. I left that seat empty on purpose. It’s to remind you of all the people who aren’t here yet, people just as broken and hurting as you are, people who need you to invite them to this party. Because there is always abundant food whenever I am the host, and everyone has a place at my table.”