God gives us a Feast; God expects us to join in the Feasting

Sermon preached at St. Mark’s, Honey Brook, PA

by The Rev. Thomas C. Pumphrey, Priest-in-charge, October 9, 2005

21^st Sunday after Pentecost (year A, proper 23): Matthew 22:1-14 (Isa. 25:1-9, Phil. 4:4-13)

Matthew 22:1 (NRSV): Once more Jesus spoke to them in parables, saying: "The kingdom of heaven may be compared to a king who gave a wedding banquet for his son. He sent his slaves to call those who had been invited to the wedding banquet, but they would not come. Again he sent other slaves, saying, 'Tell those who have been invited: Look, I have prepared my dinner, my oxen and my fat calves have been slaughtered, and everything is ready; come to the wedding banquet.' But they made light of it and went away, one to his farm, another to his business, while the rest seized his slaves, mistreated them, and killed them. The king was enraged. He sent his troops, destroyed those murderers, and burned their city. Then he said to his slaves, 'The wedding is ready, but those invited were not worthy. Go therefore into the main streets, and invite everyone you find to the wedding banquet.' Those slaves went out into the streets and gathered all whom they found, both good and bad; so the wedding hall was filled with guests. "But when the king came in to see the guests, he noticed a man there who was not wearing a wedding robe, and he said to him, 'Friend, how did you get in here without a wedding robe?' And he was speechless. Then the king said to the attendants, 'Bind him hand and foot, and throw him into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.' For many are called, but few are chosen."

In today’s Gospel reading we hear a message of God’s grace: of the gift of a feast and celebration. We also hear a message of God’s expectation: of judgment and the responsibilities of discipleship. Jesus sends a two-part message in this parable: God gives us grace, but God expects a response. God gives us a feast; God expects us to join in the feasting.

Consider a certain family experience: The smells of a meal permeate the house with rich, inviting aromas. A mother completes her day-long labor with the finishing touches of a special family dinner: a roast turkey slow cooked over the course of the afternoon, candied yams and mountains of green peas, capped with melting butter. The family follows the smells and gathers around the table.

Last to arrive is a three year old boy named Jeffrey. “Sit up at the table,” says his mother as she measures the minimum ten peas onto Jeffrey’s plate to complete his dinner. Jeffrey is unimpressed. As the family digs in after grace, Jeffrey becomes a challenge to his family. “I don’t LIKE peas!” he says. “Try some of your yams,” his mother replies, but Jeffrey is half off his chair brandishing his knife like a sword, grunting some toddler epithet, further breaking up the family conversation. “Please don’t interrupt your brother, Jeffrey,” says his mother, “you don’t want to have to go to time out.” “I HATE PEAS!” Jeffrey shouts, and soon, the peas, and yams and roast turkey go flying from Jeffrey’s plate. “Off to your room!” says his mother, as she carries him, hand and foot from the dinner table.

Jeffrey is crushed. “You don’t love me!” he cries as he bursts into tears. His mother sits him in his room. “I do love you Jeffrey, I do!” she replies, “but when you scream and throw food, we can’t enjoy our dinner, and our family breaks apart! Mommy wants you to be with us—she wants the whole family to be together and to enjoy our special dinner! You have to sit here and calm down.” She leaves him in his room, where there is much weeping and gnashing of teeth.

She returns to the table and takes her seat next to Jeffrey’s empty chair, garnished with squashed peas, drips of gravy and clumps of candied yam. She eats her cooling turkey, listening to the sounds of her fork against the plate. And in her heart, too, there is weeping for her missing son and the feast she desired. She gave her family a feast, but she expected feasting.

The Kingdom of heaven is like a king who prepares a wedding feast for his son. The king invites guests to share in the abundance and joy of the gathering. But the King receives silence and indifference. He pleads with the invited guests: ‘Look, I have prepared the feast: my oxen and my fatted calves have been slaughtered,’ I’ve got this amazing meal for you, swimming with food, full of joy and celebration and merriment—this is a wedding feast for my son! Come, ‘everything is ready, come to the wedding feast!’ But the King receives rejection, hatred, malice and murder. So the King opens wide the doors to the feast and, as Matthew puts it “gather[s] in the good and the bad.” And they all come pouring in.

This parable is the third of a series of parables that Jesus uses to put the Pharisees on notice. God made a covenant with Israel, and, as the Pharisees know, Israel often ignored God and their covenant. Prophets were abused for pronouncing judgment and calling for repentance. The first readers of Matthew’s Gospel also know that Jesus was eventually rejected and killed, and Jerusalem eventually destroyed.

Through Christ, however, God opens the gospel to the whole world—not just the chosen people of Israel. For Israel was not chosen for its own sake by heredity, but chosen for its witness to the nations. So God sends servants out to the street corners to invite the world to the feast of a transformed life in him.

The parable goes on, however, to address another audience: those who came to the feast: the disciples. Someone is at the feast, but without a wedding garment. Though I agree that dressing properly is important, I don’t think that Jesus is playing some sort of first century Emily Post or Martha Stewart. The wedding garment was common in rabbinic stories as a symbol for righteousness or repentance. Jesus uses that symbol here, but the function of the wedding garment in the context of Jesus’ story is important to fully grasp. The issue is not so much being ready for judgment as it is one of fully engaging in the feast. Everyone at the feast honors the feast with a wedding garment. Did this disciple come to gather with others, to celebrate the wedding, to share in the joy, to honor the occasion, fully given to the experience? Or was he there just to fill his belly?

Jesus calls his disciples to a fully engaged and deeply connected life in him, one that is completely enveloping, like the wedding robes. Jesus puts the disciples on notice, too. God gives us grace, but God expects a response. God gives us a feast; God expects us to join in the feasting.

As Jesus’ disciples, we, too are put on notice. Are we “in our wedding robes,” so to speak? Are we fully engaged in a life in Christ? Sometimes, perhaps. Often, however, like the guests in the parable, we are too occupied with our business to come to the feast of God’s abundance. We somehow take no notice of the smells of the food, the sound of the laughter and music. They’re all lost amid the cares of our own lives, our jobs, our homes, our studies, our responsibilities. Too many worries and demands and distractions crowd our ears. We forget about the presence of God in our lives, preferring the drab daily plod over a transformed life.

When we stop engaging God, something breaks down, and we lose connection with God and with those around us. In the course of our communication, little irritations become sharp stings, building up into the pain of division. Then we give those stings too, often defended by our own pain or mistrust. We feel at odds with our colleagues, our friends, our families. We love less, forgive less, and grumble more. At times, especially when we suffer tragic loss or paralyzing fear, we feel separated from God, and like Jeffrey, we cry out “You don’t love me anymore!”

It is easy to forget about the feast of God, at least for me it is. Often, every day life sure doesn’t sound like a heavenly invitation. We come to church to be nourished, perhaps, but it is so easy to skip the feast and move quickly to the fast food counter, snacking with God for an hour or so. And yet, by our apathy and indifference, we gain for ourselves sorrow and grief. Sorrow too for God who, like Jeffrey’s mother, grieves our absence and the joy we could have shared. God prepares a feast for us; God yearns for us to join in the feasting.

The challenges of discipleship may seem difficult to us at times, especially amid the burdens of our lives. But we are not without support. Jesus ends this parable with demands of discipleship, but—he did not end his ministry there. He yearned for our reconciliation so much that he went on to the cross, the resurrection, and the outpouring of the Holy Spirit.

Jesus felt the struggle we feel. Jesus suffered pain and injustice; abandonment and isolation. He, too, cried out for the presence of the Father. But Jesus transformed that death, that pain, that division—he claimed victory over such things in his resurrection. By the gift of the Holy Spirit, we, too, can share in the transformed life, a lavish feast of God’s abundance. This gift is why, when we gather for the feast of the Eucharist, we pray not for solace only, but for strength; not for pardon only, but for renewal. In Holy Communion, Jesus doesn’t invite us to a snack of complacency, but a feast of grace and reconciliation and rejoicing.

So we respond to God’s gracious invitation, we put on our wedding garment, we dig in to the feast, engaging God in a life immersed in prayer and joy. We bring to God not only our crises but the trivial moments in our lives as well. We form habits of seeking God in our daily lives—habits that remind us of God’s constant care for us. We see ourselves as God’s beloved, and we let that love change us and change our relationships.

When we feast on the love of God, we encounter God all through our lives. We find even the drab or painful moments in our lives transformed. Where we once ignored God, there we find God. Those places of stark, cold hunger in our lives become not distractions from God, but holy places—places of prayer—places for feasting on God’s abundant grace. Sitting at office desks, we encounter God, adding color and life to our surroundings, showing us the personal relationships at the heart of our tasks. Washing pots and pans, we feel the rhythm of God’s ageless persistence in caring for our everyday concerns, and we feel a song in our heart, and on our lips.

Soon we are nourished and fed so much that we carry baskets of grace with us. Instead of hearing insult in the voice of a short temper, we hear pain in need of God’s healing. So we respond differently than before. Strengthened by God’s feast, we now risk hurt to reach out in caring, building connection where there was once animosity, building common ground that connects us even if we don’t always agree. The feast to which God calls us is held in churches and in homes, in schools, conference rooms, subway trains, hospitals and street corners; with friends, enemies and strangers. At this feast, we find strength from God to feel not only solace but joy. Here we find renewal to not only feel mercy and pardon, but to give mercy and pardon as well.

We know what will happen with Jeffrey and his mom—that through her love and their relationship, Jeffrey will come back to the table. Tears will be dried, and though it is beyond our hope at times, those peas will become a source of joy for Jeffrey. The family will be connected again and not divided, and they will all feast in celebration of their love for each other.

God says to us “Come to the lavish wedding banquet where we will rejoice in the Lord always—come to the banquet of a life transformed by God’s love—come to the banquet, and come not to nibble at appetizers, but come to feast! Alleluia, we hear the invitation: Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us! Therefore let us keep the feast, Alleluia!