Words create worlds. Language has tremendous power. The way we speak matters. The stories we hear shape our understanding and form our perspective.
Words create worlds, and whenever Jesus wanted to paint a picture of the world God intended, he told stories. We call those stories parables. This program year at Second Church—since September—our attention has been on the sacred task of speaking the truth in love. Parables are the truth spoken in love. They turn the world upside down. They disorient us. They knock us off balance. They expand our perspective. Over the next five Sundays, we’ll be exploring these stories Jesus told and their relevance to our life of faith today.
The parable we heard this morning focuses on a routine event—a dinner party. You’ve done it. You invite your friends. You clean the house. You borrow chairs from the neighbors. You dust off the china. You retrieve the table leaves from the attic. You clean the linen napkins. You put fresh towels in the bathroom, and you prepare a wonderful meal. But then—surprise. One by one, just hours before they are to arrive, the guests begin to call.
I’m so sorry. We just can’t make it. We couldn’t find a babysitter. There’s too much going on at the office. We’re just not feeling well this evening. Something came up. The car wouldn’t start. Have you seen the weather forecast? Just can’t. So sorry. Thanks anyway. Maybe next time.
And before the host can catch his breath, this distinguished list of dinner guests has evaporated, and no one is coming.
Well, this is a parable. The world turned upside down. We should expect the extraordinary. We should anticipate a window into God’s story. The excuses of the invited guests are not the surprise here. Who among us hasn’t heard, or used, them? Okay, maybe not the one about the oxen, but you get the point. Excuses happen. We’ve all used and heard them.
The initial reaction of the host is not a shock either. Anger. All that work and no guests to impress. There’s no surprise there. The picture of God’s kingdom comes in the action of the host. I would cancel the dinner. I would put my feet up, enjoy a quiet evening in my clean house. But the host does not cancel the event. He extends the invitation. “Go into the streets and bring in anyone you find there. Especially those on the margins—especially the unclean, the poor, the rejected, those lying by the side of the road. Invite the outsiders and give them a place at my table.” And when they have all arrived, there is still room for more.
The priority of this host is not the right crowd but a crowded table.
Words create worlds. These words offer a picture of God’s kingdom—a great feast to which we are invited. And this is the sad truth: some of us will simply be too busy or too preoccupied to show up. And this is the call: come to the party. Invite others to join. For the host of this dinner wants the table to be filled.
The table is a symbol of God’s kingdom. The call of the church is to offer a place to all whom the host has invited.
There is a Greek word that summarizes this call. In fact, it’s my favorite word in that ancient language. The word is this: Euphraino. It’s what Jesus did with tax collectors and sinners. Got him in trouble. It’s what the prodigal’s loving father does when he returns. Euphraino. Celebrate, eat, drink, be merry, be joyful, party. This is what the host of the feast wants most of all and what I believe we in the church are called to do together in Christ and in community. Euphraino...Celebrate!
I believe this with all my heart: that the call of the church is to invite all to the joyful celebration of God’s love.
And I believe this with all my heart: we can do nothing more contrary to the gospel than to deny anyone a place at God’s table.
Whenever we elbow others out to claim our spot, whenever we disobey the one whose dinner company offended the self-righteous and upset the legalistic, we work against the grain of God’s grace. Whenever we presume that we are the host, deciding who can and who cannot come to the table, we miss the point of the parable. We are not the host. We are those servants whose master has said, “I want my house to be full. I want my table to be crowded.”
In a culture obsessed with drawing lines of division and building walls of separation, an open invitation is a radical act of hope. In a time of hyper-individualism and virtual interaction, simply showing up at the same place to share an experience is a dramatic leap of faith, one you have taken this morning. In a world of despair and gloomy prognostication, the decision to celebrate, well, that’s either a naïve mistake or a profound picture of what God intends for us.
The world turned upside down. A different vision. That’s what we’re about in this space every single time we gather here.
Last week, I read the summary of a new study on in-person worship attendance patterns, comparing the time before the pandemic to 2022. No breaking news here—it was not an encouraging report. Attendance is down across the board and often dramatically so. The largest decline is among mainline protestants. That’s us. It’s not that folks have lost their faith—at least not for most. It’s just that there are so many excuses. So many other options to consider. Sorry, we can’t make it. Too much happening. Something came up. Have you seen the weather forecast? Just can’t. So sorry. Thanks anyway. Maybe next time.
The day I received that study, I had lunch with my friend and predecessor in this role, Bill Enright. We talked about the church, as we often do, and of our church. And in that conversation, again and again, Bill shared his enthusiasm and excitement for our future. And I wanted to ask him, “Have you read this report on in-person worship attendance patterns? Where does your enthusiasm come from?” “The children on these steps.” That was his answer. Later, Bill wrote me: “It is a terrific time for Second Church. I look around and cheer the many younger faces I do not know. I clap at the children’ s prayer time, but I also want to applaud as those children run down the aisle and parents follow behind, letting little ones hang on their hand. I could not be more hopeful for the future of Second.”
And I thought to myself: Words create worlds. Language has tremendous power. The way we speak matters.
This weekend, our nation remembers a preacher and a prophet whose words crafted a new world of possibility. Martin Luther King’s final Sunday sermon was preached at Washington’s National Cathedral, March 31, 1968. His text was another parable that turned the world upside down. Jesus spoke of a wealthy man who, every day, walked by his neighbor Lazarus, who was sick and hungry, begging from the side of the road. Lazarus, who was that rich man’s neighbor. At their deaths, Lazarus is carried away to the kingdom of God, where he is given a seat next to Abraham. And the man who passed him by is left to suffer for eternity. King reflected on the parable: “[The man] did not go to hell because he was rich, [but] because he passed Lazarus every day and never saw him. He went to hell because he allowed his brother to become invisible.” The question is turned to us. Will we see those in need whose suffering surrounds us? Second Church, who is invisible to us? Who is not yet welcome at the table we set? This parable of a world turned upside down would suggest that they are the very ones whom God has invited. They are the very ones God is waiting for.
Words create worlds. Stories we hear here can shape our understanding and form our perspective. Jesus told a story about a table where all were invited, all were included, all were welcome. That story turned the world of grim prospects and carefully drawn boundaries upside down. That story told the truth about God’s will for celebration. Excitement. Euphraino. A community gathered in gratitude and sent in service.
So, this morning, when you come and take the bread, take a moment as well. Take a moment to remember your mothers and fathers in the faith who sat at this table long before you, who first extended the invitation to you. Take a moment to dream about those who will one day take their place next to you at this table that is a parable of God’s kingdom. Take a moment to pray. Pray that God will give us the vision to see all God’s children as neighbors woven in that single garment of destiny.
And then, take a moment to say a word of thanks to our host, the one whose invitation includes those on the margins and, in pursuit of a crowded table, even saves a place for you. Amen.