and St Alban’s, Kurow
TWENTY SECOND SUNDAY IN ORDINARY TIME
(August 28th) 2022
READINGS:
Jeremiah 2: 4-13
Psalm 81:10-16
Hebrews 13: 1-8, 15-16
Luke 14: 1, 7-14
It’s a strange thing
about preaching, week after week, as I have the immeasurable privilege of doing,
that too often we find ourselves accentuating the negative.
I think of the many
sermons I have delivered or heard that emphasise the too little, the degree to
which for example we fall short – that phrase from Paul’s letters to the Galatians
– fall short of the glory, the expectations, the holiness of God. And we do. But since that is a given – after all
that is the meaning of “all” – let’s park it somewhere else.
Because every now and
again if not in the underfelt to every scene of his teachings, we find Jesus
simply saying, admittedly in first century terminology, “get over it.”
I mean, he means it in
the nicest possible way. You may recall there is a saying that has become
popular in recent years, when people are feeling sorry for themselves, “Go to Bunnings
(or, least this be seen as free advertising, to Mitre 10), buy some timber, build
a bridge, and get over it.”
But what if we find in
the parable today not words of condemnation because we are arrogant and claim
the best seats for ourselves, but, addressed to us, the instruction to move up
higher, because we have wallowed for too long in the belief that we are miserable,
unworthy, privileged and a shopping list of other adjectives that remind us
that we are all together just what we probably know we are, not quite good
enough to hang out with the likes of God.
In other words, what
if we find that it is you and me, despite all our failings, to whom Jesus
addresses those words, “Come, my friend, sit with me.” I suspect most of us
would look over our shoulder to see who he’s really talking to. But there is no
one there. The gentle beckoning of our host is to us. “Come, my friend, sit
with me.”
Or, if I may return
for a moment to my shopping expedition, what if we find that we have no need to
go to the local hardware, because it is in fact Jesus who says, “Come on my
friend, I’ve been to Bunnings or Mitre 10 – wherever – and bought some timber, built
a bridge, and I’ve even carried you over it.”
Like the tenth leper who
remembers to pop back and say “ta” to Jesus when he was cleansed with nine of
his mates, it is probably a nice thing if we remember to say “ta” to God. But
that’s what we’re doing. That’s Eucharist. A sophisticated way of saying, “Ta,
God.” For lots. And what a privilege it is. It doesn’t have to be perfect, or
fancy, or anything more than a genuine feeling of gratitude for giving us
access to the creator of all that is, has been, will be, even though sometimes
the journey has its wobbles. Sometimes bad ones. But: hope.
Because Luke carefully situates this story between a scene in which a man with oedema is healed and a story in which the undeserving on the highways and byways are brought in from the streets to share a fancy nosh up in a flash house. Yes we might from time to time be reminded that we consuming more than our share of the earth’s resources, and be encouraged to do a little better, but that’s not the end of the story.
In the first century world oedema
or dropsy automatically symbolised greed. As it happens we see something
similar in our own century with the sad prevalence of body shaming in various
forms. But let’s not dwell on the negative. The first century had no better
science then to believe that oedema was a sign of indulgence. Yet even then, Jesus,
limiting himself to the worldview of his incarnation, simply reached out and
transformed the man’s life. He had a habit of doing that, for the deserving and
the undeserving alike. God is like that. The sun shines on the just and the unjust alike.
And in the parable
that follows our passage we will find that a whole lot of not necessarily
glamorous people are invited to the heavenly hoopla. It is kind of comforting,
really.
The two banquet stories tell us that the undeserving, the not good enough, you and I have an invitation to sit at the banquet of Christ. It seems to me pretty good news, good enough to encourage me along the journey. Beyound comprehension, sure, but a lot of things are (build a bridge).
Our task is just to let it be, to
say over and again, yes Lord, I believe. Or even yes Lord I kind of believe, or
even yes Lord I wish I could believe but I don’t really get it and it’s nice to
think some people do. There’ll be a lot of people surprised to find themselves
enjoying what scholars call the eschatological banquet, but what I prefer to
call the heavenly nosh up. If we imagine that by meeting a whole heap of
prerequisites we have earned our place in God’s love, then we have a bit of
re-thinking to do.
Even that’s not a
fatal flaw. God is patient. In the meantime though it’s great if we can simply
open ourselves up to the mad zaniness of a God who creates the heavens and the earth
and you and me and loves us recklessly even to the extent of incarnation and
crucifixion and inviting the outsiders to the party. If we can
recall the mad zaniness of the one who invites the broken and undeserving, even
us, to encounter mad irrepressible joy of relationship with God then giving
thanks and joining the party is a pretty good response.
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