Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Luke 14:1, 7-14


As far back as I can remember I've taken Jesus' statements about how to pick a seat at the banquet literally. Early on, I suppose, it made sense from a standpoint of humility. Don't try and be more important than you are. Don't sit next to the birthday boy or girl unless you were invited to do so. Yet even as I got older I held onto this nugget of wisdom because it seemed pragmatic, which fit my nature. It hurts to be told you're sitting in the wrong seat, at least when you're being bumped back a row or two. Therefore, don't do it. Wait to be invited to sit in the front row.


But I've always known that Jesus' words have a loophole, an open door to false humility. This bit of advice provided me with a way to feel good about myself while seeming so quiet and uninterested in status. Because, while being demoted from the high seat is humiliating, getting promoted from the cheap seats is cause for awe. And to do so when it seems everyone except you knows that you belong in those seats up front…well, that makes you seem even more humble.


I've thought about these verses in this way for years. In all this time I've never once looked beyond the simple meaning of this teaching. For all these years, I've always thought that it was about me. At least, I did until this week.


Following this teaching about choosing a chair, Jesus offers up a suggestion on the guest list. Instead of inviting people who will (and can) do something for you in return, why not invite people who won't be able to repay you. Why not send an invitation to people who, no matter how many times you put them at the head of the table, will never be able to do the same for you, at least not at any table worth talking about.


This statement about who to include on the guest list, I believe, points beyond what I've often taken as the meaning of the preceding verses. It shows that this secret means of making myself look good and Christian that I've winked at is not just slimy but completely misses the point. It means that what Jesus is talking about has absolutely nothing to do with me.


They do not have any way to repay you, Jesus says. Luke defines they as the lame, poor, blind and so on, which are a part of they. But we cannot get bogged down there. They are anyone who can't do a thing for us. They are anyone whom we will garner no fanfare or favors or prestige for exalting if we lift them up. They are the subject of this speech, not me.


Jesus, I've come to realize, isn't at all interested in what seat I sit in when I'm the guest. His concern is where I seat others, especially when no one on earth cares where they sit.


God, help me to remember that it isn't about me.

Maundy Thursday

John 13

Jesus loved to eat.


I mentioned this to someone recently. It's one of those little details that, when you look for it, pops out in the Gospels. Think about it for a moment, just think of the stories you know about Jesus. How many of them involve a meal?


There's the story of Zacchaeus—where Jesus sort of invites himself to dinner.


There's the story of Mary and Martha. You know that one: Mary is sitting and listening to Jesus and Martha complains that she's not doing a thing to help her out. What do you think she wants help with anyhow? Dinner, of course.


Every time you turn around it seems Jesus is sitting down at the table with somebody. One evening he's at the house of some Pharisee. Another evening, he's getting complaints from the Pharisees because of who he's chosen to sit down and eat dinner with—those sinners and tax collectors.


Tonight we remember the last meal before Jesus' death. Matthew, Mark, and Luke all call this a Passover dinner. John, however, tells us that this is a dinner before the Passover. Whether it was or was not the Passover meal doesn't really matter. What matters is that Jesus, in the last hours, sat down and shared a meal with his friends.


Why do we see Jesus sitting at table so often? Well, one reason is that this sort of hospitality was and is very strong within the Jewish culture. A professor once told me that the families near a Rabbinical school would fight to see who would get to invite the students to their home for Passover. It's a very big deal to have someone come and share a meal with you. In that sense, it's no surprise that Jesus—a wandering teacher—would find himself with no shortage of invitations.


But, beyond culture and religion, I think there's something more to Jesus' repeated dinner scenes. I think Jesus understood that there is something sacred about sitting down and sharing a meal with someone. It takes a commitment of time to offer or accept an invitation to eat with another. It also implies exclusivity—that those moments are reserved just for who is at the table. And it takes a small amount of vulnerability—the very act of stopping to eat is just one more proof that we are human.


As we enter these moments of Jesus' final meal, prayers, betrayal, trial, and death, let's think about what Jesus spent so much of his time doing. And, in the coming weeks and months, pay closer attention to those we are privileged to share a table with. And try, hard as it may be, to treat those moments as a sacrament.


God of the table, come and dine with us this night and every day. Help us to see you in everyone who surrounds our table.