First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
February 18, 2001
Scripture: Luke 14:12-24
Over the years, some of the best times I ever had in church started in the kitchen. Then again, some of the worst times I ever had in church also started in the kitchen. People can become quite impassioned about church kitchens….what’s made there….who works there….who’s in control there (that’s a big issue)….who cleans up there. Colin Morris used to say that the devil always enters the church through the choir. Maybe so. But were someone to take Colin out back (to the place where they keep the steam table and the dishwasher), I’ll bet he’d change his tune.
And it’s always been that way. Turn the pages of the Bible (especially the New Testament) and you’ll find that someone always seems to be cooking, eating, or squabbling about cooking and eating. So much so that one can correctly identify the dining room as a primary location for playing out life’s daily dramas of sin and grace. Which we know to be true in our lives as well.
There isn’t a person in this room who can’t remember the ecstasy of a good family meal….and the agony of a bad one. People decry the fact that families seldom sit down to break bread with each other. But sometimes it’s easier not to….and terribly painful when you have to. A minister friend of mine had an adolescent daughter who refused to join the rest of the family at the table for a period of two years. Two whole years. And there were people who said: “Well, you just need to make her.” But if you have ever eaten at a table with somebody who doesn’t want to be there….or has come under some kind of duress….you don’t need a theologian to describe “hell” for you. You’ve experienced it.
In my long-ago-remembered childhood, I recall some wonderful family meals where everybody conversed freely and lingered endlessly. And I recall some awful meals where, from beginning to end, nobody said a word. Not a single, solitary word. After ten minutes of that kind of silence, you can hear the sound a fork makes as it slices through a mound of mashed potatoes.
From the beginning, the Church of Jesus Christ has worried about what you eat….how much you eat….when and where you eat it….and who you eat it with. Biblically speaking, far more stories take place in the dining room than in the bedroom. But you’d never know it by listening to most preachers. Which is why, over my next few sermons, I am going to correct that imbalance. Except I am not going to start with menus or manners….feasting or fasting….or even quality or quantity (gluttony is still one of the seven deadly sins, isn’t it?). No, I am going to start with table mates, honing in on the question of who eats with whom….or who refuses to eat with whom.
Yes, let’s start there (with someone who won’t come to the table). Let’s talk about someone who won’t sit down to supper, even though he has every reason to be hungry after working all day…. working every day….working in the field….without prior complaint….because that’s what good, obedient sons of the father do. Work hard, I mean. They get their hands dirty. But they keep their mouths shut and their noses clean. That’s what good, obedient sons of the father do.
Which wasn’t the path his little brother took. But why do I need to tell you? You know the story, either because you’ve read it….or because you’ve lived it. Little brother takes off. Little brother screws up. Little brother slinks home, lower than a snake’s belly. And daddy throws him a party. In fact, he slaughters the fatted calf. We’re talking prime rib, here. But his older brother doesn’t have to be told what’s cooking. His older brother can smell what’s cooking. And it doesn’t smell quite right. Not because of bad beef….but because of bad blood (between the brothers, I mean). So when his daddy says to his very good, older boy: “Food’s ready….table’s set….wine’s poured….better get washed up….we’re counting on you to make a toast,” his older son says:
I’m not coming. I’ll see the cook. Maybe I’ll get myself a bologna sandwich to take back to my room. But I’m not sitting down with my brother. I resent him. And I resent you for giving in to him. So go ahead and start without me. Finish without me, too.
Which I assume they did. I mean, you can’t force people to come, can you? Well, can you?
Jesus, it appears, will eat with anybody. One recalls that crook in Jericho, hiding in a tree. Jesus called him down by saying: “It’s lunchtime and I’m coming over.” And wasn’t that on the front page of the National Enquirer by two o’clock that afternoon? Zacchaeus was the crook’s name. Which we have for the record. What we do not have for the record are the names of those other “tax collectors and sinners” he ate with….including the not-so-veiled inference that there might have been a few hookers mingled amongst the sinners. Tax collectors and hookers. What do they have in common? They each sin with their figures, don’t you see. But Jesus ate with them. Or so his critics charged.
Which was not very smart. I mean, I don’t eat with such folks (at least knowingly). I’m no dummy. I understand what the words “guilt by association” mean. People see you in the wrong place, with the wrong people, and they begin to get the wrong idea. Before you know it, you’ve lost it. Public confidence, I mean. Why, it can suck the future right out of your ministry. Jesus should have been more careful.
Simon Peter found that out the hard way when he went to that home over on the coast near Caesarea where he preached to a bunch of people who weren’t Jewish. Which was not an issue. What was an issue was the fact that he stayed for supper after preaching. Which became a problem when he got back to Jerusalem and regrouped with other leaders of the church….who were (at that time) still very much enmeshed in synagogue life (Jewish life, if you will). They said to Peter: “Did you preach to those people?” And Peter admitted that he did. So then they said: “We also heard you stayed for supper.” To which Peter said: “Well, yes I did.” For which he got called on the carpet, royally. Chewed out, thoroughly. Not for preaching, but for eating.
Worse yet was the time Peter and Paul were together in Antioch. Peter was eating with some Gentile Christians that day, too. Suddenly, some Jewish Christians came in from Jerusalem, spotted Peter at a table full of Gentiles, and went over and whispered something in his ear. Peter listened. Then he got up and moved. Making Paul livid. So he let Peter have it, right there. Blistered him good. Both barrels. And while I don’t know everything Paul said, buried in his speech were these words: “If you have to have separate tables, it’s not church anymore.”
Of course, the problem with that is, once you open things up, you never know who you’re going to get. Why, pretty much anybody could come. You might get 4,000 one day….5,000 the next. And when you get crowds like that, how are you ever going to check credentials? I mean, you can’t. So Jesus didn’t. “Sit down,” he said. “Space yourselves out, so that the people bringing the fish course and the people bringing the bread course can circulate among you and pass between you. We’ll feed you. The only thing you need to be is hungry.”
Then Jesus told that famous story of a man who gave a great banquet. Invited many. Then he sent a message to the invitees saying: “Soup’s on.” You know what happened next. Everybody begged off at the last minute. “Can’t come,” they said. “Sorry,” they added. “Don’t take it personally,” they appealed. Good excuses, they offered. “New field….gotta inspect it. New livestock….gotta inspect them. New wife….gotta” (you get the picture).
So the banquet giver says to the servant: “Hit the trails. Beat the bushes. Turn over the rocks. Whoever crawls out, bring ‘em in. Don’t quit till I tell you.” And he hasn’t quit yet. How do I know that? Because I’m that servant, don’t you see. Although some days, I’m the guy crawling out from under the rock.
Assuming that this “banquet story” is another one of those “Jews versus Gentiles” disputes, we need to remember that the Jews were the A list and the Gentiles were the B list. People who know about such things tell me that most classy wedding receptions have an A list and a B list. The bride’s family starts off by inviting everybody on the A list. But since there’s a formula that says 25 percent of the people you invite won’t come, they start back-filling from the B list as notices of regret begin to appear. Which means that if your friend gets invited to a wedding reception four weeks before you do, you are probably on the B list. But since none of us are Jewish….or have ever been Jewish….we are all on the B list. Which means that we all take our place in the story as the Johnny-come-latelies.
As I’ve told you before, I could never work for one of those outfits which would require me to check tickets at the table. I could never ask anybody if they were a member, attender, tither, giver, or even a properly repentant sinner. I could never put a wrap on the bread or a lid on the cup. As concerns the sacrament, I’ll pray over it….I’ll offer it….from time to time, I’ll even try to explain it. But I won’t police it. All you need to be is hungry and thirsty enough to come get it. And I’ll be darned if I’ll stand in judgment of that.
But, hey, if you don’t like that, I’ll cut you a deal. I’ll exclude from the table all those whom Jesus excluded from the table. Except I can never quite figure out who those were. When I look at the last dinner party he hosted, I don’t come away with many clues. I mean, check out the guest list that night.
· You’ve got Thomas at the table who, less than a few days later, growled: “I don’t believe in the resurrection.”
· You’ve got Peter at the table who, less than a few hours later, said: “Jesus? Don’t know him. Haven’t met him. Never laid eyes on the guy in my life.”
· You’ve got James and John (the “Thunder boys”) at the table who are already on record as having said: “We want to cozy up on either side of you, Jesus. We want to make sure that when you hit it big….and you will hit it big….we will hit it big with you. By the way, we got this idea from our mama, Mrs. Thunder.”
· And you’ve got Judas who, when he left the table, said to the enemy: “Slip me a thirty and I’ll finger my meal ticket.”
So if at that table….on that night….you’ve got a hard-headed non-believer, a gutless wonder, a pair of mother-driven posers and a government snitch, you tell me who I should keep out.
* * * * *
I love Fred Craddock stories and I haven’t told you one in a long time. So here goes.
A few years back, Fred was invited to lead some kind of preaching mission in Winnipeg (Friday night….Saturday morning….Saturday evening….twice on Sunday….you know the drill). When he finished Friday night, he noticed that it was spitting snow. His host told him not to worry, given that it was only mid-October. “Good,” said Fred, “because all I brought from Atlanta was this little, thin jacket.”
Fred went to bed. But when he got up the next morning, he couldn’t open the door for all the white stuff that was piled against it. Snow driving. Wind howling. Temperature falling. Phone ringing. It was the host calling Fred’s motel room.
I hate to tell you this, but we’re going to have to cancel this morning’s session. Can’t tell about the evening. But things look pretty bad. Nobody saw this coming. City’s not ready. Plows, not ready. Crews, not ready. Nothing’s ready. Worse yet, nothing’s open. In fact, I’m stuck in my driveway, meaning that I can’t come down to fetch you. So I don’t know what you are going to do about breakfast. But I do have an idea. If you can make it out of your room, walk down to the corner….turn right….go one block….turn right again….and you should be standing within shouting distance of the bus station. There’s a little café in there. And if any place is gonna be open, it’s gonna be open.
So Fred curses his luck, zips up his jacket, busts out his door, and goes in search of the little café. Two rights. Bus station. There it is. Wonder of wonders, it’s open. But it’s also crowded. It seems as if every stranded soul in the universe is crammed inside.
There is no place to sit. But some guy slides down the bench and makes room for Fred to squeeze in. Waiter comes over….big burly guy….non-shaven….wearing half the kitchen on his apron. “Whatcha want?” he snarls. “Can I see a menu?” Fred asks. “Don’t need no menu,” the waiter answers. “Didn’t get no deliveries this morning. All we got is soup.” “Well then,” says Fred, “soup it is. I like a little breakfast soup from time to time.”
So the soup comes in a rather tallish mug. Looks awful. Shade of gray. Color of a mouse. Fred half-wonders if that’s what it could be….cream of mouse. So he doesn’t eat it. But he does use the mug as a stove….cupping his fingers around it….warming them on it.
Which is when the door opens once more. Wind howls. Cold surges. “Shut the blankety-blank door,” someone shouts. Lady enters. Thin coat. No hat. Ice crystals in her hair and eyebrows. Maybe 40. Painfully skinny.
“Whatcha want?” shouts the guy with the greasy apron. “I’ll just have a glass of water,” she answers. “Look lady,” he says. “We’re crowded in here. We don’t give no glasses of water. Either you order something or you leave.”
Well, it quickly becomes apparent that she isn’t able to buy something. So she rebuttons her coat and commences to leave. Whereupon a funny thing happens. One by one, everybody at her table gets up to leave, too. Followed by others….at other tables. Even Fred (who still hasn’t touched his soup) gets up to leave.
“All right….all right,” says the soup master. “She can stay.” And he brings her a bowl of soup. With order restored, Fred turns to his table mate and says: “Who is she? She must be somebody important.” To which the guy says: “Never saw her before in my life. But I kinda figure if she’s not welcome, ain’t nobody welcome.”
Which pretty much settled the matter, to the point where all you could hear (for the next few minutes) were soup spoons clinking against the sides of the mugs. Even Fred broke down and ate his soup. Which wasn’t half bad, really. Some might even call it tasty.
Later on, he still couldn’t shake the taste….as if he’d had it before. But what was it? He couldn’t remember. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember. Then it hit him. Strangest thing, really. That cream of mouse soup tasted, for all the world, like bread and wine. That was it….for all the world like bread and wine.
Tell me you get the point.
