‘When you have a banquet, do not invite your friends.’

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There is something obviously odd about this dictum of Our Lord Jesus. If one is to have a dinner party, who would one invite, except one’s friends? Surely you would not invite your enemies, or even a neutrally minded stranger. Most of us would not even venture to invite our in-laws. The fact is that one holds a dinner, a party, a celebration as not simply a way to enjoy one’s friends, but as a way to give back to them, to thank them for their kindness and amity. It is the very purpose of planning such events to gather in one’s friends, and be merry together.

If one were forbidden from inviting one’s friends, then one would not even consider the get-together to begin with. Even when we meet with strangers to bowl or play pickle-ball or mahjong or bunko, we do so with the goal in mind of making new friends. Should we go out to meet new strangers, but then deny those same people once they have become new friends?

And the reason for Christ’s prohibition seems even more strange: ‘lest they also invite you in return, and you be repaid.’ Though we might attempt to defend the Lord by rationalizing His commandment, by saying that one should not invite friends merely to bribe them for future favors, to gain their trust and good-will that it might be exploited in the future, the fact is, that is not what He said. He does not define being repaid, as acquiring some greater, more selfish desire, using our friends and their connections as a means to an end. Rather, the Lord defines this repayment as simply being invited in return.

But that we do not view as a repayment at all; or at least, that is not how it seems, how it feels. Rather, that is merely part of the natural cycle of affection; kindness begets kindness, and love stirs up love. When one has enjoyed a beautiful evening with their dearest friends, what is there even more beautiful than hearing the words, ‘so next time, at my place?’ It is not in any meaningful sense repayment; and it is only barely selfish, in that it could be said that our selves are indeed happy to see more of our friends; but if that is selfishness, who would be selfless?

Rather, the Lord tells us, we are to invite the poor, the lame, the crippled, that our giving may not be affection at all, but charity; and that our kindness might not be returned with gratitude, but with thanklessness.

It is a bizarre thing that Our Lord commands, for it would seem that Jesus is telling us not to love those closest to us; which is to say, He is commanding us not to love our neighbors as ourselves.

But it is written: ‘It is the glory of God to conceal things.’

And again, ‘Truly, you are God, who hide yourself.’

Within this parable, something is concealed; something is dark. And that which is buried is the Divine Majesty, and the mystery hidden from the foundation of the world; the cross and Him crucified, who bleeds sacred blood; shed before the beginning of the world. For Christ hides in this parable and command, even as He hides behind every created thing, for He alone is the key and content of all the world, and there is nothing that is not bound in Him, for in him, all things adhere.

For the Lord Christ is holding a banquet and wedding feast. Do we not all know this, and confess it every Lord’s Day? The Feast of the Lamb in His Kingdom, which Has No End? And yet He shall invite no friend, that He might receive nothing in return.

But who would He invite, that He would receive anything from? Does He not have, as God, all things in Himself already? And who would He call a friend?

Yet the Lord Christ does not Have all things in Himself. In Himself, He has nothing, for He is begotten of the Father before all worlds. The Son receives all from the Father, even the fullness of the Father, that He might be all in all; yet apart from that He has nothing. Apart from the Father, the Son is nothing at all.

The Parable, you see, tells us the inner council of the Trinity of eternity; His inscrutable will before all time; that the Son would leave His Father, and cleave to His bride; that He would forsake everything, and come down from heaven; that He would be made man.

Indeed He will come to those who have nothing to give Him, for all we have is from Him; we cannot give any gift or service unto God; we may only return what is His own.

Therefore we are the poor, for we only have a hand to receive.

We are the lame, for we cannot carry ourselves to the gate of heaven, but must be carried by another, or lowered down from above.

We are the crippled, for our entire frame and nature has been broken, even broken by an enemy.

And indeed, we are the blind; for we cannot see God; even the God who hides himself. Even He who conceals things. And even when our eyes are opened by that very God, we see not Him, but only a tree, walking.

But this, O loved of God, is all you are meant to see. See this tree, as it walks up the mount. For there, there upon Golgotha is the feast being prepared. But wine must be pressed, before it be drunk; and the Christ will indeed be crushed. And bread must be burned before being eaten; and the fire of hell will surround Our Lord. And though all peoples will be drawn to this feast, when He is high and lifted up; yet the Father will turn His back upon the Son, even as He cries ‘Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani; my God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ 

Of course the Father turns His back on the Son. You see, He was not invited to this feast of ravens; a murder of flesh and blood. He has too much to give; and our Lord will not be repaid, save in the resurrection of the Just.

Will you follow the Lord on His way? Though you say you will, you cannot; for even St. Peter claimed he would be seated upon the throne of the cross along with Jesus, and yet the Spirit told him in fear, give your place to this one.

Indeed, the Spirit tells this to us all; will you take the Crucified’s place? Do you believe yourself so good, so noble, so virtuous? If you do, then the Lord will in no wise have any part in you, you who have too much to give.

It is to those who have nothing that He has come to feed with His deified flesh, and to the broken that He has come to bind with the bonds of His godhood.

Therefore abandon all pride and all self-righteousness, you who are poor, for you have no life worth giving. Rather give your place to this one. This one, like a tree, walking.

For in the resurrection of the Just, the Lord Jesus will receive what He came for, indeed He will gain all He wanted, not an invitation back into the hell we would call our home; rather, He will reap our souls, and gather them into His storehouse, His mansions.

And if, in your weakness, you cannot help but indulge your self-love, do not worry. What you cannot accomplish, God’s nature itself will exact. By age, and trial, and loss, you too will begin with shame to take the lowest place. What beauty you once had, will not fade, but rot. What wealth you once had will go first unenjoyed, then be squandered by another on trivial filth. What pride and accomplishments you once gloried in will be forgotten as it first fades in your own mind, and bit by bit in the memories of everyone else.

Then your life will fall into the earth; like a grain, you must die. And the Church will put you in a box, and grant to you the lowest place. Indeed it will be so low, if it were not marked with a stone, no one would ever see you.

It will be there, in that dust and grave and ash; when you have lost what little even Job retained; it will be there that you will be exactly where the Lord Jesus wants you.

The Last Day will be upon you, and the host of the Wedding Feast will come forward to you in the evening of the world, in the garden of a hallowed cemetery. And there, with His blood stained hand, He will open up this box, even as He once opened the side of Adam. Then you will see Him. And taking you by the arm, He will quietly say:

‘Friend, move up higher.’

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Preached by Pastor Fields

Sermon Texts: Proverbs 25:2-10; Hebrews 13:1-17; Luke 14:1-14.