Kind, Truthful, Generous, Honest, and Real
Sermon by Jamie Howison on Jeremiah 2:4-13 and Luke 14:1, 7-14
Just a brief note about the passage from the book of Jeremiah as I begin this sermon. If you were in worship last Sunday or perhaps took a few minutes to scan the appointed readings for the week, you may remember how the book of Jeremiah begins: with Jeremiah being called into this ministry of speaking God’s word into the life of the community, and with dear Jeremiah protesting, “Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.” This gig is too big for me, Lord; I mean I’m not so great with words and can’t imagine addressing the whole of the kingdom of Judah and the whole of the city of Jerusalem. No, please find yourself someone else for this task, and maybe someone who has at least had a few years of practice at public speaking. To which God replies—effectively—sorry pal, but I’ve had my eye on you for an awfully long time, and as far as I’m concerned you’re my guy.
Well by the time we get into the next chapter of the book, Jeremiah has found his voice, and he’s going to keep on speaking for fifty-two chapters or some 33,000 words, making it the longest book in the bible. For a lot of those chapters he’s in a pretty outraged state over the mess that the country has made of its life, but he’s not without compassion. We’ll be running into Jeremiah a fair bit over the coming Sundays, so for now I’d just note that he’s most definitely found his voice!
Now, on to the reading from the Gospel. At first glance one might be inclined to hear this section as a sort of ancient world version of an Emily Post or Miss Manners advice column. Jesus has been invited to a sabbath meal at the house of a leader of the Pharisees, and, Luke notes, “they were watching him closely.” “When Jesus noticed how the guests chose the places of honour,” Luke continues, “he told them a parable.”
Or a sort of a parable, as this bit of teaching doesn’t have the narrative grip of a parable like the Prodigal or the Good Samaritan, nor the obvious symbolism of one like the Sower and the Seed. Instead it comes across like advice on how to act at a wedding feast, particularly as the teaching opens. Here’s my version, somewhat adapted from the original:
If you’re invited to a wedding feast, don’t head for a seat of honour at the same table where the parents of the bride and groom are sitting, because chances are pretty good they’ve already got that chair set aside for some treasured grandparent. You’re going to cause some serious discomfort if you do that, and ultimately someone is going to come over, give you a nudge, let you know that seat is already taken, and then lead you off to a table at the back of the hall where the four deaf great-aunts are seated, where you’ll spend the whole meal being misheard and miserable. No, start out by sitting down with the great-aunts, because chances are pretty good that your host will see you sitting there, and rather compassionately suggest you move to that table up near the front where the endlessly interesting cousin with the great jokes and even better stories is seated.
Can you picture that scene? Now our translation goes on to conclude, “For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted,” which is where it sounds like Emily Post is getting downright tactical about how to climb the social ladder. Then again, Jesus was singularly disinterested in social climbing, so let’s try on Eugene Peterson’s rather more interpretive translation from The Message:
What I'm saying is, if you walk around with your nose in the air, you're going to end up flat on your face. But if you're content to be simply yourself, you will become more than yourself.
That strikes me as closer to the heart of Jesus message overall, which is further borne out by Robert Capon’s comments in his book, The Parables of Grace.
People hear “humble yourself” and they immediately think of the bitter pill of moral effort. But this parable is not about a cure that is worse than the disease; it’s about the liberating joy that comes from letting the party happen instead of trying to put personal body English all over it. It’s about, in other words, the “letting go” of Jesus himself who “for the joy that was set before him, endured the cross, despised the shame, and is set down at the right hand of God.” (Heb. 12:2)
For insofar as we insist on taking what we have decided is the best place, we effectively close ourselves to the other places at the table… Jesus tells us that in life, as at the dinner table, we are to take the lowest seat. The word used here for the “lowest” is actually eschatos, the Greek for “last.” That suggests, accordingly, that the precise seat we are invited into, the seat specifically reserved for each one of us, is death. For not only is death our last and lowest state but it is also the sole condition of our Resurrection.
Well, you might think, how in heaven’s name did we find death and resurrection in what seems a little teaching on table etiquette, or at least manners for a disciple? That is evident in what immediately follows, as Jesus turns his attention to some marvellously upside-down counsel on hosting a meal. Let me again give you my own rendition.
And then turning to the host who had invited him to join this meal, Jesus said, “when you throw a party, don’t invite your friends and relatives, the rich neighbour and the guy who runs the local stereo store where you’re hoping to cut a good deal on a new sound system. No. That’s all just getting you into a system of mutual invitations, social niceties, and maybe even social obligations. Instead try inviting the lonely person who lives across the street, the guy who struggles to make ends meet, and that couple who don’t seem to fit in very easily anywhere. And because they’re not really in a place where they can easily repay the favour of a good, shared meal, you’ll find yourself reimbursed in the most unexpected of ways, in the fullness of time, at the resurrection.
Here Robert Capon comments,
Jesus is at pains, as he has been all through his final journey to Jerusalem, to set forth death and lostness, not life and success, as the means of salvation. And at this dinner party he has found himself in the presence of a bunch of certified, solid-brass winners: establishment types who are positive they’ve got all the right tickets, religious and otherwise, and who think a fun evening consists of clawing yourself to the top of the social heap. Therefore when Jesus addresses his host, he is principally concerned to redress the imbalance he feels all around him, to assert once again his conviction that a live lived by winning is a losing proposition.
Which leaves us with a bit of a conundrum. Anyone who has people over for dinner, coffee, a drink and a chat might feel that Jesus is saying to stop inviting your friends, and start inviting the scraggly character who panhandles at the corner of Broadway and Osborne, and then cashes in his quarters and loonies for a bottle of cheap sherry at the liquor store.
Is that his point? I don’t think so, though I think he’d counsel us all to learn to see that panhandling character as at least a broken neighbour, if not an odd sort of friend. More to the point, he’d want you to consider why you might want to host a meal, and to think again about social pecking orders, social niceties, and whether or not you might get an invitation sent back your way. It doesn’t matter, he’d say, just be generous with what you have and who you invite, social pecking order be damned. We’re not meant to be winners by the standards of the world, we’re called to be disciples. That means kind, truthful, generous, honest, and real.
And I suspect if he’d found kindness, truthfulness, generosity, and honesty in full flourish at the house of that leader of the Pharisees, his conversations in that home might have looked and sounded entirely different. But maybe it's a good thing that Jesus saw what he did, and heard what he did, and taught what he did, because we can continue to wrestle with it and learn our way forward. And I hope that the Pharisees did too.
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen
