Something Old, Something New

Something Old, Something New

Pastor Mark Havel

Matthew 22:1-14

Once more Jesus spoke to them in parables, saying: “The kingdom of heaven may be compared to a king who gave a wedding banquet for his son. He sent his slaves to call those who had been invited to the wedding banquet, but they would not come. Again he sent other slaves, saying, ‘Tell those who have been invited: Look, I have prepared my dinner, my oxen and my fat calves have been slaughtered, and everything is ready; come to the wedding banquet.’

But they made light of it and went away, one to his farm, another to his business, while the rest seized his slaves, mistreated them, and killed them. The king was enraged. He sent his troops, destroyed those murderers, and burned their city. Then he said to his slaves, ‘The wedding is ready, but those invited were not worthy. Go therefore into the main streets, and invite everyone you find to the wedding banquet.’ Those slaves went out into the streets and gathered all whom they found, both good and bad; so the wedding hall was filled with guests.

“But when the king came in to see the guests, he noticed a man there who was not wearing a wedding robe, and he said to him, ‘Friend, how did you get in here without a wedding robe?’ And he was speechless. Then the king said to the attendants, ‘Bind him hand and foot, and throw him into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.’ For many are called, but few are chosen.”

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So, I spent a couple of days – a week or so ago – in Columbus, Ohio, at Trinity Lutheran Seminary, from whence I graduated 25 years ago, and I got to listen to some lectures from my favorite professor and theologian from those days, Mark Allan Powell. As expected, I learned a lot from him over the course of three lectures in two days’ time, and I look forward to sharing some of that with you very deliberately sometime down the road.

But, in addition to the specifics of what he shared, I came away feeling encouraged and emboldened to get a little creative with my scriptural interpretation, preaching, and teaching. Which is to say, I found myself wrestling with this parable in a new way that may or may not pass muster with smarter people than me – which is something my professor Mark Allan Powell has done his entire career as a theologian.

Let me be very clear, none of what I’m about to share is Mark Allan Powell material. I don’t want to get him in trouble. And I can’t imagine I’m the first person to interpret this passage the way I’m about to, but this is all me.

Because I wondered differently about Jesus’ parable today than I ever have before: about how harsh it sounds … about the weeping and gnashing of teeth … about the outer darkness … about how unfair it is that that poor guy would be invited to the party, accept the invitation at the very last minute and, just because he didn’t have the right robe to wear, got punished so brutally.

This is so hard for me – and maybe it is for you, too – because the context and characters of the parable have always been the following:

The king is God and the wedding banquet is the Kingdom of Heaven.

The first round of those invited to the party represent the good, faithful, Jews and Jewish leaders of Jesus’ day – those who rejected and questioned him, like the scribes, Pharisees, Sadducees and the like. They are the ones in the parable who ignore the invitation and go away – to their farm or to their business. And they’re the ones who mistreated and killed the ones who extended the invitation, in the first place.

The second round of invitees – the B-list, if you will – who got invited to the party late to fill the seats, eat the food, and make the king happy – those were the followers of Jesus, the peasants, his disciples, his family and friends; and by extension, they represent US – you and me – the outsiders to the Jewish elite; those not part of the traditional, historically ‘chosen ones’ of the house of Israel. They are – WE ARE – the ones who should be grateful to have received the invitation, even if only by way of the B-list. They are – WE ARE – the ones who should respond to such an invitation and feast with great joy, deep gratitude, and faithful discipleship.

And that sad sack who gets the boot – the guy who shows up without the proper attire – who didn’t get the memo about the dress code represents one of US, too – you or I – well-intended, but unprepared; called and invited, but not up to the challenge; not faithful enough; not invested enough; not good enough; and therefore, sadly, worthy of eternal punishment and hellfire; outer darkness, weeping, and gnashing of teeth.

This is a rough take, right? We aren’t used to seeing this side of Jesus … and I don’t like it, to be honest … the one where he preaches about and promises “the outer darkness” and the “weeping and gnashing of teeth.” It’s black and white and harsh. It’s utterly lacking in grace, mercy, and the love we long for – and which is usually easier to find in his preaching and teaching, to be honest.

But, again, that’s the more popular interpretation and understanding of this parable, as far as I know. And it’s very likely accurate and true to Jesus’ intentions in many ways. After all, it’s not the first or only time Jesus lays out some high expectations for his followers. Remember, or look up, the very popular Matthew 25 where we hear that parable about the sheep and the goats – just three chapters after this one – where some believers are “sheep,” blessed and chosen to sit at the right hand of God, while some are deemed “goats,” damned and doomed to the same eternal fire reserved for the devil and his angels.

Again, I don’t love that. And I don’t want to steal ALL of Jesus’ thunder, here. I think we’re meant to hear Jesus get serious from time to time; and feel convicted; and think hard about our invitation to follow his ways. But these are parables, too, remember. Nothing more, nothing less. And it’s okay to recognize that Jesus gets serious and hyperbolic when he wants our attention. So he goes hard with the outer darkness, the weeping, and the gnashing of teeth, from time to time – and often in Matthew’s Gospel.

But I wonder if there’s another way – an additional take on this parable of the wedding banquet, the late comers, and the sad sack who gets the boot.

What if most of it is as expected and as I’ve already explained?

The king is God. The wedding banquet is the Kingdom of Heaven

The first round of those invited to the party still represent the good, faithful, Jews and Jewish leaders of Jesus’ day – those who rejected and questioned him, like the scribes, Pharisees, Sadducees and the like, who wanted nothing to do with the party of grace he promised.

And what if the second round of invitees is still you and me – the B-listers who aren’t part of the Jewish inner circle of God’s chosen ones, but who are graciously welcomed in, fed, nourished, and showered with grace, nonetheless.

BUT, what if the sad sack who gets the boot … the one who shows up without the right clothes on … ISN’T one of us? What if that’s Jesus, the Son, himself, who the king questions, for all the guests in that packed wedding hall to see and to hear: “Friend, how did you get in here without a wedding robe?” “Are you telling me none of these people – not one of my other guests – cared enough to see that you were clothed, and welcomed, and had what you needed to enjoy the feast with the rest of them?”

And what if, just like Jesus, before Pilate at his crucifixion, this guy was speechless; uncomplaining; silent, like a sheep before its shearers – as the prophet predicted. And what if we’re supposed to see him, as Jesus, bound, and cast into the outer darkness of his crucifixion with all of its weeping, gnashing of teeth, whips, thorns, nails, and more?

And what if we’re supposed to look at ourselves and at each other, with cups overflowing, with full plates, full bellies, heads and hearts full of forgiveness and abundance none of us has earned, and wonder how we let that happen?

What if the message of this wedding banquet parable is much like that one about the sheep and the goats in Matthew 25: whenever you did it to one of the least of these – fed the hungry, healed the sick, visited the prisoner, clothed the naked – you did it to me? And whenever you DID NOT do it to one of the least of these, you didn’t do it for me, either.

And what if, to be called is one thing … to get the invitation, to show up to the party, to celebrate the grace and mercy and love that God offers us all – A listers and B listers, alike?

And what if to be chosen is something altogether more? What if that means to look around at who’s nearby; to be sure our neighbor and fellow wedding guests have clothes and food and healthcare and equal rights and fair pay and a safe place to sleep and aren’t deported on sight or executed on a livestream or bombed into oblivion?

And what if we are called to be convicted by the King’s question – “How did this happen?” – as we watch our Savior get the boot, take the heat, and die on the cross – for our sake – until we get it right?

Amen

Almost Who I Am

Almost Who I Am

Pastor Cogan

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Matthew 21:23-32

When he entered the temple, the chief priests and the elders of the people came to him as he was teaching and said, “By what authority are you doing these things, and who gave you this authority?”

Jesus said to them, “I will also ask you one question; if you tell me the answer, then I will also tell you by what authority I do these things. Did the baptism of John come from heaven, or was it of human origin?” And they argued with one another, “If we say, ‘From heaven,’ he will say to us, ‘Why, then, did you not believe him?’ But if we say, ‘Of human origin,’ we are afraid of the crowd, for all regard John as a prophet.” So they answered Jesus, “We do not know.” And he said to them, “Neither will I tell you by what authority I am doing these things.

“What do you think? A man had two sons; he went to the first and said, ‘Son, go and work in the vineyard today.’ He answered, ‘I will not,’ but later he changed his mind and went. The father went to the second and said the same, and he answered, ‘I go, sir,’ but he did not go. Which of the two did the will of his father?” They said, “The first.” Jesus said to them, “Truly I tell you, the tax collectors and the prostitutes are going into the kingdom of God ahead of you.

For John came to you in the way of righteousness, and you did not believe him, but the tax collectors and the prostitutes believed him, and even after you saw it you did not change your minds and believe him.

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Back in February, one of my favorite artists, David Whimbish, released a song called Almost Who I Am. It’s been on repeat in my car since. The chorus goes, “Well if you used to know me, I am sorry. I have not been myself for most of my life. Don’t worry. You're not crazy. I’m almost who I am but still not quite.” (warning - if you have children there are a few choice words so perhaps the car ride home is not the best time to listen to it.)

Sometimes there are lyrics that ring like gospel truth from the moment you hear them. Such was this song for me. If you used to know, I am sorry. I have not been myself for most of my life. If you knew a 10 year old Cogan, you would have known a talkative, husky (at least according to my pant size), boy who loved football and thought he’d never move away from home.

At 16, you would have known a teen who longed to be popular and well liked, who held strong beliefs about folks who are queer, and believed racism was a thing of the past. At 22, all sorts of those beliefs had changed, for the better I believe. I got married, said I’d never have a dog, and, not yet having any kids of my own, was an expert on parenting. At 32, I stand before quite different than all of my previous selves, shaped by a past of bad decisions, wrong beliefs, and the harm I’ve done and had done to me.

If you used to know me, I am sorry. I have not been myself for most of my life. And I have to believe I am not the only one who feels like that in this life; like you have never been quite the person you’d hoped you would be.

Perhaps that is what Jesus is getting at in this deceptively simple parable about two brothers. A father tells his first son, go and work in the vineyard. The first son replied "No, I am not doing that” and later changed his mind. The father, not knowing that his first son would change his mind, goes to his second son and asks the same thing. The second son said, “yes, I’ll go.” But he didn’t.

It is easy to hear this story as a simple choice between two options. You are either the second sons, which represents the religious leaders. They believed they were doing God’s will in what they taught and how they lived. But then John the baptist and Jesus came and proclaimed something new, and they rejected it and them, and chose not to follow where God was leading. In other words,they knew how to say yes to God, but they never went into the vineyard.

Others though, namely tax collectors and prostitutes, the worst sinners of the day, grabbed ahold of it with all they had. The invitation for us then seems simple: be like the first son. Repent! Don’t just talk about faith; go work in the vineyard. But I don’t believe this parable comes down to, “Which son will you be?” The hard truth is that we are both.

We are the second son whenever our confession doesn’t live up to our discipleship. We say yes to God all the time. We confess our sins, say we’ll repent, and promise to love our neighbors. We talk about welcome and service, justice and forgiveness. We call ourselves Partners in Mission at Cross of Grace. That is a whole lot of yes to God. And inevitably, we don’t always go into the vineyard. So let’s not be too quick to judge the chief priests and elders. They aren’t obvious villains. They are religious people who know how to say yes to God. Sound familiar?

But thank God we are also the first son. We’ve said no in a thousand ways. We’ve been selfish. We’ve hurt others and ourselves.

We’ve failed to become the parents, spouses, friends, Christian, and church we imagined ourselves becoming. There are things you believed, that we believed, twenty years ago that make us cringe now. Things we’ve said that we wish we would have swallowed. Things we’ve done that cannot be undone. “If you used to know me, I am sorry. I have not been myself for most of my life.” There is confession there. Grace does not take all that away. It happened. It was you.

And yet, “afterward he changed his mind and went.” Just like the first son, our no was true, but it wasn’t final. Our past happened, but it doesn’t dictate our future. “Don’t worry. You’re not crazy. I’m almost who I am.” In other words, I am still becoming. The grace in the parable is that the first son’s “no” didn’t preclude him from working in the vineyard. The future was still open.

And perhaps the same is true for the second son. Jesus says the tax collectors and prostitutes are entering the kingdom “ahead of you”; not instead of you. Their failure need not be final either. Grace is the promise that neither our first answers nor our failures are the final word. Rather God is always at work in us.

Maybe you are sitting here as someone who has more life behind you than in front of you. You’re thinking, “Pastor I am 86. My future is not open and it is too late to repair all my no’s.” Sounding an awful lot like David Whimbish, Luther says, “This life therefore is not righteousness, but growth in righteousness; not health, but healing; not being, but becoming; We are not yet what we shall be, but we are growing toward it. The process is not yet finished, but it is going on. This is not the end, but it is the road.”

Our becoming isn’t finished before death. The Christian promise isn’t merely that you still have time to become a somewhat better version of yourself before you die. Rather, it is after this life, God will finish what grace has begun and we will be made new, complete; the person God intended for you to be. But in this life, you are almost who you are, but still not quite. And to me that is good news. Because like David Whimbish sings, I’m afraid that I am the mistake that I’ve made.

I want to change, or really be changed. I want to be a different person than who I have been, than who I am today. Maybe that's true for you, too. Jesus tells me, tells us, that by the grace of God, our future is open. The problem is not that we have messed up in the past. The problem is believing your past must determine your future.

This parable and its teaching isn’t about being the religious leaders or the sinners, the second son or the first. It’s announcing the terrifying and wonderful reality that God is still at work in us. We are not yet who we will be. Sometimes we can see it happening. A no becomes a yes. We meet people who change us. The tight grip on a conviction we held so tight begins to loosen. We apologize. We forgive. We finally walk into the vineyard.

And sometimes the work remains painfully unfinished. There are noes we will never have time to repair and wounds we cannot heal. But even then, God is not finished. Death does not close the future God has opened. In the resurrection we will finally become who God has been making us to be all along.

In this life, though, I’m almost who I am, but never quite. Amen.