Luke 14:16-24
16Then Jesusa said to him, ‘Someone gave a great dinner and invited many. 17At the time for the dinner he sent his slave to say to those who had been invited, “Come; for all is now ready.” 18But they all alike began to make excuses. The first said to him, “I have bought a piece of land, and I must go out and see it; please accept my apologies.” 19Another said, “I have bought five yoke of oxen, and I am going to try them out; please accept my apologies.” 20Another said, “I have just been married, and therefore I cannot come.” 21So the slave returned and reported this to his master. Then the owner of the house became angry and said to his slave, “Go out at once into the streets and lanes of the town and bring in the poor, the crippled, the blind, and the lame.” 22And the slave said, “Sir, what you ordered has been done, and there is still room.” 23Then the master said to the slave, “Go out into the roads and lanes, and compel people to come in, so that my house may be filled. 24For I tell you,b none of those who were invited will taste my dinner.”
One day, Jesus stepped into my office and said, “Cliff, come with me. It’s dinner-party time.”
So I said, “Umm … I have a lot of things on on my mind. But okay, Jesus. I’ll just pack a few things in my briefcase …”
I quickly pulled together the documents that had commanded my attention: legal stuff pertaining to redevelopment of church property; an official repair manual for my 1971 Volkswagen Van; and the draft copy of the last will and testament that my wife and I wanted to complete for the sake of our children. I put them into my briefcase. Then I patted my breast pocket to make sure I had my pen. (Ever since my student days, I always take my pen with me wherever I go. After all, I need that pen to sign my name to cheques and legal documents. Without my pen, I don’t feel fully dressed.)
I looked up at Jesus. He was standing in the doorway, smiling. “Come on, Cliff. The table is spread and waiting. For all is now ready. And we have a few stops to make along the way.”
I quickly locked my office door, set the alarm, and locked the front door of the church, (for, after all, I am a responsible kind of guy), and I followed Jesus out onto the street. Jesus led the way. “What’s this dinner party for?” I asked. He looked at me and smiled. He said, “It’s for you.”
We walked to the nearest Skytrain station, talking all the way. I don’t know how long it actually took, but it seemed like we reached the station in an instant. Jesus looked at the ticket vending machines, frowned a little, and patted parts of his linen tunic. I quickly said, “Hey, Jesus – let me get the tickets.” And then, because I believe in the rules of reciprocity, I added, “You can repay the favour some day.” Again, he looked at me and smiled, as if amused. We boarded the train and continued our journey.
I don’t know just where we went. I was busy talking with Jesus. I had a lot of things to ask him. And yet, time and again, I realized with surprise that we were talking about me and how my life was going. I was so engrossed in our conversation that at one particular stop (just which one, I’m not sure), Jesus had to tug on my arm and motion for me to follow him. I reached for my briefcase with one hand, checked for my pen in my breast pocket with the other, and made it through the door just in time.
We continued talking. Our conversation was so engrossing that I took no note of our route, but somewhere along the way, we must have entered a building and taken an elevator several floors up. Because the next time I took any notice of our surroundings, we were in the large waiting room of an elegantly-decorated office suite. A receptionist sat behind an expensive-looking desk. Several steps away there was a door sporting the sign: “The Honourable Jane Dough, Member of Parliament.”
I barely stifled a snicker. Jane Dough. Dough was spelled D-O-U-G-H. Dough, like money. Member of Parliament. That was a good one.
Jesus approached the desk and told the receptionist that we would like to see the Member of Parliament. Judging by the cool glance of the receptionist, I could see that Jesus was not getting results. He turned, smiling, and walked over to me. “Cliff, I can’t seem to convince the receptionist to let us see Mrs. Dough. Do you want to try?”
I wasn’t certain that I would be any more successful, but at least I was wearing a suit coat. I went to the desk and identified myself. The receptionist asked whether I had a business card. I blushed. “Well, yeah, I do, but some of the phone numbers are wrong … and, umm, we’re working on that. Look, it’s important that we talk to the Honourable Mrs. Dough. Please ask her if she’ll see us.”
I don’t know why, but after I returned to the other side of the room the receptionist complied. She looked up at me and smiled and said that Mrs. Dough would see us in a few moments. I thanked her. Then I turned to speak with Jesus: “Jesus, I’m sorry about how that woman treated you.”
“Oh, it wasn’t much, really. I’ve had worse.” He massaged his palms a little.
The receptionist called to us and, with a smile, ushered us into the inner office. The Honourable Jane Dough, Member of Parliament, stood at her desk. She was expensively dressed, her hair fashionably styled, her face expertly made-up. She welcomed us to sit, then sat down herself, folding her manicured hands on the padded leather desktop.
Jesus spoke. “I’m hosting a banquet. Come and eat with me.”
Mrs. Dough’s eyebrows raised in surprise, but she said smoothly, “My, that’s very kind of you. Usually such engagements are booked through my constituency secretary. Would you mind telling me the nature of the occasion? Is it an important institutional anniversary or the opening of a convention? Will the news media attend?” She patted her coiffed tresses.
Jesus chuckled and said, “No, nothing like that. Just dinner. At my place. All is now ready.” Mrs. Dough hesitated, and then excused herself to speak with her receptionist.
I pulled on Jesus’ sleeve and led him to the far corner of the room. “Jesus, what are you doing inviting a politician to your meal? She and all the other elites are ruining the country! First they drive the nation into debt, then they raise taxes to pay for it while cutting back on social programs, and the whole time they’re busy padding their own accounts while feeding their personal ambitions. Jesus, I’m really confused. How could you possibly invite the likes of Jane Dough to your table? She and all the other tax-grabbers are betraying us!”
While I said all this, Jesus had continued smiling, and yet his expression did change. His grin wasn’t quite so broad, and it seemed as if a touch of sadness pulled his brows just a little lower. “Ah, Cliff. You and your generation are living in the richest time in all of history. Never have people enjoyed such wealth. You deserve everything you get, including the governments that you elect and the taxes you pay. After all, you can afford them, can’t you?”
“Well, yeah, I suppose we can … but that’s not the point, Jesus! How could you possibly invite such a person to your table?!”
By now, Jesus’ smile had faded. He looked at me intently, a little sadly.
Just then the Honourable Jane Dough, Member of Parliament, called out from behind her desk. “Good news, gentlemen! I’ve cleared off my schedule.” She retrieved an expensive leather handbag from the closet, smiled brightly at Jesus and me, and opened the door for us. Jesus, smiling fully once again, led the way out of the room.
Still stunned by Jesus’ invitation and by the woman’s compliance, I stood frozen to the spot for several seconds, and then scrambled to catch up. Soon were out on the street again. Jesus and the politician were deep in conversation. I couldn’t believe how fast they were moving. I practically had to run to keep up.
I don’t know how long we walked or how far, but I was suddenly aware that we were now in a residential section of the city, and I could tell by the appearance of the houses that this was a pricey part of town.
And another thing: I suddenly noticed that we three were not alone. A sizeable group of people had joined us, everyone chatting with one another. I had no idea where they came from. But they were all following Jesus.
Jesus suddenly turned aside, opened a gate for the MP, who flashed her perfectly orthodontic smile at him and then entered a neat domestic yard. He looked back my way and smiled as I scrambled to catch up.
“Cliff, are you still following?” There was a hint of a laugh in his voice, as if he had just made a bit of a joke. As I entered the yard, I patted my breast pocket, as I often do. Relief – my pen was still there, as it should be.
Then I suddenly realized that I no longer had my briefcase and the documents that I had been studying: legal stuff pertaining to redevelopment of church property; an official repair manual for my 1971 Volkswagen Van; and the draft copy of the last will and testament that my wife and I wanted to complete for the sake of our children. A wave of anxiety washed over me. I must have left the briefcase in the MP’s office. I looked back in the direction from which we had walked. I started to say something to Jesus, but he was already on his way up the front step of the house, reaching for the doorbell.
The door was opened by a pleasant looking man in his middle years. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him. Jesus spoke. “Hello. Come and eat with us.”
With an expression of uncertainty, the man looked back and forth between Jesus and the Honourable Mrs. Jane Dough, both of whom were beaming from ear to ear. Then he spied me. He looked at me closely for a few seconds, and then said, “Oh, it’s Pastor Reinhardt! Do you remember me? I’m John. You baptized our son 12 or 15 years ago.”
“Oh, yes – John. It’s good to see you again.” Indeed, now I recognized him, but as I reached out to shake his extended hand I couldn’t help thinking that I would have recognized him a lot quicker if he had bothered to show up in church even just once since the day of the baptism.
My presence apparently helped John to relax his guard, for he welcomed the three of us into his house, while the crowd of followers waved and cheered us on. As Mrs. Dough gracefully seated herself on a living room chair and began to talk about nothing at all with polished ease, I took Jesus aside once again.
“Jesus, are you sure you know what you’re doing? Sure enough, I baptized his infant son years ago, but he and his wife and the kid haven’t shown up in church since. And Jesus, there’s something else you should know: He and his wife used to do a little weed back then, before it was legal, and (who knows?) maybe some harder stuff, too. They told me when I came to visit. And neither so much as flinched when they informed me. Jesus, they have no sense of right and wrong. That baptism was little more than a family ritual for them. They’re users. They use drugs; they use the church; and if the truth be known I feel like they used me, a pastor of your church and a lover of your Heavenly Father. How could you possibly invite this man to your heavenly meal?!”
Jesus looked over at John, then turned back to me. He grinned and said, “Sounds like he could use me!”
Just then John called out, “Jesus, I would love to come to your meal.” John and Mrs. Dough had been chatting in the living room. John’s face was open and expectant as I had always remembered it, while Mrs. Dough’s exhibited that winning smile which no doubt had helped propel her into public office.
Jesus said, “That’s great, John! Let’s go! Because all is now ready.”
John replied in turn, “Okay. I just need to write a note to my wife. Let’s see … a pen … where is there a pen?”
Jesus reached over and, pulled my pen out of my shirt pocket, and tossed it over to John. As John scribbled a note, Mrs. Dough came and linked her arm in mine, and led me to the front door, with Jesus close behind. John closed the front door of his house.
As we left the yard and started down the public sidewalk once again, I suddenly noticed that Mrs. Dough no longer had her expensive handbag. I grinned a little to myself. Bought with taxpayers’ money, no doubt. Now it was in the living room of John, that user of people’s good graces.
But my gloating gave way to a wave of anxiety as I realized that my pen was also left behind. As I instinctively reached up to pat my chest pocket, Jesus quietly said, “Don’t be anxious, Cliff. For I have signed my name upon your heart.” I was astonished. My jaw sagged. I stumbled and would have fallen had Jesus not reached out to steady me.
Jesus took the lead while we three followed – I in the centre, flanked on either side by Dough and John. I was in a daze. I was glad that the MP still had her arm linked in mine, for I felt a little light-headed.
I turned my head to look behind us. Sure enough, that crowd was still there. And it had grown considerably. People of every description took up the entire sidewalk and a good part of the street, too.
I had no idea where we were, or where we were going. Just how long we continued, I couldn’t say. We changed direction several times, and I didn’t recognize any of the streets. Finally, we came to a run-down building that vaguely resembled a rural community hall.
Jesus opened the door and admitted us into a long, broad hallway with doors leading off on each side. Jesus led the way down to the end. Space and time seemed to be a little distorted. It looked as if the end of the hallway was a long way off, and yet we reached it almost instantly. Once again, Jesus opened the door. Jane Dough gasped in surprise as John licked his lips expectantly.
The room was filled with a table which stretched out beyond the limits of my vision. It was loaded with food of every description. On either side of it, people were taking their places, each seated in a chair which somehow seemed reserved for that person alone.
Even though each person was unique, there was something familiar about many of them – something that put them in the same league as the two followers whom Jesus had picked up along the way.
And, yes, there also seemed many like me.
As John and Jane rushed forward eagerly to take their places at Jesus’ table, I reeled a little with dizziness. Jesus reached out his hand and steadied me. I finally found my voice. “It’s all fantastic, Jesus! I can’t believe it! It’s wonderful!”
Jesus smiled. “Come. For all is now ready.” He gestured toward the incredible table. I knew immediately and with utmost certainty that there indeed was a place for me at Jesus’ table, but instead of doing as Jesus bid me, for the third time I gave expression to my outrage which was now boiling over.
“JESUS CHRIST! This just isn’t right! These people are profaning your table! They’re nothing but a bunch of opportunists and users. They don’t care about the broader community; they don’t care about your church; they don’t care about repentance and restitution and making things right with your Father in heaven!”
Jesus looked at me intently, yet his smile remained as full as ever. “What do you care about, Cliff?”
“I care about responsibility! I care about commitment! I care about righteousness!”
Jesus spoke again, this time tenderly, softly. “A tremendous sacrifice, my friend. I like that. But I want you to learn this: I desire mercy. Clifford Fredrick Reinhardt, come, there’s a place at my table even for you.” His arm was still stretched out in a welcoming gesture. His palm was turned slightly upward, exposing the scar.
The table had become silent. All eyes turned to me. My head was spinning; I tottered in dizziness. With a sob, I sagged into Jesus’ arms. I suffered the pain of tremendous loss. And I was then relieved of this burden by the holiness of Jesus’ compassion, who then half carried me, half dragged me to his table of mercy.
There he gently sat me in the place reserved for me among all forgiven sinners.
Then Jesus Christ, the Son of God, our Lord and our Saviour, spoke to me and to everyone whom he had gathered to his table: “All is now ready. Peace. Peace be with you all.”