Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost
October 11, 2020
Isaiah 25:1-9
Matthew 22:1-14
Once again, we have a parable that makes us squirm a little. Last week, we heard the parable of the landowner who set up the vineyard and then hired landless tenants to do the work. And when the harvest time came, he sent his slaves to collect his proceeds. Only, the tenants killed the slaves and, eventually, the son. When asked what the landowner should do, the priests and Pharisees said that he should kill the wicked tenants and place worthy tenants in their place.
And instead of confirming their response, Jesus reminded them that God works counter to what we think—making what is rejected the cornerstone and foundation to the building of faith. And the leaders were shocked. Today, once again, we have another shocking parable. And I wonder if we learned anything from last week. What will factor into our understanding and interpretation of Jesus’ words today?
Well, if we take the parable at face value and interpret it classically, we’ll put God as the king and Jesus as the son—because all parabolic authoritarian males must be God, and all parabolic sons must be Jesus. The king prepares the wedding and tells all the invitees that it is ready. You see, weddings weren’t a save-the-date kind of event. Instead, the couple would announce their engagement and then begin preparations to be married. Those preparations could include building their lodgings, as well as raising the animals in anticipation of sacrifice and meal. So, whenever everything had been completed, servants would be sent out to tell everyone that the party was ready. And the people would drop everything to celebrate with their friends this new chapter in the life of the couple.
Only, in this case, no one was interested in going. And this isn’t just any wedding. This is the king’s son. This is a big deal. To deny this wedding meant denying the king. This wasn’t a social faux pas—it was a political rebellion. No one denies the king. And when he sends the second batch of slaves, while some of the people go back to their work, some stay and kill the slaves. In retaliation, the king annihilates the whole city and all of its inhabitants.
Traditionally, we assume that the first invitees were, again, the Jews who denied Jesus as Christ. They killed the faithful and the prophets, so God removed the promise from them and sent for the lowly, undeserving Gentiles who resided on the margins.
In those days, when people attended a wedding, the host would provide the robes to place over their everyday clothes. So, there was apparently no reason that anyone would not be dressed appropriately. And yet, one person was not wearing the celebratory robes of the wedding feast, so the king had him bound and cast into the outer darkness, “where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.”
And this is the kind of God we lift up? One who is vengeful? One who throws a tantrum at the first sign of dissent? One who, when the invited refuse to come, seeks to fill the banquet with nobodies to save face and make it appear that many people love him? One who insists that the nobodies celebrate while the city burns outside the castle, pretending that nothing is wrong and that they need not worry about a thing? One whose salvation has strings attached to it? Is this the kind of God we lift up?
I don’t think so. Look again at how Jesus starts the parable. “The kingdom of heaven may be compared to.” It’s in the passive voice and could also be translated, “The kingdom of heaven has been compared to.” This is how people have come to see God—often how WE have come to see God. And again, this viewpoint has led to so much unnecessary and unjust Jewish bloodshed on behalf of religious superiority.
But what if we read this differently? The kingdom of heaven has been compared to a man-king. (Both words are used here in Greek.) And this man-king was throwing a wedding banquet for his son. And, as I pointed out, the A-list invitees refuse to come. They refused to submit to this sham of a king. And for good reason, it turns out. He has a short fuse and a violent temper. He can’t abide being seen as wrong or unpopular. Jesus’ audience would have noticed connections to the narcissist king, Herod. And the priests and Pharisees weren’t just religious leaders—they were puppets of the king. So what Jesus points out to them here is very poignant. And Matthew’s audience would have made the connection to Domitian, the tyrant Roman emperor who insisted on being called the Son of God—not just a man-king.
As we see, though only a few are guilty of killing the king’s slaves, the whole city is destroyed and its inhabitants killed because they made the king look bad—because they dared to go against his directions. And he sends out more slaves to gather anyone left over—those pitiful people on the margins and the streets that run the outskirts of town. Beggars. Homeless. Nobodies. They won’t deny him. They’re hungry. They aren’t stupid enough to turn down a free meal. And it will look good on his resume. Look at how beneficent he can be.
And so they come. And they’re forced to wear celebratory clothing and pretend to have a good time, even as their city burns to the ground beyond the castle doors. Except one. One person dissents. One person refuses to bow down to this tyrant. One person stands his ground. Who is he? Who would dare? Who could possibly stand up to this man-king? Whoever he is, he is bound and thrown out—supposedly to death and worse.
Who do you suppose the one was? I suspect it was Jesus. He would have been with the riff-raff of the second invitation—amid the beggars and homeless and hungry. That’s where he was always found, after all. Only, he is not intimidated by the power of the king. He is not intimidated by any worldly power. And instead of bowing down to the powers of this world, he chooses death. He chooses murder. He chooses to go to the cross, to the tomb, and to death rather than undermine his integrity by partaking of the food provided by a tyrant king. He goes to death as an example of what our ideas of power and victory and kingship do to others.
I know—this is a different way of reading this parable than many of you have experienced. But consider this:
“What would change for you if Jesus was the unrobed guest and not the furious king in this story? How would you have to change to welcome such a guest? To honor such a guest? To accompany such a guest? What robes of privilege, power, wealth, empire, location, and complicity would you have to refuse to wear? What holy rebuke would you have to speak or embody when the king demands your cheery presence at his table? What feasts would you have to forego to follow the unrobed dissenter when he's escorted into the darkness, bound and broken for the sake of love?”
I’m reminded of Lenny Duncan, the queer black pastor who wrote the book, “Dear Church: A Love Letter to the Whitest Denomination in America.” In it, he comments on this very robe we wear as pastors. He says that when he was first introduced to the robe as a seminarian, all he could see was a white robe with a pointed hood. “I perceived those white, hooded robes as an existential threat against my personhood.” When he brought it up to those in power, they wrote him off. They responded, “’[We] won’t allow a blip in human history to change the symbolic meaning of what these robes have stood for in eighteen hundred years of church history.’ The problem is,” he says, “that blip in human history is the attempted genocide of my people. So now I wear a black cassock when I lead worship, because whiteness does not equal holiness, and blackness does not equal evil, brokenness, or self-denial. Black is holy.”
What does this have to do with the parable? Everything. Duncan also says in his book, “The truth is, we have allowed the church to become married to the dominant culture of North America and the cross to become a symbol of its original purpose—to inspire fear, to intimidate, to be a symbol of death rather than life, of punishment rather than restoration, the harbinger of chains rather than liberation.” Friends, that’s exactly what happened to the religious leadership of the 1st Century—and before. It’s what happens anytime powers try to align religion with political goals. When the Church enables systemic injustice, we are no longer acting like the Church. We make God out to be a tyrant king and laud those who follow suit.
But that’s not the God of the Bible. It’s not the God of Jesus or his parables. The God we worship is one who would prefer death to collusion, who would prefer the cross to corruption, who would prefer death and resurrection to the half-life of arrogance, greed, and pride. The God we worship is the one who offers us this same resurrection life—true life found outside the walls of nation or kingship or wealth or royalty. It’s the life found in the margins, on the outskirts, among the disenfranchised, and in the outer darkness—where the stars shine brightest.
Pastor Tobi White
Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church
Lincoln, NE
October 11, 2020
Isaiah 25:1-9
Matthew 22:1-14
Once again, we have a parable that makes us squirm a little. Last week, we heard the parable of the landowner who set up the vineyard and then hired landless tenants to do the work. And when the harvest time came, he sent his slaves to collect his proceeds. Only, the tenants killed the slaves and, eventually, the son. When asked what the landowner should do, the priests and Pharisees said that he should kill the wicked tenants and place worthy tenants in their place.
And instead of confirming their response, Jesus reminded them that God works counter to what we think—making what is rejected the cornerstone and foundation to the building of faith. And the leaders were shocked. Today, once again, we have another shocking parable. And I wonder if we learned anything from last week. What will factor into our understanding and interpretation of Jesus’ words today?
Well, if we take the parable at face value and interpret it classically, we’ll put God as the king and Jesus as the son—because all parabolic authoritarian males must be God, and all parabolic sons must be Jesus. The king prepares the wedding and tells all the invitees that it is ready. You see, weddings weren’t a save-the-date kind of event. Instead, the couple would announce their engagement and then begin preparations to be married. Those preparations could include building their lodgings, as well as raising the animals in anticipation of sacrifice and meal. So, whenever everything had been completed, servants would be sent out to tell everyone that the party was ready. And the people would drop everything to celebrate with their friends this new chapter in the life of the couple.
Only, in this case, no one was interested in going. And this isn’t just any wedding. This is the king’s son. This is a big deal. To deny this wedding meant denying the king. This wasn’t a social faux pas—it was a political rebellion. No one denies the king. And when he sends the second batch of slaves, while some of the people go back to their work, some stay and kill the slaves. In retaliation, the king annihilates the whole city and all of its inhabitants.
Traditionally, we assume that the first invitees were, again, the Jews who denied Jesus as Christ. They killed the faithful and the prophets, so God removed the promise from them and sent for the lowly, undeserving Gentiles who resided on the margins.
In those days, when people attended a wedding, the host would provide the robes to place over their everyday clothes. So, there was apparently no reason that anyone would not be dressed appropriately. And yet, one person was not wearing the celebratory robes of the wedding feast, so the king had him bound and cast into the outer darkness, “where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.”
And this is the kind of God we lift up? One who is vengeful? One who throws a tantrum at the first sign of dissent? One who, when the invited refuse to come, seeks to fill the banquet with nobodies to save face and make it appear that many people love him? One who insists that the nobodies celebrate while the city burns outside the castle, pretending that nothing is wrong and that they need not worry about a thing? One whose salvation has strings attached to it? Is this the kind of God we lift up?
I don’t think so. Look again at how Jesus starts the parable. “The kingdom of heaven may be compared to.” It’s in the passive voice and could also be translated, “The kingdom of heaven has been compared to.” This is how people have come to see God—often how WE have come to see God. And again, this viewpoint has led to so much unnecessary and unjust Jewish bloodshed on behalf of religious superiority.
But what if we read this differently? The kingdom of heaven has been compared to a man-king. (Both words are used here in Greek.) And this man-king was throwing a wedding banquet for his son. And, as I pointed out, the A-list invitees refuse to come. They refused to submit to this sham of a king. And for good reason, it turns out. He has a short fuse and a violent temper. He can’t abide being seen as wrong or unpopular. Jesus’ audience would have noticed connections to the narcissist king, Herod. And the priests and Pharisees weren’t just religious leaders—they were puppets of the king. So what Jesus points out to them here is very poignant. And Matthew’s audience would have made the connection to Domitian, the tyrant Roman emperor who insisted on being called the Son of God—not just a man-king.
As we see, though only a few are guilty of killing the king’s slaves, the whole city is destroyed and its inhabitants killed because they made the king look bad—because they dared to go against his directions. And he sends out more slaves to gather anyone left over—those pitiful people on the margins and the streets that run the outskirts of town. Beggars. Homeless. Nobodies. They won’t deny him. They’re hungry. They aren’t stupid enough to turn down a free meal. And it will look good on his resume. Look at how beneficent he can be.
And so they come. And they’re forced to wear celebratory clothing and pretend to have a good time, even as their city burns to the ground beyond the castle doors. Except one. One person dissents. One person refuses to bow down to this tyrant. One person stands his ground. Who is he? Who would dare? Who could possibly stand up to this man-king? Whoever he is, he is bound and thrown out—supposedly to death and worse.
Who do you suppose the one was? I suspect it was Jesus. He would have been with the riff-raff of the second invitation—amid the beggars and homeless and hungry. That’s where he was always found, after all. Only, he is not intimidated by the power of the king. He is not intimidated by any worldly power. And instead of bowing down to the powers of this world, he chooses death. He chooses murder. He chooses to go to the cross, to the tomb, and to death rather than undermine his integrity by partaking of the food provided by a tyrant king. He goes to death as an example of what our ideas of power and victory and kingship do to others.
I know—this is a different way of reading this parable than many of you have experienced. But consider this:
“What would change for you if Jesus was the unrobed guest and not the furious king in this story? How would you have to change to welcome such a guest? To honor such a guest? To accompany such a guest? What robes of privilege, power, wealth, empire, location, and complicity would you have to refuse to wear? What holy rebuke would you have to speak or embody when the king demands your cheery presence at his table? What feasts would you have to forego to follow the unrobed dissenter when he's escorted into the darkness, bound and broken for the sake of love?”
I’m reminded of Lenny Duncan, the queer black pastor who wrote the book, “Dear Church: A Love Letter to the Whitest Denomination in America.” In it, he comments on this very robe we wear as pastors. He says that when he was first introduced to the robe as a seminarian, all he could see was a white robe with a pointed hood. “I perceived those white, hooded robes as an existential threat against my personhood.” When he brought it up to those in power, they wrote him off. They responded, “’[We] won’t allow a blip in human history to change the symbolic meaning of what these robes have stood for in eighteen hundred years of church history.’ The problem is,” he says, “that blip in human history is the attempted genocide of my people. So now I wear a black cassock when I lead worship, because whiteness does not equal holiness, and blackness does not equal evil, brokenness, or self-denial. Black is holy.”
What does this have to do with the parable? Everything. Duncan also says in his book, “The truth is, we have allowed the church to become married to the dominant culture of North America and the cross to become a symbol of its original purpose—to inspire fear, to intimidate, to be a symbol of death rather than life, of punishment rather than restoration, the harbinger of chains rather than liberation.” Friends, that’s exactly what happened to the religious leadership of the 1st Century—and before. It’s what happens anytime powers try to align religion with political goals. When the Church enables systemic injustice, we are no longer acting like the Church. We make God out to be a tyrant king and laud those who follow suit.
But that’s not the God of the Bible. It’s not the God of Jesus or his parables. The God we worship is one who would prefer death to collusion, who would prefer the cross to corruption, who would prefer death and resurrection to the half-life of arrogance, greed, and pride. The God we worship is the one who offers us this same resurrection life—true life found outside the walls of nation or kingship or wealth or royalty. It’s the life found in the margins, on the outskirts, among the disenfranchised, and in the outer darkness—where the stars shine brightest.
Pastor Tobi White
Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church
Lincoln, NE
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