"The Good News Is...All Are Invited"

Text: Luke 14:15-24

Ash Wednesday has long signaled the start of a solemn season. Lent has traditionally been a time of quiet self-reflection, penitence, and somber study of scripture. We mark ourselves with ashes to remind us of our mortality. Some of us give up something to practice restraint, creating more space for communion with God and spiritual growth. Psalm 51 has often been the psalm chosen for Ash Wednesday, famously attributed to David admitting his sin in sexually assaulting Bathsheba and having her husband, Uriah, killed when he failed to cover his tracks after getting her pregnant. As I mentioned, the beginning of a solemn season, indeed!

But we’re approaching this Lent a little differently this year. This doesn’t mean there’s no spiritual value in solemn introspection, fasting from certain vices, or contemplating our mortality and our consequent total reliance on God’s mercy. However, as you might have seen from the title of our Lenten Sermon series, we’re viewing Lent this year as an invitation—an invitation to Good News—good news that keeps us grounded when much of the world feels so broken. Together, we’ll listen to the Spirit and let her “tell us something good.” This will be our focus this Lent because, honestly, there’s enough “heavy” in the world right now without Lent adding to the load.

And so, we begin this Season of Lent with an invitation that is quite fitting. It’s fitting because the Season of Lent was originally a call for new converts to learn the basics of Christianity in order to prepare for their baptism on Easter Sunday.  And so, let us go together to the mailbox and see what RSVP might be waiting for us!

Our RSVP takes the form of a parable of Jesus. A parable, for the record, which he shares while sitting at the dinner table in the home of a local Pharisee. As a reminder of the context (because it’s always important): on the way to this Pharisee’s house, Jesus healed a man with a skin condition on the Sabbath, challenging their obsession with strictly following the letter of the law instead of its spirit. Then, when they arrive at the Pharisee’s house, Jesus notices how everyone is vying for the seat of honor next to the host. He reminds them that the kingdom of heaven operates according to an opposite social logic. No, he tells them, choose the lower place so that the host will invite you to move up. Because Jesus reminds them, those who humble themselves will be exalted, and those who exalt themselves will be humbled.

And then we have this parable that Donna read for us today. A host is preparing a party and sending out the VIP invitations first, as one does. However, the three invitations don’t exactly get positive responses from the A-list celebrities his slave hunts down on his behalf. Each of them has an excuse that, at best, is half-hearted, and, at worst, downright pathetic.

The first has bought a piece of land and has to go see it (as if he didn’t already see it before buying it?).

The second has bought five oxen and has to go see them (again, as if one wouldn’t have already done that before the purchase!).

The third person's excuse diverges from the economic tone of the first two. This third guy is married and claims, I suppose, that the missus is expecting him.

All of these ridiculous excuses can be summed up by a famous quote from the popular TV series, Friends. In the first episode of the first season, which premiered more than 30 years ago, Phoebe is invited to join Joey, Ross, and Chandler to help assemble furniture in Ross’s new apartment. Phoebe, without missing a beat, simply replies: “I wish I could, but I don’t want to!”

This is the response from the three original invitees to the host’s party, at least according to this millennial’s Friends-inspired paraphrase of Luke 14. “Thanks,” they each say; “wish we could, but we don’t want to!” The host, humiliated by rejection, realizes that the usual social expectations aren’t working for him. Usually, someone hosting a party hopes that people higher up the social ladder will attend. If those at the “top” come first, then those at the “bottom” will often find their place in the end, if at all. But this host makes a strange and countercultural move: he begins to focus on the “bottom up,” at least in the eyes of those who initially rejected his invitation.

“Go,” he tells his slave. “Get the poor. Get the disabled. Get the blind. Get the lame. Go grab Phil, who pandhandes across the street between Panera Bread and City BBQ. Go get Denice, who camps out under the canopy of the closed store next to Scuppernong Books downtown. Go find Don, the Harris Teeter worker who moonlights as a Lyft driver to feed his family because his SNAP benefits are about to run out. Go get them all and bring them here.” The slave goes and does as he is told. And the masses come. But there’s still more room. The host sends the slave out again, saying, grab literally whoever you can. Because there’s still more room, and there is no stranger at my table.

And, thus, the feast begins. Phil isn’t seen as an eyesore by those who just want to get home with their groceries. Denice can now feel her fingers and toes again. Don gets a much-needed break from the rat race that consumes his life just to keep his kids from starving. Choice wine is poured. Fresh bread is broken. Grapes are rolling on the floor because there’s no more room on the table to contain all the food that has been prepared. Laughter flows as freely as the drinks. For a moment, the social order is reversed, and the kingdom of heaven has disturbed the status quo just enough to remind everyone present that the way things are isn’t the way things have to be.  And they are indeed not the way God has promised them to be.

That is how we begin Lent this year.  With an open invitation that is ours to receive.  Who wouldn’t want to say yes to a party like that?  Well, as it turns out, there will always be some who would find such a gathering an abomination.

A few months ago, our Theology on Tap group read C.S. Lewis’ novel, The Great Divorce.  In The Great Divorce, C. S. Lewis doesn’t picture heaven and hell as two static destinations where people are permanently “assigned.” Instead, he imagines them as ends of a spectrum—and the real drama is the direction a person chooses to move. Again and again, the book suggests that the boundary between heaven and hell is traced less by God’s refusal than by our resistance: God keeps offering invitation, mercy, and transformation, but we can cling to the resentments, fears, and self-protective illusions that make joy unbearable. In Lewis’s telling, then, the question of heaven or hell isn’t finally about God sorting people into categories; it’s about whether we accept the offered invitation and step toward the light, or insist on turning away.

And, he would also offer, there are plenty of people who, given the choice between heaven or hell, choose “the bad place.” In one of my favorite chapters, a very self-righteous man is well on his way to “the good place.” He prides himself on all the good he has done in his life. He did the right things. Checked the appropriate boxes on his moral inventory. But as he heads toward heaven, he is introduced to a man named Len, who murdered an innocent man back on earth. “What are you doing here?” the self-righteous man asks. “I’ve gone straight all my life. I don’t say I was a religious man and I don’t say I had no faults, far from it. But I’ve done my best all my life, see? I’ve done my best by everyone, that’s the kind of chap I was. I never asked for anything that wasn’t mine by rights. If I wanted a drink, I paid for it, and if I took my wages, I done my job, see? That’s the kind of guy I was, and I don’t care who knows it! I’m not asking for anyone’s bleeding charity!”

To this, Len, responds, “Ask for the Bleeding Charity.  Everything is here for the asking, and nothing can be bought.”

To this, the righteous man indignantly responds, “I’d rather be damned than go along with you!”  And he turns around and heads toward hell.

“We wish we could,” the well-to-do folks in today’s parable said, “but we just don’t want to.”

I wish I could stand before you today and honestly say that there’s nothing in God’s invitation to the kingdom of heaven that doesn’t rub me the wrong way. Of course, it does! Because I’ve been taught that righteousness is a solo act—something I do for myself, something I earn. But that’s not how God’s math works. It’s not about me. And it’s not about you. It’s about us. And that’s the invitation we receive this evening as we mark our foreheads with ashes and remind ourselves that none of this is a solo act, and everything we do and everything we are depends on God’s grace and God’s invitation. You and I aren’t called to “reinvent” grace (as if it were ever a creation of our own!). We’re simply meant to rest in the truth that we’re invited to the table not because we’ve earned it, but because God has made space. And after we’ve rested in that truth, then comes the time to share it!  Because that’s all this party has ever been about, really.

And some people will never accept that. There will always be those who say there’s no room for the immigrant. There will always be those who say there’s no room for the refugee, or the incarcerated, or the homeless, or the anxious, or the disabled, or the political enemy, or the neighbor whose yard sign makes your blood pressure rise. There will always be those voices, but those voices aren’t the ones we listen to today. On Ash Wednesday, we will hear a voice say, “You are dust, and to dust you shall return.” We can see that promise as a warning or as an invitation to humility, grace, and a different perspective—away from the voices that claim might is right and influence is the only currency worth pursuing.

Instead, I hope we all hear that voice declaring our dustiness as a voice that will forever be God’s voice; a voice with an unending invitation for you - yes, you. An invitation that’s freely available to you right here, right now. And if you can’t accept it now, it will be available to you again. Because the Good News is…everyone is invited.

The Rev. Jesse Jackson died a few days ago at the age of 84.  And in 1972, the 31-year-old civil rights activist visited the most magical place in the world, an address known as 123 Sesame Street.  And there, he met with a diverse group of children and led them in a liturgy for which he became well known.  The call and response went as such, with him as the liturgist and the children the chorus of the many:

I am…I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY!
I am…I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY!
I may be poor…I MAY BE POOR…but I am…BUT I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY.
I may be young…I MAY BE YOUNG…but I am…BUT I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY.
I may be on welfare…I MAY BE ON WELFARE…but I am…I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY.
I may be small…I MAY BE SMALL…but I am…I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY.
I may make a mistake…I MAY MAKE A MISTAKE…but I am…BUT I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY.
My clothes are different…MY CLOTHES ARE DIFFERENT…
My face is different…MY FACE IS DIFFERENT…
My hair is different…MY HAIR IS DIFFERENT…
But I am…BUT I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY.
I am black…BLACK…brown…BROWN…white…WHITE…
I speak a different language…I SPEAK A DIFFERENT LANGUAGE
But I must be respected…RESPECTED…protected…PROTECTED…
and never rejected…AND NEVER REJECTED.
I am…I AM…God’s child…GOD’S CHILD…
I am…I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY!

So friends, say it with me, I am…I AM…God’s child…GOD’S CHILD…I am…I AM…somebody…SOMEBODY.  There’s room for me….THERE’S ROOM FOR ME…at God’s Table…AT GOD’S TABLE…there’s room for my neighbor…THERE’S ROOM FOR MY NEIGHBOR…at God’s Table…AT GOD’S TABLE.  And no one and nothing can change that!  AND NO ONE AND NOTHING CAN CHANGE THAT.

And may all of us, God’s beloveds, say: Amen.

"Disciples Take Faith Seriously" (September 7, 2025 Sermon)

Text: Luke 14:25-33

Allow me to start this sermon by naming the elephant in the room: this is no one’s favorite passage. When I sit down with a family to plan the funeral for their loved one and we discuss the deceased’s favorite scripture, this one never makes the cut. My family spent Labor Day weekend browsing the many shops in Black Mountain and Montreat, where you can find several stores that display inspirational scriptures on decorative pillows, blankets, shirts, and more… and this scripture is never one of them. Now that we’re back on the lectionary, a three-year cycle of readings, I looked back to see if I preached on this passage three or six years ago when it last appeared, and I conveniently chose to preach on another scripture. This is no one’s favorite passage.

Why? Because Jesus isn’t meant to be about hate! He’s about love, neighborliness, compassion, empathy, and discipleship. “Hate” simply isn’t a word we like to hear in such proximity to Jesus, especially not in the imperative tense, where Jesus seems to be commanding us to do it. It makes us uncomfortable. It makes us shift uneasily in our pews. It makes us squirm. This is no one’s favorite passage.  In fact, a Biblical commentator whose reflections I read this week said that he once attended a church where the reading of difficult texts like this was often concluded by the preacher saying, “If you can’t say ‘Amen,’ let me hear you say, ‘Ouch.’”  This text calls for an “ouch!”

Today we start a twelve-part sermon series called “What Disciples Do.” The longer I’m an imperfect practitioner of this thing called Christianity, the more I’m convinced that Jesus cares less about what we believe and far more about what we do. I believe Jesus can achieve more with a small group of heretics who do good in the world than with a large group of “believers” who only wish good for the world. A close reading of the Gospels reveals this significant detail of Christ’s earthly ministry: he reserved his harshest words not for those outside his Jewish faith, but for those within it.  Jesus was all about recruiting, equipping, and commissioning disciples.  Therefore, this sermon series will be a “back to the basics” sort of exploration about what Christian discipleship demands of us.

And so we gather, saying “ouch” as we try to understand what Jesus is saying to his Church with this humdinger of a passage. That same commentator I mentioned earlier raises a question we must consider: “How do we respond to these words in a world of profound violence and abuse—often against spouses, children, and the elderly? Is Jesus really saying hate is a mark of discipleship?” Let me start by sharing what I believe to be true about this passage that might put some of us more at ease: I do not, for a moment, believe that Jesus is calling us to literally hate our family. I believe this for two reasons. First, for Jesus to be literal in this sense would contradict almost everything else he said and did during his earthly ministry. Elsewhere in Luke’s Gospel, Jesus affirms the “schema,” which states that love of God and love of neighbor is the highest calling of any follower of God. Additionally, we know that at least one of his disciples (Peter) was married. Jesus himself had a cousin named John, a mother named Mary, an earthly father named Joseph, and several brothers and sisters. We have no evidence that Jesus himself “hated” any of his family, and it’s hard to imagine a world where he would expect his followers to do anything differently.

Secondly, I believe Jesus did not intend to promote hate in any form because the Greek term used here for “hate” can also be translated as “love less” or “have a relative disregard,” both of which are quite different from the emotional connotation of “hate” that you and I equate to emotional aggression.

Now, if Jesus isn’t calling his followers to literally hate their family, what is he saying? Well, I, for one, believe Jesus is being deliberately hyperbolic. It certainly wouldn’t be the only time in the Gospels that Jesus used hyperbole to get a message across loud and clear. Elsewhere in the gospels, Jesus talks about “camels leaping through needles,” “taking a log out of your eye before you criticize the speck in another’s eye,” and “salt losing its saltiness,” and “tearing your own eye out if it causes you to sin.” Yet, these hyperbolic phrases use exaggeration strategically to convey profound truths of the Kingdom of Heaven as it relates to sinfulness, judgment, grace, forgiveness, and faithfulness in a broken world. Jewish wisdom literature, as found elsewhere in the Bible, in places such as Proverbs, the Song of Solomon, and the Psalms, also employs hyperbole. Hence, it’s not as if Jesus’ use of hyperbole was without precedent in the context of his Jewish faith.

Now, admittedly, we must never use this as a “get out of jail free” card whenever Jesus tells us something that’s hard to accept. No, we may not be Biblical literalists here in the Presbyterian Church, but that doesn’t mean we don’t take the Bible seriously. On the contrary, Jesus has a very important message that must not be lost as we debate the semantic nuances of texts like this one; that message is this: following him is not something to be taken lightly. Christianity isn’t a hobby to be enjoyed, an ideology to be weaponized, or an opiate of the masses (as Karl Marx would say). No, Jesus is telling the crowds that following him is only for those who have thought it through and are prepared to prioritize their Christian faith when the ways of the world tempt us to exchange what is right for what is easy.

A lectionary podcast I listen to often calls this part of Luke’s gospel “Jesus' terrible marketing campaign.” Because Jesus would have made a poor member of a church membership committee. “Come, follow me,” he’d tell first-time visitors who just signed the attendance sheet, “but don’t come here for convenience. Don’t come here for political power or privilege. Don’t come here to have smoke blown up your you-know-what. Don’t come here looking to confirm what you already believe. If you want to follow me, you have to pick up your cross. If you want to follow me, you have to try something new. If you want to follow me, you have to give up control.”

As I was reading this text this week, I couldn’t help but view it through the lens of our summer mission project that we just finished. This summer, we provided shelter at our church for about a dozen women experiencing homelessness through a partnership with Greensboro Urban Ministry. For 90 days, we came together as a congregation to offer one of the most tangible forms of Christian hospitality. We provided shelter, clothing, bedding, breakfasts, and dinners every day for three months. And it was a lot of work! In the month or two before the Session approved this project, the Mission Committee carefully planned and strategized, embodying exactly the kind of preparation Jesus talks about in today’s passage as necessary for a life of discipleship: “For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not first sit down and estimate the cost, to see whether he has enough to complete it? Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all who see it will begin to ridicule him, saying, ‘This fellow began to build and was not able to finish.’” Neighbors, that’s exactly what we did as a church family. No, we weren’t building a tower, but we were creating a home for a dozen neighbors who didn’t have one.

And I couldn’t be more proud of this congregation and grateful for what God did through us. We had to give up some things to serve our neighbors: the status quo, the free use of part of our building, and the free time of many volunteers who used their talents to shelter and feed our neighbors. It was a lot of work, and we learned many things together. In the next few months, as we go through this sermon series, I want us to use this space to share what we’ve learned about ourselves and the God who calls us together as we embarked on this mission project.

Discipleship is challenging work. It’s a difficult pill to swallow in a culture that prioritizes individual convenience and “freedom” over our Christian duty to love God by serving others. Discipleship doesn’t easily fit into an economy that worships the accumulation of wealth and encourages everyone to believe that anyone, with enough hard work, can succeed regardless of their circumstances. It also challenges political ideologies that see neighbors as objects to be defeated rather than persons to be loved. Discipleship is counter-cultural. It’s swimming against the current. It’s about as far from the path of least resistance as you can get.

And that’s why Jesus doesn’t have time for casual Christians. He isn't interested in building a following of lukewarm followers who only pick up the mantle of Christianity when it’s political perversion promises power and privilege.

But here’s the thing, y’all.  Yes, discipleship is a costly thing.  Yes, it requires us to redefine the very definition of things like family, success, justice, and power.  Like an architect planning a tower or a general planning a battle, we would do well to think well ahead before jumping into action.  Possessions must be surrendered.  Crosses must be carried.

But there is good news. Not despite these circumstances, but because of them. Because of the work God did through us this summer, a dozen women had a safe place to eat, sleep, rest, and relax while they searched for employment and affordable housing. Yes, it required us to surrender some control of our building. Yes, it demanded a lot of logistical planning during a time of year when most of us are traveling for summer. But you know what, people? We did it! Or, more accurately, God did it. Not a week went by without hearing a story of how someone’s life was changed for the better because of this church answering God’s call to shelter our neighbors. Not a week passed without seeing a smile or a hug between two people brought together by us saying “yes” to Christ’s invitation! Discipleship is a heavy thing, friends, but it is also liberating. Discipleship is not for the faint of heart, but it heals hearts, too! It requires us to rethink our priorities, but that reorientation opens up new possibilities for wholeness, justice, and compassion in a world that is often broken, unjust, and cruel. That’s the good news of discipleship, and that’s how we move beyond nominal Christianity.

Last night, Tricia and I finally got around to finishing the latest season of The Chosen, the hit television series about the lives of Jesus and his followers.  This last season ends right at the moment of Jesus’ arrest in the Garden of Gethsemane.  And shortly before his arrest, there’s a flashback to when Jesus first met Thaddeus.  He and “Thad” are working on a building project and Jesus invites him to follow him with this speech:

“What if I told you I have something else in mind for my life and yours? Something that will last. A kingdom not built by hands. A fortress stronger than stone. Would you join me in helping build that? A new Kingdom – with eternal value.

What is the pay, you may ask? There is no pay. At least, not in the earthly sense. I’m a Rabbi. And I am asking you to follow Me. You’ll be part of changing the world. Become part of a family – not of relatives, but of blood bonds, just the same. Spend your days with some of the most interesting, unfettered, funny, driven, brave, nurturing, smart, strong, passionate, fiery, loyal, loving, imperfect people to ever walk the earth.

You will see – and do – things you cannot imagine. You’ll be adored…hated…needed…lost…and found.

You will live everywhere….and nowhere.

You will lose friends….you will lose all your friends…and your own life.

You will go to the ends of the earth and yet be part of the beginning of the greatest movement on earth.

People will say you are a fool, and that I was a fool, and that it was all a lie.

They’ll call us heretics, and liars, and frauds. Others will celebrate and venerate your memory, and call you a saint. But none of that is the point.

The point is that you will have said “yes” to the world’s “no”. That you hoped against hope, and believed against belief.

That you surrendered everything, and held fast to the very end.

Will you follow me?”

I love this “elevator speech” of Jesus because it paints a beautifully complex picture of discipleship. Instead of presenting discipleship as some hyper-American success story driven by power, comfort, and tribalism, Jesus is perfectly realistic about the consequences of following him. We’ll be hated and needed. Lost and found. Living everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Losing friends and family, and even our own lives. We’ll be called heretics, liars, and frauds. But we will say “yes" to the world’s “no” and follow Christ in ways that continue to bless our neighbors.

So let us carry the spirit of our summer shelter project with us, where we provided not just a roof but a refuge for those in need. In saying “yes” to God’s call, we experienced the true meaning of discipleship—giving up our comforts to help our neighbors and embracing the transformative power of love in action. This summer taught us that discipleship is a journey full of challenges but also deep rewards. Just as we opened our doors to give shelter, let us keep opening our hearts to those around us, reminding ourselves that following Jesus means stepping into life's messiness, loving our neighbors fiercely, and shining as a beacon of hope in a world that often feels dark. Together, let us say “yes” to this higher calling, ready to build a community rooted in compassion and grace.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.