An Epistolary Sermon: Matthew 22:1-15

READ MEEEEEEEE! Matthew 22:1-15 

An Epistolary Sermon

Dear God, 

Well. Here I am. Again. The parable this week is a doozy. And it’s already Saturday. And I’ve thrown out all of my sermon work from this week because none of it is right, and I didn’t turn in a reflection paper for my class on time, a class that’s supposed to be about listening and discernment, and we decided to get a puppy and we pick her up tomorrow at two, and my son “needs” my computer right now so he can make a video for his YouTube channel, and there’s this incessant clicking in my right ear that I can’t seem to shake or ignore, so I’m Googling “Covid-19 and ear clicking,” and there’s an election coming up and people are scared and freaking out and being ridiculous, and my friends are dealing with a second hurricane in the span of six weeks, and everything in the Northwest is on fire, and I have this horrible tendency to focus on how hard my life is when really it’s a life of comfort and privilege, and here’s this story that is supposedly about you and your followers that turns in to contradiction and murder and chaos and threats of hell. Everything feels like it’s on fire right now, God. And it’s not the good Holy Spirit fire. Or maybe it is. I don’t know. I just don’t want to be on fire anymore.

Here’s this story about a king who is supposed to be you, right, God? At least that’s what all the commentators say. That’s what all the smart white men in our two thousand years of Christian history who know all the Greek and who’ve studied the scriptures and written all the books and decided all the heresies are saying.  The king is you, the invitees are Israel, the servants who are abused and killed are your prophets, and the city you burn down is Jerusalem, or maybe it’s just the temple, we’re not sure, and the people you invite to your party are the Gentiles. There. The kingdom of heaven. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

But God, this story is crazy. This story is nuts. Everybody is freaking out in this story. The whole city is on fire. Nobody’s being rational, except, maybe, the poor guy who gets kicked out of the party for not wearing the right clothes. And his response to all this chaos? He’s speechless. He is without words. So here I am, God, full of a whole bunch of words that are really coming to nothing. Here I am, God, feeling a little bit speechless. I mean, What the hell, God?

So. Yeah. 

Amen.

Dear Jenn - 

You know that I am just a figment of your imagination and probably not really God, but anyway, you’re imagining some kind of a response from some kind of benevolent being, so here goes:

You don’t know a whole lot about me, so listen to those white guys, they’ve thought long and hard and they know all the Greek and they’ve written all the books and historical criticism is important and so is the history of interpretation and they’re also all a part of that “Great Cloud of Witnesses” you like so much, so maybe read a little bit about what they have to say. You  know, the parts about how we don’t really want to be about “cheap grace.” The parts about how this parable does, in fact, tell us what the kingdom of heaven is like, where everybody is invited, and how grace is free, but how it also requires a response of us, a right action, and that being a Christian does mean that we change what we wear, what we’re “clothed” in, you know, in a metaphorical sense. There’s some good stuff there. Good stuff.

And hey, I’m sorry about the whole ear-clicking thing. That happened to me, once. It totally sucked.

And also, you probably should have asked what I thought about getting that puppy. You know she’s going to wake you up in the middle of the night to pee. Are you prepared for that? Are you sure you’ve thought this through?

Also, don’t let a bunch of old white guys tell you what to think about me. They’re not the boss of me.

Well, good luck tomorrow. You’ll do great.

God.

Dear God - 

Yeah, that response wasn’t really what I was looking for. I need an answer of some kind, you know something hopeful and good and true about who you are and what you have to teach us. I need to be able to offer these folks something, something they can hold on to to give them hope and solid ground to stand on during these troubling times. Maybe that’s why the history of interpretation is just not helpful here. Seems like they all have the same decoder ring they got from the same brand of breakfast cereal and they’re applying it to this passage and it’s all just so obvious. This is a story about you and the Israelites and how they rejected you even though you gave them a special invitation to join the party, and they responded by killing your prophets and then you responded by tearing down their temple and inviting the Gentiles in to the party. Except some Gentiles don’t have what it takes, so they get kicked out when they’re not wearing the right clothes for this particular occasion. There. Done. The Moral of the Story: don’t reject God’s invitation, and always keep your wedding robe somewhere handy, and preferably, fireproof. 

It’s like they’ve ignored all the violence and destruction of this parable. I mean, I have questions. Why wouldn’t those invited to the party not want to come? If the champagne is flowing and the filet mignon is being served with a wine reduction sauce and the five tiered cake has a raspberry cream filling, who wouldn’t want to be a part of that? Seems like something went wrong in that relationship between the king and the folks he’s invited, otherwise, they’d be excited to come, otherwise they’d drop everything to get all fancy, drink too much, and jump on to the dance floor when the DJ spins out the electric slide. So what happened? Why don’t they want to come anymore? And then when the king asks them to come a second time, they beat up and kill his messengers. I mean, why the crazy response? Seems way out of proportion if you ask me.  And the king responds in kind, as if that’s going to solve the problem. He sends his troops in, destroys the murderers and burns down the whole dang city. Then, while his city is still in an uproar, while people are fleeing their houses with whatever they can grab, their arms full of babies and pots and pans and photographs and family heirlooms, the king still insists on his silly wedding banquet, and so the slaves go out, grab anyone they can find, and bring them in for a little champagne and filet mignon. Did these guests even have a choice in the matter? I mean, they’re fleeing from their city, their houses are burning to the ground, and the last guy who rejected the king’s offer was killed. So. What choice do they have, really? Do they all rush back to their burning houses and dig their formalwear out of the mothballs in the back of their closets? But then, but then, when they do come, when they do respond to the king’s invitation, they watch as some poor sot gets kicked out, tied hand and foot, thrown into the outer darkness where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth simply because he wasn’t wearing the right outfit. I mean, that’s crazy, right? What am I supposed to do with this story?

Oh, and the ear is still clicking, we could use some help with the puppy, and also I’ve got this whole hormonal acne thing going on that would be great if it could get cleared up somehow. Maybe by tomorrow would be great. Oh yeah, and the fires and the hurricanes and the political situation in our country. And the wars. And the hungry kids. And the trashed planet. And systemic racism. But mostly, what am I going to tell these folks tomorrow?

Amen. 

Dear Jenn - 

Once, I was stripped of my clothes and accused of being the King of the Jews. I’d spent a lot of time hanging out with the tax collectors and the sex workers and the sick and rejected and I healed some people and told them to eat and drink for the kingdom of God is at hand. I guess that made folks nervous. I just stood there. Said nothing.

Anyway, I know what you’re asking for. And that’s just not how I work. Imma just gonna let you sit here, in this mess of a story. Maybe you’re looking for answers where there aren’t any. Maybe, you know, my grace is sufficient for you and all that. Maybe you’re just supposed to read the story again. Then go for a walk. Go to Starbucks. Come home and take a nap. Eat some frozen pizza. Decide on what you’re going to name your puppy. Oh and drink some water. Have you had enough water today?

God.

Dear God -

Ok. So I read the story again. And again. And one more time. I drank some water. The ear is still clicking. We’ve decided to name the puppy Eliza. Or maybe Luna. Or Sunny. 

But God. You just can’t be the king. You just can’t. The king is…scary. He’s hotheaded and impatient. He has unreasonable expectations. He kills and destroys. He does this horrible bait and switch thing where he invites everyone to his banquet but then punishes the guy who isn’t wearing the right clothes. He calls him “friend,” and then throws him into hell! Everything I’ve come to know and trust and love about you, God, gets undone if you are the king. How can you be the king? 

But all the smart white guys say that you’re the king. They say that we need to be sanctified as well as justified. They say that we need to say yes to the invitation, but also work to be worthy of that invitation. They say this is a story about the eschaton, the end of times, when you will gather everybody to yourself and determine who’s in and who’s out. You’ll decide who’s worthy and who’s not. And how can they be wrong? It’s right there, right in the Bible. Jesus says, “The kingdom of Heaven is like this.” Can it really be true? Is the kingdom of heaven really like a tyrannical king and like some folks who reject his invitation and like a burning city and like the good and the bad all being gathered together for a party until the king finds the really bad guy, the one who isn’t playing his part, and kicks him into the outer reaches of hell?

Because if these old church fathers have it right, then I think maybe I’m out. I think maybe I don’t want to go to your party. I think maybe I’d rather hang out with the folks who show up just as they are, who don’t hide their unworthiness behind wedding robes or righteousness or perfect choices. I’m not really interested in the ones who are hiding their singed and blistered skin behind a fancy wedding robe.

I’ve tried to be the one who dresses herself up for the party. Even while everything all around me burned, I tried to get myself together, tried to wear the right clothes, tried to say the right things and believe the right beliefs. I’ve tried to show up worthy. And because I stopped just a second longer to check my lipstick in the hallway mirror, because I took that extra moment to iron my robe and straighten my collar and put my hair in place, because I was so worried about what I looked like and what grades I got and if I was recycling right, I didn’t notice the flames creeping closer up my ankles, I didn’t notice that sure, I’d made it to the party, I was wearing all the right clothes, but I was also on fire. 

And God, I keep thinking about that guy who gets kicked out of the party. I want to hang out with him. He’s the only one in the story who is being his true self, the only one in the story who shows up when he’s called, just as he is, with all that he has. He shows up. But he doesn’t dress himself up. He just comes. He stays. And when he’s questioned, when he’s asked, “Who do you think you are? How’d you get in here? What have you to say to these charges” he just stands there, silent before his accusers. And he gets kicked out of the party, through really, no fault of his own. He’s bound, hand and foot. He’s thrown into the outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth. He enters in to the pain and stays there. He goes where the hurt is. He participates in the hurt himself.

And then what happens to him? Is he crucified, dead and buried? Does he descend into hell? Is he raised again on the third day? I want to belong to that guy. I want to go to his party. I want to sit around his campfire and hear the stories of his descent into hell, and then hear how he fought his way back out. 

God, I know I’m wrong. I know I’m not supposed to hang out with that guy. He’s probably a bad influence. He probably smokes joints behind the stadium and does donuts in the parking lot with his balding tires. He probably shows up at prom in torn jeans and a leather jacket. He lives hard and with no regrets. Or maybe he’s just the guy who refused to go back to his burning house to grab his wedding robe. He refused to burn himself just get dressed up and please the king.

But God, if you’re the king, you can keep the robes and the filet mignon, you can have the champagne fountain all to yourself while the city burns. If I come to your party, I’ll come broken and bruised with nothing to say for myself. I’ll come hungry and tired and dying from smoke inhalation, but decidedly NOT on fire. I’m not going back for my wedding robe. I’m not going to burn for that. I’ll burn to rescue the kitten caught in the third floor attic, or to help Mary and her six kids get out of the house. But I won’t burn for that. If that’s not good enough, then kick me out too. If I need to be my best self in order to stay at your party, then I just quit now. I’ll never be enough. Let me join the others who are struggling and hurting and trying to survive. Let me join the guy who said yes to you but still didn’t quite fit, who got kicked out of the party anyway. 

Jenn.

Dear Jenn - 

It’s enough. 

Go to sleep.

I was serious about that water thing.

God.

Thanks be to God.