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Praise for Deliverance from Oppression
25 O Lord, you are my God;
I will exalt you; I will praise your name,
for you have done wonderful things,
plans formed of old, faithful and sure.
2 For you have made the city a heap,
the fortified city a ruin;
the palace of foreigners is a city no more;
it will never be rebuilt.
3 Therefore strong peoples will glorify you;
cities of ruthless nations will fear you.
4 For you have been a refuge to the poor,
a refuge to the needy in their distress,
a shelter from the rainstorm and a shade from the heat.
When the blast of the ruthless was like a winter rainstorm,
5 the noise of foreigners like heat in a dry place,
you subdued the heat with the shade of clouds;
the song of the ruthless was stilled.6 On this mountain the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples
a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines,
of rich food filled with marrow, of well-aged wines strained clear.
7 And he will destroy on this mountain
the shroud that is cast over all peoples,
the covering that is spread over all nations;
8 he will swallow up death forever.
Then the Lord God will wipe away the tears from all faces,
and the disgrace of his people he will take away from all the earth,
for the Lord has spoken.
9 It will be said on that day,
“See, this is our God; we have waited for him, so that he might save us.
This is the Lord for whom we have waited;
let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation.” -
The Parable of the Wedding Banquet
22 Once more Jesus spoke to them in parables, saying: 2 “The kingdom of heaven may be compared to a king who gave a wedding banquet for his son. 3 He sent his slaves to call those who had been invited to the wedding banquet, but they would not come. 4 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.’ 5 But they made light of it and went away, one to his farm, another to his business, 6 while the rest seized his slaves, mistreated them, and killed them. 7 The king was enraged. He sent his troops, destroyed those murderers, and burned their city. 8 Then he said to his slaves, ‘The wedding is ready, but those invited were not worthy. 9 Go therefore into the main streets, and invite everyone you find to the wedding banquet.’ 10 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.
11 “But when the king came in to see the guests, he noticed a man there who was not wearing a wedding robe, 12 and he said to him, ‘Friend, how did you get in here without a wedding robe?’ And he was speechless. 13 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.’ 14 For many are called, but few are chosen.”
In Brooklyn, in the Gowanus neighborhood, there’s a little storefront church called St. Lydia’s. It’s a pretty unassuming spot, on a not-too-busy street by the Gowanus Canal. It’s easy to miss when walking down the block, so you generally only end up there when you’re seeking it out. In my final semester of seminary in New Jersey, a couple of friends and I decided to go to one of their worship services and see what this church was all about. Rather than sitting down for a typical Sunday morning worship service—in pews that all face towards a pulpit, singing hymns that resonate throughout the building through organ pipes, and trying to slip in and out before anyone can catch you—the good folks at St. Lydia’s exclusively worship around the table. Each week, they gather for dinner on Sunday. One or two people always show up a couple hours early to cook the meal, and other folks trickle in until about six o’clock when worship begins. When worship begins, a song leader will pass out lyric sheets before starting to sing. When the singing is done, everyone sits and there’s some more liturgy. You say prayers, engage in conversation, listen to a brief reflection from a community member (as opposed to a full sermon from a high-and-mighty preacher), and share in communion around the dinner table. It was intimate, spiritually-fulfilling, and created a feeling of church that I’m not sure I’ve experienced in the same way since. Suffice to say, if you’re ever in Brooklyn for a Sunday evening, I would definitely recommend St. Lydia’s for worship.
At St. Lydia’s, though, you don’t just get to show up. It’s impossible to simply arrive as the service starts, take a seat at the back, and slip out before anyone really knows you’re there. If you get there early, you help cook. Or, they might have you move tables and take the chairs down off of them. Or, they might ask you to set the table. And, if you do get there right as the service starts, you’re expected to stick around for a little while afterwards and do the dishes, wipe down the tables, or sweep the floors. Even if it’s your first time there, they ask you to do the work of the community. Even if you don’t know where to put dishes once they’re clean. Even if you don’t know where the rags are to wipe down the tables. Someone will tell you what needs to be done, where the dishes go, and where the rags are kept—in the same way that the song leader would tell you what to sing, and when. The act of serving alongside the other members of the community is as much a part of worshiping as reciting the liturgy or hearing the reflection or receiving the scriptures. It is a lived expression of the values of this community, that no one is above or below the work and that showing up means that you serve. And it really only might sound like a big deal because of the way that I’m emphasizing it. Because when thirty people all pitch in to clean up after dinner it really only takes, like, twenty minutes. And that includes hand washing all those dishes—a task I gladly let the more seasoned parishioners handle.
One of the things I love most about St. Lydia’s is that it forces us Christ-followers to examine what we do. It forces us to ask ourselves, and each other, whether we're not just showing up, but putting on the right clothes. It forces us to ask whether we are simply coming to the table or setting it. What does it look like to set the table, here at Fairport United Methodist Church? Sometimes, setting the table here literally looks like setting the table. Whether it’s Feed the Spirit, a Maundy Thursday potluck, the Church Picnic, or any of the other times throughout the year when we share food together, there are those who jump right in to serve, set the table, wash the dishes, and make sure that the community is cared for. Sometimes, this looks like going to Francis Center and Sanctuary House to serve the unhoused and talk to them as people. It looks like taking the time to sit with one another, either in formal small groups and studies or during Feed the Spirit—just to listen, to share, and to support. It’s caring for the children, preparing food for those who don’t have what they need, and anything else we do that is more than mere presence. Because while accepting the invitation to this communal life is the first step, it’s not the last. And, while you probably won’t have your hands and feet bound, and you definitely won’t get thrown out, to be here is to be called to come fully into the life of the community—even if that just means wiping down a table every now and then.
I want to be clear, though—even showing up is huge. Taking time, even an hour on Sunday, to be in a space where nothing material is gained goes against so much of what we are told is right. Most of us drive here, some from pretty hefty distances. To be here means getting up earlier than you might otherwise on the weekend, and for some of us means wrangling kids. There are seasons in our lives when all we can handle is being present, or when we really need to simply rest in the comfort of a community that doesn’t need us to produce something in order to be deemed worthy. I don’t want to downplay the commitment it takes to even be here in the first place. That’s huge. Showing up is where our relationship with the community starts. But, it’s not where it ends. And so we must continue to ask ourselves and each other: how are you being called to put on the clothes of those called to the table? How are you living into the call to show up, and then some? How are we creating a community that invites these offerings? I say all this acknowledging, too, that burnout is real, and being a part of a community of faith shouldn’t burn you out. But, I think we let the fear of burnout get in the way of digging deeper sometimes. I think we forget, too, that none of us needs to be carrying more than we can handle. St. Lydia’s reminds us, after all, that cleaning up a meal for thirty only needs to take a few minutes—if we all step up and do our parts.
When John Wesley would talk about what it means to live out a transformed life, he would talk about our tempers. Our tempers are the ways in which we initially respond to what we encounter in the world. The tempers of a converted heart see a need, see suffering, see a table needing to be set so that people can eat together—and respond by meeting that need, working to alleviate that suffering, and stepping in to set the table. This conversion is not simply about believing the right thing, it’s not simply about saying we’re Christians or Methodists or born again. It’s a conversion of the way that we live our lives, the way that we see the world, and the way that we interact with the rest of Creation. If we only ever respond to the invitation by showing up, we might get a little something out of being here. We might find what we need for a season. But we may not experience the true transformation that we long for. And so we are called, to put on the clothes of the community, to retrain our tempers, and to serve side by side. In big ways and in small ways, we are called to engage with one another. May we love one another. May we serve each other and those around us who are most vulnerable. May we set the table. Accept the invitation—and make sure you’re wearing the right clothes for the job. Amen.