Oh, Dear Friends,
I am not writing you from an easy place. That’s okay, but I want to say it - because I bet a lot of you are in hard places, too. It’s been a hard seven months since the start of the pandemic. We’ve had some weeks that bring hope and others devastation. But as my new friends from Evolving Faith would put it, I’m in the wilderness right now.
So, what is the wilderness like? I don’t think it’s quite the same as the desert, but I do think they have a lot in common. And recall what we say about the desert in Godly Play: people don’t go there unless they have to. It is dangerous and disorienting and the journey may be long. But even when things feel hopeless and desolate, we are not alone - and sometimes there is even a feast.
At Evolving Faith this past weekend, we spent a lot of time in the wilderness, but we weren’t alone. We were fed and we reckoned with the fact that none of us had laid the feast. We do not get to decide who is welcome at the table. As they say, only God can judge. The problem is, we often try to put our judgements in place of God’s - just look at the Gospel for this Sunday.
In the parable of the wedding banquet, the invited guests refuse to come and celebrate the nuptials of the king’s son. Instead, the king orders his servants to gather up everyone they can find in the streets, and when he arrives to greet them, he discovers that one of them is not dressed for the occasion - and he orders the man thrown out of the banquet. “For many are called, but few are chosen,” Jesus declares. This is what the kingdom of God is like, says the Lord. But what does it mean not to be chosen?
Often, we are not chosen by our communities, not for anything we have done wrong, but because we ask questions, we don’t quietly abide. We think too broadly about God. We build a longer table and welcome everyone to it. Some people won’t like that, but that won’t get us thrown out by God.
No, I think we may be called but not chosen when we fail to humble ourselves - when we try to rearrange the table. The man who didn’t wear proper garb to the banquet? He failed to prepare himself, but those preparations are simple. Open hearts, open hands, is how I always put it, my take on ‘Love God and your neighbor.’ And if that doesn’t look like some of our neighbors think it should, if we are so unfortunate as to discover others have put God in a box, then we might end up in the wilderness.
My wilderness right now is communal and personal; my parish will be beginning the search for a new priest. Today, I invite you to inquire about your own wilderness, and your children’s. What is frightening about wandering there, and what is beautiful? Maybe you wish to illustrate it or model it. Maybe there are woods by your house where you can trace a path, or a sandbox - your own little piece of the desert.
I have more good news about the wilderness: however long your wander, however difficult it is, it will still be a gift. Every mile matters, Nichole Nordeman tells us:
We may not get to decide who sits at God’s table, but for now, we can do our best to ensure everyone who needs one has a seat at ours. And if we are in the wilderness, may we like St. Francis make peace with the wolf.
Oh, friends, what will you bring to the table? A dish, a song, another friend? There is room for everyone, and whatever you bring, even all your have is your hunger. Amen.
Until next time,
A. Bird