"Feast of the storyteller "

Sermon for Proper 23, October 10, 1999

St. Luke's, Metuchen, NJ

Readings: Matthew 22:1-14

"Once more Jesus spoke to them in parables, saying, The kingdom of heaven
is like a king..." And so began
another story.

I wonder if you've noticed
over the course of this last year
how we Episcopalians
have heard an awful lot
of stories.
We''ve heard stories about a baby's birth, wise men who follow a star, and a
terrified escape to Egypt.
Stories about transformed tax-collectors and a little girl given a new life,
about thousands fed and a storm stilled.
Stories about weeds and seeds, about debts wiped out, about a foolishly
generous employer and about ungrateful wine growers.
Lots and lots
of stories.

This Year of Matthew
is a year of stories, stories of Jesus.
Stories about
the things he did,
stories about the people who came to see him,
stories he told
about the kingdom of heaven.
And maybe, just maybe,
stories about
us too.

It''s hot in town, hot and dusty. People have come from all over the country,
some walking, some hitching a ride. Men tanned by the country sun stand out
against their paler city counterparts, and there's a buzz in the air. It's
festival time.
But this year, there's more. Along with the noise and the celebrations
there is an undercurrent of uneasiness. People whisper
about possible changes in local government, and ask in hushed voices if the

rumors are true?
Back corner deals abound, and nobody
is quite sure
what tomorrow will bring.

And then here comes the cause of all the trouble. He seems much like the
other tourists, eyes crinkled at the corners from squinting in the noonday
sun, clothes dusty and rumpled from too much time traveling and not enough
time home getting laundered.
A shadow crosses his face, and you look up to see what has flown over, but
there is nothing there, and when you look back again
it has passed
and you might think that you imagined it
except for that quiet watchfulness
still in his eyes as he listens to his friend
who seems to be telling some long, involved anecdote.

They turn the corner, and by the time you see them again, people are
gathering in the doorways and spilling onto the pavement. He is leaning
against a block of stone left over from some building project, and has just
begun to speak:
"The kingdom of heaven is like this: A king gave a wedding banquet for his
son, and he sent his servants out..."

And suddenly you realize he''s telling a story. All this fuss, all these rumors
and fear, and he''s sitting here telling stories.

And the story, like all good stories, follows a predictable pattern. There
always has to be a good guy - the knight with his magical sword, the beautiful
and innocent princess, in this case the king who wants to put on a big party.
And then there are the bad guys - the fiery dragon, the wicked witch, the
wedding guests who not only can''t be bothered coming to the feast, but kill
the messengers who invite them.

It's a story. You all know that. The good are good and the bad are bad, and
it all ends happily ever after, 'cos that's just how stories are made.
But this one doesn't quite fit.

Because the story doesn't end
where it's supposed to, and as you listen your mind wanders, and you find
yourself walking down the mall in Washington late on a warm summer''s
afternoon, and suddenly a man in a dark suit hurries up to you and said,
"Excuse me, but would you like a free dinner? The President is having a
formal dinner this evening, and needs some extra people to make up the
numbers."
"Yeah, right", you say, but you smooth your hair down with a little water, and
shine your shoes on the back of your jeans, and do up the buttons of your
jacket in the hope that no one will notice the ketchup you spilt down your
front at lunchtime in McDonalds, and you hurry over to the gates of the
White House , just in case...
and when you arrive there they are, with an engraved invitation, and they
usher you in as if you had an Armani suit and a chauffeur, and tell you to
make yourself at home.
It''s ridiculously far-fetched, isn''t it? I know it, and you know it, and I wold
guess Jesus knew it too.
And it only gets more bizarre.
You''re standing over in the corner, trying to fade into the wallpaper and
feeling incredibly awkward - what if I don''t know which fork to use, or if I
knock the wine over, or I say the wrong thing... - when with a fanfare, in
come the President and the first lady, looking benevolently over the crowd.
And suddenly the President looks in your direction, and he begins to frown,
and you know that he knows that you are a fraud, you don''t belong here, and
he''s going to throw you out. He comes toward you, and your face gets redder
and redder, and you shrink back into your corner and expect the worst.
But no, he''s stopped, right by the guy in the khakis and sports jacket. You
noticed that guy before...he's better dressed and seems a lot more at home
than you are - he's loosened his tie and pushed up his sleeves, and seems to
be enjoying the oysters they've served as aperitifs. The President stops by
him, and asks,
"Friend, how did you get in here?" and the man swallows hard and looks
around nervously, and next thing you know the men in dark suits have his
hands behind his back and are hustling him out the door.

And suddenly (click)
you're back in the street
with Jesus's voice echoing in your head, "Many are called, but few are
chosen",
and the crowd is beginning to disperse, and way at the back you can see a
couple of men in the distinctive clothes of the temple elite, and they look as
angry as hell.
And just four short days later you hear
that he is dead.
Dead on a cross,
hung out to die,
victim, it seems, of his own stories.

* * * * *

And the stories? They didn''t end
when the storyteller died.
For God keeps calling us
to the feast, inviting us to join in the celebration of his Son.
And I guess you know, it''s not about Armani and oysters, or even shoes
rubbed shiny on the back of our jeans. The danger of stories, is that
sometime we take them too literally. For God isn''t interested in whether our
bodies are covered in the right clothes, but whether our hearts, our souls,
are clothed right. The sort of clothes God is looking for , to quote the book
of Colossians, are compassion, kindness, humility, meekness and patience,
forgiveness, and most of all, love. Those are the clothes which will make the
most glorious wedding gown
we can imagine,
better than any pearls or lace or golden thread.
And our epistle today gave us a hint of how we put on those clothes - to think
about these things. To fill our minds with what is true and honorable, and
just, what is pure, what is pleasing, what is commendable...fill our minds with
things that are good, with things of God.
Its not so much about being prudish, as being wise.
Think twice
when we pass on
a joke
full of innuendo.
Think twice
about joining a conversation
where someone is being ripped to shreds
in their absence.
Think twice
about what
we read
and about what we watch on TV
- Recently I decided to give up for a time
reading murder mystery stories
because I found I was becoming complacent
about violence.
Think twice.
And the clothing you wear
will be gradually transformed
into something incredibly beautiful,
transparent and shimmering
and letting God's light
shine through.

Why does it matter?
Because God
has called us to this feast - it's the most amazing invitation we will ever get.
And because its not just the wedding of his Son - its our wedding, too.
Because we as the church
are Christ's precious bride.
This wedding feast is our wedding feast.

The storyteller, who is himself the bridegroom, invites us to the feast of all
time,
he invites us into this incredibly holy and intimate relationship of love which
is possible between us and God.
And we receive a foretaste
of that wedding feast
here
in the Eucharistic feast, where clothed with the clothing of God
and eating the bread of life, we as one body share in the one body of Christ
and are made one with him and he with us, and can be caught up in the joy
and the honor and the wonder of it all.

Come.

Raewynne J. Whiteley
10 October, 1999