Sitting at Table in the Kingdom of God
John Wilkinson Third
Presbyterian Church
October 7, 2007
Luke 17:5-10
I like to imagine the heady days – post-World War I and
pre-World War II – when the notion of Worldwide Communion
Sunday was hatched. It happened in a Presbyterian congregation
in Pittsburgh and rapidly blossomed into an ecumenical phenomenon.
I like to imagine those days, wildly enthusiastic and hopeful.
The church in the U.S. was on an unprecedented growth curve,
and the years following World War II would only accelerate it.
The United States itself, seemingly strengthened by the great
war – remembered this week on PBS by Ken Burns and sustained
by many of you in this room – was prepared to lead the
world in a kind of rebuilding process, physical, political,
psychic rebuilding. Worldwide Communion, now called World Communion,
seemed to capture a deep sense of optimism for the world, for
the church.
We live in hope, do we not, more than optimism, hope, so I
don’t want to live in a moment where it feels as if that
balloon of possibility has been popped.
And yet the war to end all wars did not end war. Day by day
we hear of and seek to embrace a concept of globalization, and
yet feel detached and alienated. Every little thing we do to
address environmental issues seems like a mere drop in a bucket.
Differences seem to be just that, differences, rather than opportunities
to build bridges or to live beyond ourselves. The more I think
of technology, the more I wonder how it connects us, rather
than isolates us.
These are grim thoughts – I do not mean to be grim, but
to read the papers or watch the news can do that to you.
And we seek hope in the church, but whether it is within our
own body, the Presbyterian Church or beyond our particular clan
to the ecumenical church, the global church, much of the discussion
is about division and decline.
And yet we live in hope, hope more than optimism, so our task
is to read the signs of the times but not be defined by them,
to be as gentle as doves but wise as serpents, to remember the
life story of the one around whose name we gather, to keep the
rumor of God alive, to continue to prepare the bread and cup,
the communion elements, an audacious and ludicrous act in itself,
and gather around this table.
Perhaps more than in those heady earlier days, the church and
the world need World Communion – need any kind of communion.
I have read and re-read the parable for this morning. I am
mindful that one of our adult faith development classes has
been working through this parable with Professor Gail Riccuiti
– had I been smarter or more confident I would have simply
transcribed the notes from that class and read them to you.
Is Jesus really saying what we think he is saying, that is,
a somewhat ungracious response to those who are following him
about keeping the servants in their places?
Jesus is no longer speaking to the increasing crowd that is
following him; rather these words are directed to the disciples,
to us, in a sense. Fred Craddock reminds us that we have no
easy analogies to the slave-master scenario that Jesus unfolds.
No easy transfer to the employer-employee image will do. Craddock
writes: “Jesus came among us as one who serves, and so
are his followers servants. There is no time or place, therefore,
at which the disciples can say, ‘I have completed my service;
now I want to be served.’ …In the field or in the
house,” Craddock says, “a servant is a servant.”1
Well now. That does not seem very 21st century, does it? Perhaps
that is the point.
Charles Cousar warns us that this parable sneaks up on us,
and it does. Jesus would have us perceive ourselves as the slave
owner. In the end, though, we become the servant. Cousar writes
that “the real issue is not how the boss treats the servant,
but how the servant understands (her or) his role.”
God is God. We are not. And even though Jesus gives and we
receive, we must remember the hymn text that reminds us that
we are called to be the servant of the servant.
That is difficult, I know. It is difficult for we who are so
programmed to be in control. It is difficult for those who history
has relegated – women, GLBT folk, minorities – to
diminished positions. It is difficult, and never easy. But I
think it worth it that we continue to wrestle with Martin Luther’s
notion that “only as we discover ourselves as the dutiful
servant of all do we also discover ourselves truly free.”2
I like to imagine the committee meeting that first hatched
the notion of world communion. It no doubt reflected a sense
of Presbyterian decency and orderliness. I like to think that
those men, and they probably were all men, had no illusions
of grandeur; they were, instead, good Presbyterian realists.
What they were doing would not change the world. But perhaps
it would make a difference. Perhaps it would offer a glimpse
of how things might someday be. A church united. A world at
peace. They merely did what had been done before them and what
we do now. They set the table.
* When the Presbyterian Church is so at odds and the bigger,
broader church is disconnected and divide, we will continue
to set the table of unity.
* When the city of Rochester seems to be collapsing under the
weight of violence, this week particularly, we will continue
to set the table of peace and work as diligently as we can,
and more so, to do the things that make for peace.
* When the world seems entranced by visions of self-obsession
and self-sufficiency, we will continue to set the table of servanthood,
to offer even a tiny vision of what life lived beyond self might
look like.
* And we will continue to set the table of healing and hope,
so that when we show up, bringing our brokenness with us, we
will be fed and nourished and made strong enough and whole enough
to be able to set the table again, the next time and the next
time, and the time after that.
Hope trumps optimism every time. Joy trumps happiness. And
huge faith is not our vision, but rather the faith of a mustard
seed, faith that places its trust in the one who serves us,
the one who hosts us, so that we in turn may serve and host.
Australian theologian Dorothy McRae-McMahon writes: “We
believe that, despite betrayal and deception, in a way which
we do not always understand, we are not left alone. And we believe
that we will not stay sorrowing forever but that our spirits
will as surely lift as the day follows night. Despite our doubts,
we believe that it is always better to hope than to despair,
to build anew rather than destroy, and to accept that life will
not confirm our worst fears but will surprise us with unforeseen
revelations.”
We believe that. That is why we show up at this table, and
invite all the world to share the feast. Amen.