Table Grace
Sermon by James W. Crawford
June 6, 1999
As you walk up and down Boylston Street, or stroll along the sidewalks of the Back Bay you will pass any number of our sibling congregations. On the signs near the front door you will frequently see the friendly invitation, "All are welcome." Indeed, in our greetings to you, in our order of worship, in the printed announcements we frequently indicate "all are welcome." We say it. We mean it. Our neighbors are no less committed. I wonder from time to time if the invitation is really effective or if it just serves as one of those easy clichés providing a sort of ecclesiastical white noise—functioning as sensory overload not unlike another ad for Coke or GAP. In any case, the invitation goes out to thousands who pass by our church buildings, and just a tiny devout cohort seem to say "yes" to the invitation.
"All are welcome." I am not so sure, however, that people passing by this church, or our neighboring churches throughout the Back Bay fully believe it. I suspect any number of those who pass our church day by day suppose that we consist of a highly segregated group. Oh, not so much segregated by race or color—though that may, indeed sadly, be the case—but segregated because we are "religious." Our gathering this morning and the meetings we attend over the course of the week may, to a large number of our urban neighbors, be considered the domain of a particular kind of person: "a religious person." Indeed, you might test this supposition right now by taking inventory of some of your friends and asking yourself who you might invite to join you at church next Sunday morning. You may come up with at least two columns—some you would at least tentatively approach, but some others who you know are just "not that kind of person."
Or indeed, what did you see on your way to this service this morning? Excluding those mobilized for the AIDS walk, you could tell, sort of, by clothing, or grooming and a look at your watch who might be headed for church. This is not always true of course, thank heaven, but there is something askew here. If everyone is welcome, why should any particular type be distinguished? After all, here we are, come together and we call ourselves not "segregation," but "congregation."
Now, of course, one of the ideas that dies hard among those who pass this church or any other—and, sadly enough, even dies hard among some of us who may be here this morning—one of those die-hard ideas lies in the conviction that we must be "good" to be here. There must be some sort of ethical criteria inherent in church attendees. Some people decide to ignore the "welcome" sign because they believe there is some moral standard to be met and they know, from what they have heard, that they cannot pass the test. I know there are others who attend here from time to time, on a Sunday like this when we celebrate the Sacrament of Holy Communion, who decline to participate in the sacrament, because they believe they are just not good enough, not moral enough, not Christian enough to share this sacramental meal.
The New Testament sheds some important light on this matter of who is welcome and who is not. In fact, the issue is as old as the church. Listen to Matthew as he describes Jesus facing this very problem during the course of his ministry: "As Jesus was walking along, he saw a man named Matthew sitting at a tax booth and said to him, 'Follow me,' and he got up and followed him.
"And as Jesus sat at dinner in the house, many tax collectors and sinners came and were sitting with him and his disciples. When the Pharisees saw this they said to his disciples, 'Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?' But when Jesus heard this he said, 'Those of you who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. Go and learn what this means, 'I desire mercy and not sacrifice.' For I have come not to call the righteous, but sinners.'"
This little story begins with Jesus inviting one of the most hated of civil servants, a despised, quisling-like tax collector, to serve among his inner circle. And then when that corrupt civil servant, Matthew, invites Jesus to dinner, there are surely some religious leaders there, but in addition some wholly immoral and, what we might call these days, ethically challenged, guests included. And the religious leaders, obviously shocked by this undiscriminating guest list, express indignation at this sacrilegious, morally compromised gathering. No way they could participate. And how could Jesus, a rabbi with impeccable moral credentials, inspiring so many with his own immaculate conduct, find himself so obviously at home with these questionable, and in some cases obviously unsavory, characters?
Jesus himself tells us: "Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick."
There is the key! He invites the ones to the party who are most in need. Not the ones with the elegant clothes or the solid reputations. Not the civic leaders, or the socially elite, and not, frankly speaking, not treating the good, the upright, the charitable as special cases, though they are definitely included in this invitation. Jesus welcomes those who come whether they are the "religious types" or not. Surely, the "religious types" join him—but Matthew makes clear the very kind we might not consider religious, the very folk we place in column two, those we might not invite to church—are the very kind Jesus befriends and, scandalously enough, among whom he finds himself very much at home.
You see, the only criteria for supping with him is this sense of need. And that, frankly, is the only distinguishing mark that any of us should bear who come to this table this morning. There is not one of you here this morning who is unwelcome at this table. Not one. Not for reasons of birth, or religious affiliation, or ethnic roots, or national identity. Not for reasons of sexual orientation, or marital complications, or family conundrum. Not for obtuse, stupid, or maybe even selfish, or perhaps malicious personal behavior. Did something go wrong last night, for instance? Did you have too much to drink? And has that been a personal problem for a long time? Has this week been one where you were short with someone you loved, betrayed a trust, procrastinated in kindness, nurtured a grudge? Is this a time, when you are just feeling down, or sad, or overwhelmed, or whipped? Is it a moment when God seems distant, friendship limited? Are you alone, and even as you find yourself among this gathering this morning, isolated, discouraged, up against it? If so, let me insist, first of all, this table is for you. You may think it is for "them," for what you perceive to be all of those contented, serene untroubled and highly moral Christian types. It is for them, but do not for one moment believe they are not in trouble, too. But it is for you, too.
You see, when Jesus says, "I desire mercy and not sacrifice" he wants to make sure that what we do here in this church—in every church—is not simply to go through the motions, march through the ritual, practice our pious religious rites. He insists that what we do here itself serve as paradigm for what we believe about human life and human community. That is why we celebrate our churchmates on the AIDS walk this morning. Beyond these walls they make visible to this city and world the urgent priority of mercy. But it all begins here. This table represents a shared meal, a banquet where we eat and drink together, to be sure, but where more than anything else, grace reigns; the healing, forgiving, physician operates; the one who binds us to eternity and to each other is at work. We gather at this table knowing that through all the words of institution, prayers of consecration, the texts and music of the anthems, the aesthetic of this room, the beauty of this table, the whole affair is a fraud if somehow the mercy—the mercy—the love, and embrace, the grace of the God of that Jesus who shared table with all of those religious outsiders, and yes, those religious insiders, too. Yes, what we do here is null and void if grace does not reach out to you, and in your need, and in your sense of mutual vulnerability and solidarity with others here and in God's world, confirm that seemingly easy and almost trite, yet absolutely essential Divine affirmation: "All welcome."
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