Lectionary Commentaries for October 11, 2026
Twentieth Sunday after Pentecost
from WorkingPreacher.org
Gospel
Commentary on Matthew 22:1-14
Carolyn J. Sharp
First Reading
Commentary on Isaiah 25:1-9
Bo Lim
Interpreters of Isaiah have observed that the book can be summarized as a “tale of two cities” that tells the story of how Jerusalem, also referred to as Zion, is redeemed. On the one hand, Jerusalem is its own worst enemy due to its wickedness and corruption, but its enemies are also external. Jerusalem is oppressed by foreign empires and nations, both far and near, exemplified most notably by the city of Babylon. For God’s people to experience peace and joy, not only do they need to experience the forgiveness of their own sins, but they need to be liberated from foreign powers.
This contrast between two cities—a “strong city” (Isaiah 26:1) where the righteous dwell under God’s protection, and a city of ruin (Isaiah 25:2) inhabited by foreign powers—serves as the central theme of Isaiah 24–27 and of this Sunday’s lectionary text, Isaiah 25:1–9. This passage testifies to God’s commitment to judge and destroy all foreign powers that threaten the people of God, and to restore and save the poor and distressed who find refuge in him.
The genre of Isaiah 25 is a hymn of thanksgiving and can be divided into three parts, verses 1–5, verses 6–8, and verses 9–12. The psalm opens in verse 1 with a stereotypical formula found in the book of Psalms, where an individual worshipper extols and praises God (see also Psalm 9:1; 30:1). This phrase is followed with four statements, each introduced by the particle “for” (kî), that provide the rationale for the worshipper’s praise.
The first rationale is somewhat generic: “wonderful things, plans formed of old, faithful and sure” (Isaiah 25:1). Yet it demonstrates that God’s actions are deliberate and consistent with his character. Verse 2 specifies that the cause of celebration is God’s complete destruction of a powerful foreign city. This city is described as fortified, containing a palace, and will never rise again to threaten God’s people. The third kî phrase, which opens verse 4, demonstrates that these sentiments ought not to be understood as xenophobia. Apparently, this foreign city oppressed the poor and needy, and its destruction is a demonstration of God’s care for the most vulnerable. The last kî phrase comprises the latter half of verse 4 and portrays God as a shelter and shade in stark contrast to the foreign city that is described as ruthless and causing a storm.
Whereas the first five verses celebrate God’s mighty acts of the past, the next section, 25:6–8, shifts to a vision of a future feast for all people and the defeat of death itself. Blenkinsopp rightly observes, “Sharing a meal has always been one of the most effective means of achieving and celebrating reconciliation and bonding in general and one of the great metaphors for well-being.”1 So it is not surprising that it appears throughout Scripture to describe God’s final hope for humanity. The meal described in 25:6 does not contain ordinary fare; the terms used to describe the food and drink are uncommon and indicate that this is a special occasion and, in this case, commemorates God’s victory over all threats toward God’s people.
The site of this meal is described as “this mountain” (25:6, 7, 10), which is undoubtedly Mount Zion (see also 24:23). In the book of Isaiah, Zion serves as both the site of God’s peaceful rule and reign over the entire earth (see also 2:2–4), and the location of God’s defeat over evil powers (see also Isaiah 36:1–37:38). It is at Mount Zion that God’s defeat of the foreign city described in 25:2–5 takes place, and it is at Zion where death is defeated forever. This view of Jerusalem as the site of both the judgment and salvation of Israel and the nations is shared by Jesus as portrayed in the Gospels.
The phrase that opens verse 8—“He will swallow up death forever”—is an allusion to the Canaanite myth where death, personified as the deity Mot, swallows the god of fertility and storms, Baal Hadad. In a stark polemic against and reversal of this myth, Isaiah declares that God will swallow up death forever. Yahweh is victor, not death, and at the eschatological banquet while God’s people enjoy sumptuous food, God dines on death itself. Verse 8 goes on to describe that the result of God’s defeat of death is the end of sorrow, hurt, and disgrace for God’s people throughout the earth. Verse 8 ends with the prophetic stereotypical formula, “for the LORD has spoken” which signifies the surety of what has been declared.
Verse 9 introduces a new section of the chapter, with the author introducing another psalm, yet now he speaks in the first-person plural as a representative of the community. Having taken into consideration God’s actions in the past, described in 25:1–5, and the future hope for God’s people, envisioned in 25:6–8, the worshipper understands the nature of faithful living in the present. History will include the defeat of evil powers, and the book of Isaiah itself will testify to the demise of the Assyrian and Babylonian empires. The end of these kingdoms demonstrates that no power threatens the reign of the true king of the heavens and earth, Yahweh.
And yet, suffering will persist until a future moment when death, the ultimate enemy of God’s people, is destroyed. Until then, the proper response of God’s people is not to despair, nor to assume they can defeat evil and death with their own might, but instead to wait patiently upon the salvation of God.
Isaiah 25:1–9 contains a much-needed message for our current moment, in which great political, economic, religious, and cultural powers prey upon the poor and needy. God’s people can give thanks and praise to God because all these forces will come to an end, and they can be assured that a great reward awaits those who wait on the Lord. This teaching is affirmed in the Gospel reading for today in Matthew 22:1–14, where Jesus announces that the kingdom of heaven is like a wedding banquet reserved only for those who are found worthy.
Notes
- Joseph Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 1–39: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, Anchor Bible 19 (Doubleday, 2000), 358.
Alternate First Reading
Commentary on Exodus 32:1-14
Esther M. Menn
The golden calf episode in Exodus 321 is a disturbing tale that expresses the self-critical genius of the Jewish scriptures, which the church treasures as its First Testament. Reading Exodus 32 as Christians, our primary identification is with the Israelites, under judgment for constructing and worshipping false gods. Turning away from God to serve other masters continues to be a temptation today. The text’s framing of the incident provides insight into the vulnerability of communities to losing focus on true worship.
The brilliance of this simple narrative includes its placement at the foot of Mount Sinai, where “all the people” have heard the Ten Commandments (Exodus 20:1–18). As Moses receives additional instructions for the covenantal way of life, there is a violation of the most fundamental of God’s commandments: “I am the LORD your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery; you shall have no other gods before me. You shall not make for yourself an idol…” (Exodus 20:2–4; see also 20:23).
Moses’s absence for 40 days creates anxiety and suggests that God is also absent. The people begin to acknowledge their human leader as their deliverer: “As for this Moses, the man who brought us up out of Egypt, we do not know what has become of him” (Exodus 32:23). Feeling abandoned, the Israelites react with fear and retrieve what may have been an Egyptian symbol, despite their liberation. (The Egyptian god Apis had the form of a bull, for example.) The crowd’s response upon seeing the calf is to credit it with God’s saving power: “These are your gods, O Israel, who brought you up out of the land of Egypt!” (verse 4).
Perhaps fearing disorder, Moses’s brother and spokesperson, Aaron, accommodates the people’s desire for assurance and security through an accessible deity. Aaron becomes their project manager, facilitating the people’s collection of jewelry and creating an “image of a calf” (verse 4; “the calf that Aaron made,” verse 35). Aaron, who eventually becomes a priest in service of God, unifies the community by building an altar and declaring a grand festival involving sacrifices, singing, and dancing (verses 4, 8, 18–19).
Aaron later deflects blame for the abomination onto the people and claims that the bull emerged spontaneously from the fire (Exodus 32:21–24). Aaron’s malleability away from true service toward the appeasement of a congregation stands as a powerful warning to religious leaders of every time to stay focused on the needs of the community, not the wants of its most influential members.
The irresistible draw of foreign deities during times of insecurity is repeated throughout the Hebrew Scriptures. Specifically, the image of the calf is woven throughout the Bible, showing the ongoing challenge of establishing true monotheism when surrounded by polytheistic symbology and cultures. The story of the golden calf is interpreted by many biblical scholars as a retrospective critique of the Northern Kingdom of Israel, as well as the Jerusalem priesthood.
A prime example comes in the words of Jeroboam, the first king of the Northern Kingdom, who set up two calves at the shrines of Bethel and Dan to encourage worship within his own territory and discourage pilgrimage to Jerusalem (1 Kings 12:25–33). In a parallel to Exodus 32:4, Jeroboam declares, “Here are your gods, O Israel, who brought you up out of the land of Egypt” (1 Kings 12:28). Aaron and the people are forgiven by God in this story, whereas the “sin of Jeroboam” was viewed as the cause for the fall of the Northern Kingdom to the Assyrians in 722 BCE (2 Kings 17:21–23).
Atop Sinai, God speaks frankly with Moses “face to face as one speaks with a friend” (Exodus 33:11). Like a father angered by his children’s betrayal, God relinquishes responsibility for the Israelites, saying to Moses that they are “your people whom you have brought out of the land of Egypt” (verse 7). God tests Moses by threatening to destroy the rebellious Israelites and establish Moses as the founding figure of a more faithful people (verses 9–10).
Impassioned and committed in his argument against divine anger, Moses rightly credits deliverance to God, “who brought the people out of Egypt” (verse 11). He also appeals to the promises made to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob to make them numerous and to bring them into a good land. Our passage concludes with the reassurance that God “changed his mind about the disaster” he had considered (verse 14).
Moses has effectively argued on behalf of his people, but several verses later he himself experiences the deep anger of betrayal. Descending and seeing dancing around the calf, he breaks the stone tablets engraved with God’s writing (verses 15, 19). Moses again approaches God seeking forgiveness on behalf of the people to learn that those who sinned would be held accountable (verses 32–33). Yet through Moses’s intercession, God promises to send his presence before the Israelite as they leave Sinai, and he renews the covenant with new stone tablets replacing those that were broken.
This story concludes with illustrations of the attributes of God that are shown to Moses, when God is described as “merciful and gracious, slow to anger” (Exodus 34:5–7).
Allegories of the calf have been offered throughout history, commonly as a symbol for greed and worship of wealth. This understanding fits well with contemporary society as the gap between rich and poor widens and corruption by politicians, corporations, and billionaires is endemic. When wealth, nationalism, reputation, screen time, or any other enthusiasm distances us from God and our neighbor rather than promoting right relationships and the common good, we are in danger of idolatry. Worship of the calf escalates out of control in Exodus 32, bringing to mind recent alarms concerning accelerating climate change and unharnessed artificial intelligence. May we strive to remind ourselves and others that only the One God has the power to liberate from oppression, to forgive, and to lead people into the righteous ways of covenant life.
Notes
- Thanks to Rabbi Anna Levin-Rosen and Dr. Peter Pettit for insightful and constructive editorial advice.
Psalm
Commentary on Psalm 23
Jin H. Han
The ubiquitous Psalm 23 has enriched the lives of believers, both Jews and Christians.1 It is so frequently recited in Christian funeral and memorial services (whereas Psalm 90 is more commonly used in the Jewish services) that many may imagine it is a Christian prayer. The first line, which also serves as the title, says it all: “The LORD is my shepherd.”
We may imagine a shepherd of the Middle East, who pays undivided attention to the well-being of the sheep. Such care preempts any sense of scarcity. “I shall not want” creates a gateway to superabundance, leading to the next scene of the sheep lying down in “lush meadows” (verse 2, Eugene Peterson’s The Message).
Ordinarily, we think of people lying down on their backs, but most animals do not do that. Some animals may sleep standing or kneeling, but most of them sprawl. Perhaps we have a picture of exhaustion here—alternatively, a posture of repose. Thanks to the good shepherd, the sheep finds rest, sustenance, and confidence in the green pastures next to the water, where everything that the sheep may need or want has been provided.
In the next scene the poet is “beside still waters” (verse 2). For ancient Hebrews, water is often an image of primordial chaotic powers (see also Psalms 33:7; 74:13). Instead of the water that is a scare, Psalm 23:2 depicts quiet waters that present no threat. The poet has not come upon this place of peace by accident. The Lord’s gentle guidance (see also Isaiah 40:11) made possible what would have been impossible otherwise.
The poet continues dwelling on the shepherd, who leads the flock “in right paths” (verse 3b). Often, many of us assume that a right path is straight, but there are not many roads with no bend in nature. Even in urban settings planned by civil engineers, the straight street is more uncommon than common. Apart from the shape or condition of the track, a right path leads the flock where they need to be. Physically, the path may be crooked, but it is the right path for me. The poet recognizes that God does that for the divine name’s sake, making each crooked turn into a moment when God’s gracious involvement is recognized.
The poet makes no mistake about life that can take us to a dark time and place. The King James Version has made the “darkest valley” famous by calling it “the valley of the shadow of death”—one of the most memorable examples of the early modern English Bible. Danger lurks in the dark, but the psalmist declares, “I fear no evil.”
Difficult situations cannot be avoided, and fear comes with a double punch: one with the threat of evil, and the other with the fear of it. With the Lord, the poet is confident that neither will grab him. The poet has no fear, not because of courage or a strong heart but because of the Lord’s accompanying presence. The proposition of divine companionship echoes the same in the name Immanuel.
The shepherd that walks with the sheep carries a rod and a staff. The former is a weapon to fight off hostile beasts and others. The latter guides the sheep that tend to go astray. The implements provide comfort—a word that conveys not only relief but also recovery from grief (see Genesis 38:12; Jeremiah 31:15).
In the midst of the specter of terror, the poet imagines a feast. As long as one can eat, one can endure anything. Of course, one would not ordinarily plan to have a meal while facing those who may have hostile intent. Nor should one refuse to eat in comfortable situations. All provision one may get is what the Lord has provided.
Even in harm’s way, the poet names God’s anointing—the gift of abundance like the precious oil dripping down on Aaron’s beard and garment in Psalm 133:2. And the cup overflows freely. The overage is not a picture of wastefulness, although celebration and frugality do not always make a fitting couple. Instead, it evokes an image of superabundance. Besides, the surplus may quench the thirst of someone random.
The poet concludes with a declaration of faith. In Hebrew, the adverb that heads the sentence (“surely”) speaks not only of certitude but also of confidence. The Hebrew can also translate as “only,” with which the poem anticipates nothing but “goodness and mercy” in the days ahead. Troubles may come and go, but God will always accompany us for all seasons.
Most modern translations state that God’s goodness and mercy “follow” the poet. This traditional translation is tolerable, but it hardly does justice to the drift of the poetry, for the Hebrew literally means “pursue.” The same verb is found in the description of Pharaoh’s army pursuing the people of Israel in Exodus 14:8, 9, 23.
In other words, the poet speaks of God’s goodness and mercy in a vigorous pursuit, like enemy forces pursuing their target. In Psalm 23, God comes after us and will not rest until we find goodness and mercy.
The dynamic life of being pursued is paired with one of settling down (literally, sitting down). The latter state of serenity comes with the fantastic time stamps “all the days of my life” and “my whole life long.” The poet wants to live all the time in the house of the Lord. One may be tempted to imagine that the poet goes to the temple in Jerusalem every day. Since the poet imagines being a sheep in the Lord’s fold, however, the poet probably means it metaphorically, referring to the house of the Lord as the location of God’s presence. There is no conflict here.
Some early church itineraries to the Holy Land invite one to wonder whether the pilgrimage was imaginary or virtual. Many cannot make the trip but still can be in a state of worship before God for life. In a comparable manner, the poet of Psalm 23 also imagines being in the house of the Lord, even when the temple may have been beyond reach. After all, we can always be in the presence of God, the good shepherd, no matter where we may be physically.
Notes
- Commentary published previously on this website for May 8, 2022.
Second Reading
Commentary on Philippians 4:1-9
Ryan Schellenberg
The final chapter of Paul’s letter to his beloved friends in Philippi begins with an effusive display of his gratitude and affection: “My brothers and sisters, whom I love and long for” (Philippians 4:1). And no wonder. When Paul was in a tight spot in neighboring Thessalonica, the believers in Philippi had sent funds to help him get by (4:15–16). When he was in trouble in Corinth, the Philippians had sent help there too (2 Corinthians 11:9). And now, with Paul stuck in prison, unable to meet his own basic needs, it was the Philippians who had mobilized to send support, commissioning a man named Epaphroditus to bring him assistance (Philippians 2:25–30; 4:18).
But the Philippian believers were more to Paul than a source of income to fund his precarious mission. They were also proof that it was all worthwhile. “My joy and crown!” he calls them here (4:1). Similar language in 1 Thessalonians 2:19 helps clarify what he means: “For what is our hope or joy or crown of boasting before our Lord Jesus at his coming?” he asks the Thessalonian believers. “Is it not you?”
On the day of Christ’s return, when he fixes his eyes on his faithful slave Paul and asks for an accounting of his labors, Paul knows he will be able to point with pride to the groups of believers he has founded in Philippi and Thessalonica. If you hold true, Paul writes, “I can boast on the day of Christ that I did not run in vain or labor in vain” (Philippians 2:16).
So Paul has a lot riding on the continued faithfulness of these gentile believers. Perhaps it is no surprise that he is sometimes a bit preachy or overbearing.
Euodia and Syntyche
There is an old exegetical tradition that views Philippians 4:2–3 as Paul’s response to a quarrel between Eudoia and Syntyche, two prominent women in the Philippian Christ assembly. Paul has heard about their dispute, the story goes, and now asks them to get along.
Look more closely at Paul’s wording, however, and the evidence for a quarrel between these two women vanishes.1 What Paul wants from Eudoia and Syntyche is that they “be of the same mind [to auto phronein] in the Lord.” Careful readers of the letter will recall this language from chapter 2, where Paul had counseled the whole assembly to “be of the same mind” (to auto phronēte)—that is, to share the disposition of Christ, focused on service and self-giving love (2:2, 5). In the face of hardship and opposition, Paul had urged the Philippians to have one another’s backs.
As he brings the letter to a close, Paul reiterates this exhortation, now singling out a handful of important leaders who have, as he puts it, struggled beside him in the work of the gospel (4:3): Euodia, Syntyche, Clement, and an unnamed “yokefellow”—perhaps Epaphroditus himself, who has returned to Philippi with Paul’s letter after visiting him in prison (2:25–30). By exhorting Euodia and Syntyche to be united in service, Paul urges them to lead by example (see also 3:17). By issuing this exhortation publicly, he invites other believers to honor their leadership role.
This should not be passed over too quickly. Eudoia and Syntyche were important leaders among the Philippian believers. Judging from their names, they may also have been slaves or former slaves.2 If so, it was Christian women following in their footsteps whom the Roman governor Pliny interrogated in the early second century—“two slave-women,” he reported to Emperor Trajan, “whom they call deaconesses.”3
Attention and the politics of prayer
The remainder of the passage focuses on what might best be called practices of attention. “Think about these things” (4:8), Paul writes, inviting the Philippians to set their minds on what is true, what is honorable, and what is excellent.
As the headlines remind us every day, we live in a world reeling from multiple and overlapping crises: political, cultural, and ecological. In this context, the notion of fixing one’s attention on what is pleasing and praiseworthy might sound like mere escapism, a willful retreat to blissful ignorance. Do we not have a moral duty to face our troubling reality head-on? “Have the courage to be frightened, and to frighten others too,” urged Günther Anders in 1962 as humanity stared down the prospect of nuclear annihilation. “Frighten thy neighbor as thyself.”4 This is no time for blithe optimism, he insisted.
A few generations later, however, we seem to have exhausted our capacity for productive fear. Doomscrolling, we now call it—an algorithmically curated tour of our landscape of despair. Meanwhile, so-called social media companies monetize our collective anxiety and our impotent outrage, competing for our attention and selling it to the highest bidder.5 “Convert eyeballs into cash”—this, as Chris Hayes notes, is the defining transaction of the digital age.6
In this context, choosing where we give our attention is both a vitally important spiritual practice and a profoundly political act. As Philippians 4:4–9 suggests, our most basic feelings and dispositions—joy, gentleness, peace—are shaped by our habits of attention. To fix our eyes on the goodness of God’s creation is not an attempt to escape the suffering of the world or evade responsibility for it. It is rather a way to resist the paralysis of despair, to nurture the dispositions of heart and mind that can keep us focused and fruitful even in hostile territory—in other words, as Paul puts it, to “stand firm” (4:1).
One way to do so is to cultivate a habit of prayer (4:6–7). Prayer is an intentional practice of holding in one’s attention the objects of one’s deepest care. Of course, from an economic perspective, the act of prayer is utterly worthless. And for this very reason it is revolutionary. Prayer offers a way to opt out of the commodification of our attention and to offer our hearts freely to God.
Notes
- Richard G. Fellows and Alistair C. Stewart, “Euodia, Syntyche and the Role of Syzygos: Phil 4:2–3,” Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 109 (2018): 222–234.
- Richard S. Ascough, Paul’s Macedonian Associations: The Social Context of Philippians and 1 Thessalonians (Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 125.
- Pliny, Letters 10.96.8, trans. Radice, LCL.
- Günther Anders, “Theses for the Atomic Age,” Massachusetts Review 3 (1962): 498.
- Tim Wu, The Attention Merchants: The Epic Scramble to Get Inside Our Heads (Knopf, 2016).
- Chris Hayes, The Sirens’ Call: How Attention Became the World’s Most Endangered Resource (Penguin Press, 2025).
Jesus continues his bold teaching in a volatile social context that threatens to erupt into open conflict between his followers and the religious authorities. The parable Jesus offered just prior to this has made clear that the kingdom of God will be taken away from leaders who have refused to yield the harvest of their vineyard, instead beating and killing those sent to collect the fruit (21:33–41). The scribes and Pharisees have targeted Jesus for arrest, but for now, they keep their distance, aware that he is honored by the crowds as a prophet (21:46).
In the parable of the wedding banquet, when the first invitees are found to be morally unfit and violent, they are replaced by others; the resonance with the previous parable is unmistakable. Jesus seems to escalate the tension here, suggesting that those who have treated the invitation of God with contempt will face dire consequences from on high.
The parallel treatment of the banquet in Luke 14:16–24 differs in striking ways from Matthew’s version. Scholars have not reached consensus on the direction of influence, but there is no doubt that Matthew has shaped the received material in dramatic ways. The preacher should consider the differences thoughtfully in sermon preparation, while resisting the temptation to wax didactic from the pulpit about synoptic comparisons in a way that might leave listeners confused or disengaged.
Political dimensions are magnified within the plot and characterization of Matthew’s parable, something that sharpens the challenge Matthew poses to worldly empires and heightens the eschatological force of the theological subtext. An unspecified person giving a great dinner in Luke 14 becomes a ruler offering a wedding banquet for his son in Matthew 22. Walter Wilson emphasizes the imperial nature of Matthew’s framing, interpreting the invitees as municipal leaders, “their refusal to attend the banquet as an expression of political disloyalty toward the royal family,” and their violent treatment of the palace emissaries as “an act of sedition.”1 This reading lends force to the interpretation of the First Gospel as counter-imperial in its ethos.
In Luke, a single slave extending invitations receives the invitees’ refusals and simply reports the responses, whereas in Matthew, two groups of slaves are dispatched: The first group receives answers of refusal, as in Luke, but the second group is mistreated and killed. This brings to mind the murderous violence in the preceding parable of the wicked tenants (21:33–41). The broader parabolic discourse of Jesus is becoming increasingly alarming, a quality of the rhetorical arc of the First Gospel that is relevant for the preacher.
In Luke 14, the householder becomes angry, but there are no consequences for those who declined the invitation. He simply invites a new roster of guests: people in poverty, persons with mobility challenges, and those with visual impairment are welcomed to the feast, showing Luke’s characteristic pastoral esteem for those on the margins of society. In Matthew 22, the enraged ruler sends troops to execute the offenders and set the city ablaze. New guests are gathered to the table, “both good and bad,” a detail that prompts fourth-century bishop Hilary of Poitiers to comment, “Crimes committed in the past are forgiven by the gift of grace … a reprieve is granted to all.”2
Matthew crafts a terrifying twist for his audience: A guest discovered to lack a wedding garment is to be “bound hand and foot” and thrown “into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth” (22:13). This “outer darkness” occurs also in 8:12 and 25:30 (and not in the Lukan parallels) as the eschatological destination of “heirs of the kingdom” who have proved to be faithless or incompetent stewards of that which has been entrusted to them. The threefold iteration of the motif underscores how serious Matthew is about end-time torment awaiting those who dishonor the invitation of God’s grace.
Imagining the hell of 22:13, we realize to our astonishment that the wedding feast is not just a joyous celebration. It provides sanctuary from malevolent forces that threaten believers. The kingdom of heaven turns out to be a bulwark against the eternal darkness and unending agony that await the malfeasant. Even those who had accepted the invitation of God but are spiritually unprepared are at risk. In this light, the aphoristic “Many are called, but few are chosen” (22:14; compare 4 Ezra 8:1, 3) is absolutely chilling.
A primary task for preachers is to help believers hear and respond to the invitations of God. Homiletician Ronald Allen observes, “Invitations come in as many forms as there are forms of life”; the preacher should “amplify the congregation’s awareness of the invitations … consistent with God’s purpose” for “love, peace, justice, abundance,” and spiritual transformation.3
Are the distractions of life getting in the way of responding with wholehearted commitment to God’s grace in Jesus Christ? Do some assume that because God is love (1 John 4:8, 16), God will be infinitely patient with the self-absorption of sinners who are lukewarm in the faith (Matthew 7:21; 13:22 and par.; Revelation 3:15–16)? This dramatic parable warns strongly against complacency within the church.
Matthew challenges believers to consider how they will present themselves at the eschatological feast of God. Jerome of Stridon (died 420) offers, “The wedding garments are the Lord’s commands and the works that are fulfilled from the Law and the Gospel. These become the clothing” of the person made new in Christ (2 Corinthians 5:17; Galatians 6:15; Ephesians 2:15).4 The preacher might muse on what it means to be clothed in Christ (Romans 13:14; Galatians 3:27), wrapped in the figurative sackcloth of repentance, or garbed in the virtues of compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, and love (Colossians 3:12–14).
Relevant here is Jesus’s teaching in Matthew 25:31–46 about the coming judgment: Those who had been responsive to others’ suffering will “inherit the kingdom prepared for [them] from the foundation of the world,” while those who showed callous disregard for the vulnerable will “depart … into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels.” Heeding Matthew, preachers can make vividly clear the magnitude of every ethical and theological choice confronting believers.
Notes