Hey, welcome back here to the Semi -Seminary,
and I'm your old brother, your old buddy, Pastor
Jim. Now, no, I'm not just a famous podcaster.
I'm also the pastor of a small -town church,
kind with hymnals still in the pews and potlucks
that taste like forgiveness. And you, my friend,
stumbled into our Wednesday night Bible study
series where we're walking through the parables
of Jesus, not as puzzles to be solved, but as
invitations to be lived. Tonight, Pulling up
a chair at one of his most uncomfortable tables.
The parable of the guests. When grace makes the
guest list. Because when Jesus starts talking
about where to sit, he's not giving etiquette
lessons. He's revealing the posture of heaven.
The way grace rearranges the seating chart of
the whole world. So grab your Bible, pour a little
coffee, and settle in. Let's sit low enough that
maybe, just maybe, we hear him whisper, friend.
move up higher. If this journey blesses you,
share it. If it convicts you, like it. And if
you're still listening when the lamps burn low,
subscribe so you don't miss the next word of
grace that might just pull up a chair right beside
you. I'll see you on the other side. So I am
going to go ahead and begin. And again, we're
talking parables. And usually parables start,
Jesus' story will start with him asking the crowd
to imagine a scenario. Now, in this passage,
the parable is actually being told in the midst
of the parable playing out around them. This
parable is being told to people the parable is
describing. In the moment. It's fantastic. I
hope you guys will enjoy this one. This one is
a banger. But for us to really get to where we're
going, let's set the scene, okay? Let's kind
of imagine what it's going to look like and sound
like in our heads. The house smells like wealth.
Oil lamps glow against the plastered walls. Laughter
ripples like polished silver. You could taste
that roasted lamb before you see it, the fat
hissing as it drips, the tang of vinegar rising
from those clay bowls. Cushions ring the table,
soft and embroidered, status you can sit on.
Servants slip through shadows, refilling cups,
never speaking. You didn't plan to be here. Maybe
you followed a friend. Maybe curiosity pulled
you in off the street. Either way, sandals are
still dusty from the road and you feel it. You
do not belong here. The air is thick with pride
disguised as politeness. Every guest leans forward,
elbows on cushions, quietly jockeying for position.
You notice the tension under the laughter as
well, that quiet game of hierarchy, every smile
measured, every greeting a little too loud. And
Jesus is here too. He's not at the head of the
table. He, in fact, rarely is. But his presence
pulls at the edges of the room. He's watching,
not like a judge, but like a storyteller about
to begin. And he notices the choreography, the
coughs, the half smiles, the subtle slide towards
honor. His eyes move, not to shame, but to see.
And when the moment ripens like fruit ready to
fall, he speaks. And a hush falls so completely.
that even the oil lamps seem to lean in. The
air changes, suddenly heavier, holy, like everyone
knows something sacred is about to break open.
Before the word is spoken, friends, let your
heart settle. The dust of the day still clings
to your skin, let it fall. The noise of the street
still echoes in your mind, let it fade. Tune
your ears, steady your breath, and listen. Not
for thunder, but for the small voice that still
can shake mountains. Table is set, the lamps
are burning, the host is about to speak. This
is not just an old story, friends, it is an open
invitation, so breathe deep. The same spirit
that hovered over waters now hovers over this
very room, waiting to move. when you decide to
listen. Gospel account according to the physician
Luke, chapter 14, 8 and following. When you are
invited by someone to a wedding feast, do not
sit down at a place of honor, lest someone more
distinguished than you be invited by him. And
he who invited you both, they will both come
and say to you, Give your place to this person.
And then you will begin with shame to take the
lowest place. But when you're invited, go and
sit in the lowest place, so that when the host
comes, he may say to you, Friend, move up higher.
Then you will be honored in the presence of all
of those who sit at the table with you. For everyone
exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles
himself will, in fact, be exalted. Thus, friends,
Eden ends the reading, but not the invitation.
Words have gone out like seed on the wind, falling
where hearts are soft enough to catch them. The
room holds its breath somewhere between silence
and understanding. Grace takes a seat. For those
with ears, let them hear. The feast has already
begun. And maybe that's the quiet miracle. A
scripture once spoken doesn't stop speaking.
It echoes through time. Looking for a room just
like this one. Hearts just like ours. This, like
I mentioned, isn't a parable that you actually
listen to from a distance. It happens right around
you. You're sitting there, adjusting your seat,
pretending not to notice how everyone else is
inching closer to the honored spots. You reach
for your cup just as Jesus' eyes lift, and suddenly
you feel seen. Really seen. Luke says he noticed
how you and the others chose the best seats.
That word noticed feels heavy now. Like the slow,
careful gaze of a physician who knows exactly
what's wrong with you before you even say a word.
Every cough, every shuffle of your robe, every
quiet move towards honor becomes a symptom. He
starts talking and you realize he's telling a
story about this very table. The words slide
out like parables always do, gentle at first,
then cutting through the air like a blade of
mercy. You hear yourself in the story. You see
your own hands on the cushion. It's holy mischief,
truth wrapped in casual conversation. He isn't
lecturing you. He's holding up a mirror. And
somehow, that mirror feels like grace. Humiliation
is when you're exposed and then left alone. Conviction
is when you're exposed and you're invited to
change. And you feel the invitation before you
fully understand the story. He's catching us
mid -motion. Before pride turns to shame, it
isn't cruelty, it's care. It's the kind of grace
that stings first and heals later like an aseptic
poured on an open wound. You wince, but you know
it's working. You realize he's not just protecting
you from public embarrassment. He's trying to
actually free you. Pride builds a cage and calls
it a throne. And every time you climb higher,
the walls close in. And his words pry those hinges
loose. You feel like maybe you can almost breathe
again. And the room stills. You listen the way
a child listens to thunder on a safe porch, half
afraid, half in awe. You glance at the rich man
beside you whose hands won't stop fidgeting.
The teacher pretending not to listen. The servant
by the door who whispers a prayer that maybe
this table will make a space for him too. Then
you feel it. The realization that Jesus isn't
just talking to them, he's talking to you. Pride
isn't out there. It's in here. Fight for the
head of the table happens inside your chest.
The only way to win is to stop fighting. You
lower your eyes. The oil lamps, they flicker.
Somewhere behind the silence, you hear his voice
again, steady, kind, and near. Friend, pick the
lower place. The story lingers in the air. No
one wants to be the first to move. One man clears
his throat, trying to sound casual, but his eyes
betray him. Another shifts his seat, creaking
like a confession. The laughter from earlier
has now died, replaced by a silence heavy enough
to feel. And Jesus doesn't have to point his
finger at us. Truth is already doing its work.
Pride has a way of blushing when it's caught
in the light. The men who came to be honored
now find themselves weighted by their own hunger
for attention. They realize how much of their
religion has become performance. The long prayers,
the polished manners, the elbowing for approval,
all dressed up as devotion. And yet Jesus doesn't
mock them. Doesn't roll his eyes at them or humiliate
them in front of their friends. Instead, he does
what shame often is able and meant to do. Lead
us back to humility. Because the only thing worse
than being humble is staying proud. In that lamplight
quiet, the word becomes a mirror. Each person
sees what he didn't want to see, and for just
a moment, he's free to do something about it.
Grace has a strange way of uncovering you so
it can clothe you again. What feels like exposure
is often mercy in disguise. Sometimes the spirit
doesn't whisper comfort. Sometimes the spirit
whispers, look. The silence deepens, and in it,
Jesus' words begin to stretch beyond the walls
of that room. You can almost see it, the table
fading away, the Pharisee's house dissolving
into something older, holier. Suddenly, the scene
shimmers into Isaiah's mouth. Smell of lamb and
vinegar gives way to the scent of rich wine and
roasted grain. A feast for all people spread
before the eyes of the poor, the forgotten, the
ones who never thought they'd be invited. Isaiah
25 and 6. On this mountain, Isaiah had said,
Lord Almighty will prepare a feast of rich food
for all peoples, a banquet of aged wine. Best
of meats, the finest of wines. Jesus doesn't
quote it because he doesn't have to. Every scholar,
every person at that table, perhaps save the
servants and maybe them too, would have known
those words by heart. They could taste them.
They just never thought they'd be the ones needing
the mercy to enter the feast. And then, as quickly
as that mountain appeared, it becomes another
vision, this time from the future. The oil lamps
dim, and the light becomes wedding white. Great
table stretches beyond sight, and a voice from
somewhere beyond the stars calls out, Prophecy
of the Revelation 19 and 9. Blessed are those
who are invited to the wedding supper of the
Lamb. Same table. Same host, only the guest list
has changed. The first have made way for the
last, and the last have come running home. Between
the mountain and the marriage sits this simple
meal in Galilee, where God whispers eternity
over dinner. And here's the secret that slips
by every generation. Not just a table from the
past or a table yet to come. It's this table
too. Every communion, every potluck, every meal
shared with humility becomes a rehearsal for
the wedding feast. When we bow our heads, when
we share bread without pretense, heaven draws
near. When the vision fades, room's quiet again.
Jesus looks around, not in triumph, but in invitation.
Kingdom isn't far away after death. It's here,
breaking in through humility and hospitality.
Heaven begins whenever someone makes room for
another soul. Jesus doesn't stand to preach his
parable. He stays seated near the middle where
anyone can reach him. He leans forward just enough
that everyone can hear, and his voice softens
like bread breaking. You've all been chasing
the head of the table, he seems to say. But I've
been sitting here right among you. His words
ripple through the room. The crowd feels smaller,
but in a good way. Like they're finally standing
where the ground is level. The poor feel seen.
the servants start to breathe a little easier.
A man near the door, the one who never took off
his cloak, suddenly stands. He doesn't make a
speech. He just moves towards the lowest seat
at the table. The room watches him, startled.
And then, one by one, they begin to follow suit.
No one commands them. The spirit does the seating
now. You can almost hear Isaiah's echo in the
shuffle of feet. He has brought down rulers from
the thrones and lifted up the humble. Humility
spreads like fire sparking in dry straw. The
meal isn't over. Something holy has begun. The
host is rearranging hearts, and somewhere in
the middle of that humble movement, Joy appears.
Quiet, contagious, undeniable. Maybe that's why
Jesus smiled when he said, for everyone who exalts
himself will be humbled, and everyone who humbles
himself will be exalted. It wasn't a threat.
It was a promise. He is describing how gravity
works in the kingdom. you climb, the farther
you fall. But when you kneel, you find yourself
lifted by unseen hands. The lamps burn lower
now. The food's gone cold. Guests sit quieter,
softer, changed. Jesus rises not with fanfare
but with the gentleness of someone who's already
said everything that needs to be said. He looks
around the table one last time. No one dares
meet his eyes for too long, but no one dares
to look away either. The silence feels different
now, less like guilt, more like grace finding
its way in. He steps towards the door, and before
he leaves, he turns just enough for his voice
to reach them. And stay at this table if you
are willing to move lower. It's the gospel in
one motion, God stooping so the rest of us could
rise. The host of heaven took the lowest seat
so that the whole world could hear the same invitation
print, move up higher. And when the door closes
behind him, the guests sit in the flicker of
fading light, not sure whether to cry or to sing.
Outside the night air is cool and quiet, stars
scattered like promises. Inside the bread still
smells like hope. The echo of that room still
hums through time. Every act of humility still
sounds like a hymn. Every table where someone
makes space for the forgotten becomes a foretaste
of glory. Glory that is ours. We will just pick
a seat. Amen? Amen. Thank you, guys. Maybe you've
been fighting for a better seat at work, in church,
even in your own heart. Maybe you've spent years
trying to prove you belong at the table. But
friend, in the kingdom of God, the only way up
is down. The only ladder worth climbing is the
one Jesus descended. Good news of the parable
is that the host himself took the lowest seat,
so there'd be room for you. He didn't come to
impress the guests. He came to make us family.
So if you've been living like an uninvited soul,
hear this. Grace already wrote your name on the
guest list. You don't have to earn it. You just
have to show up and sit where mercy tells you
to sit. The banquet's not in some far -off heaven.
It's wherever humility and love make room for
another soul. That's the feast we're tasting
tonight. This word found you somewhere between
pride and hunger. Share it with someone who else
is standing at the door. If it stirred something
tender in you, go ahead and hit the like button.
Tells the algorithm what your soul already knows.
Grace is trending. And subscribe. so you don't
miss the next table where Jesus might just sit
down right beside you. I'll see you then.