For reference see the first essay of this series and also Matthew 22: 1- 13
I need to go back. Somehow I got confused. Got lost on the way to the banquet. Conflated conscious living with a to-do list, joyful readiness with a focus on what I should do next.
I need to retrace my path. I need to go back.
Go back to the idea of feasting, why it is we don’t wear our everyday clothes to the formal dining room. It’s not to impress anyone, really. It’s because — well — we need to step into a different state of mind.
A meal like this is something we come to naked in a way. The story makes it clear we’re not here because of anything we’ve done — nothing we’ve accomplished or acquired, hoarded or touted or even inspired got us this invite.
We’re guests at this feast. No one even asked us to bring hors d’oeuvres. We can’t get by on how good our deviled eggs are or if anyone’s heard about our latest promotion. It’s just us standing on the threshold of a room with tables full of food.
And our best clothes aren’t good enough. Of course they’re not. Not for that pressed linen or the crystal glasses sparkling right along with the silverware that’s real silver; all those polished surfaces catching the light of candles, which, themselves, rest in polished candelabra.
Our best clothes aren’t good enough for the smell of meat in the air and bread that’s freshly baked; potatoes, green vegetables, afterwards cake, all of it in perfect abundance; we will be full and satisfied, couldn’t overfill ourselves if we tried; this food brings only satiety. Always enough and never too much. How can we, even in our finest finery be enough for that?
We’re not, and yet that’s not what’s asked.
“The food is ready; won’t you be ready?
Won’t you be ready to sit at the table I lead you to? Come dressed in the garment that isn’t clothes but rather readiness; the self you put on to sit with these people who are just like you, hiding dirty fingernails under a silk napkin, overawed by all of it. Come ready to see them as I do:
The young man, father of three already at twenty-two. How he sat shyly in the barber chair, pulled a sock cap off a shock of tangled hair and let the woman comb it. She asked him what he wanted — he didn’t know. Something better, more professional. Was he starting a new job? No. Just — well — he didn’t know how to say it.
Watch the tenderness with which she put the razor to the back of his neck, clipped away with scissors until he was transformed into something new. How he looked in the mirror and didn’t know what to say.
Oh, won’t you come this way — come to the table that’s set for you, putting on the garment which isn’t clothes but rather the love I have for you — look how I drape it over you, arrange it so it fits, and you, transformed, come sit at the table with hands made gentle and eyes softened, ready to make others new. This is the feast I have for you.”
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