Lent 4, 2026
1 Samuel 16:1-13
Psalm 23
Ephesians 5:8-14
John 9:1-41
In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.
In the three-year cycle of the church year, this was the Sunday in 2020 when everything changed. It was the first Sunday when we somehow became a parish that only streamed services, though we had never streamed any services before that. That Sunday, we had these exact same readings. Cristin read them to you offscreen, as I sat in the chapel leading Morning Prayer for the first Sunday ever. Levi played the organ, and Andrew chanted the Psalm in an empty room. And we all wondered if people could ever return to this little postage stamp of Christianity. Would people ever get back inside the building we so loved?
And we did come back. And—of course—some people did not come back. Some people decided the priest was too political, or someone else was too conservative, or since their parents were no longer around to make them come to church . . . for whatever reason, some people decided this was no longer the place for them on Sundays.
There is no denying that the covid pandemic six years ago changed everything about church. And we can’t put the genie back in the bottle by wishing it was 1976 again. So I just want to acknowledge that the world changed six years ago, and the ramifications of those “unprecedented times” are still with us. Everything changed. But as you’ll see in our catechism in the Book of Common Prayer, the mission of the Church remains the same as ever: “to restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ.” That’s why we’re here, no matter how big or how small. To restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ. And so, we press on.
This morning is called Laetare Sunday, and is intended as a small break during the season of Lent. That’s why we get a little festive pink or rose this morning, like it’s supposed to cheer us up, I think? But the word Laetare means, “rejoice.” And it’s in the imperative form, so REJOICE is a command, not an option! And this is why on the fourth Sunday in Lent we get treated to Psalm 23. It’s a reminder that God is with us in the midst of suffering. So I just want to spend a moment talking about that familiar psalm. And specifically, the table that gets mentioned.
We are all familiar with Psalm 23, particularly the King James Version of it. It’s got all that pastoral language about green pastures and stuff, which is why we hear it every year on Laetare Sunday. In the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil, because God’s rod and staff comfort me. All is at peace, in the midst of turmoil, because the Lord is my shepherd.
But the table. Remember that line? In our prayer book it is phrased, “You spread a table before me in the presence of those who trouble me.” In the King James Version it is, “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.” What do you picture when you hear those words? I have to confess that I’ve always imagined it means, I sit down to a feast in a green valley, while my enemies look on in hunger. God just keeps ladling out the food for me, while those who trouble me, “mine enemies,” stare on with jealousy.
The two phrases to hold onto here are “before me” and “in the presence of.” It’s not a table for me. It’s a table in front of me. And it’s not next to my enemies; it is in their presence. They’re already there at the table. God is inviting us to sit at a table with our enemies. God is saying, come share a meal with the very people who trouble you. To put it bluntly: If you want to eat, you’ve got to eat with people who hate you.
What the heck kind of offer is that?!? We share meals with our friends. We invite people we like to dinner. We don’t imagine sitting down to eat with our enemies. I thought the peaceful verdant valley was going to be a place where it was just me and God, my shepherd, leading me beside still waters. I didn’t sign up for this “have a bite to eat with people who trouble me by not voting the same way I do!”
And that’s because our vision of a table is too small. We imagine a card table for one, set up in an open field, while what God is offering is a huge banquet table, where everyone is invited. We see this over and over in the parables of Jesus. A king holds a wedding banquet and invites in all the poor and outcast. The fishing net gathers up every kind of fish. The lump of yeast leavens the entire loaf. The weeds are left to grow among the wheat. On and on, we hear that God is inviting everybody to the banquet. No one is left out or excluded. Even those who trouble me. Maybe even, especially those who trouble me.
A Lutheran musician friend of mine named Jonathan Rundman has a song called “Meeting Nixon.” In the chorus he sings, “We’ll be meeting Nixon, meeting Nixon, when we go to that White House in the sky.” I think it’s one of his best songs, because it makes everyone uncomfortable! Some people will say there’s no way Nixon is in heaven. And some people will say there’s no way Jonathan will be in heaven, because he’s a Lutheran. And some people will say, wherever either of those two are going is not where I want to be going. It’s a banger song, because, whether you like it or not, everyone is going to be at that same table!
And every time we celebrate the Holy Eucharist, we hear hints of this in the Sanctus, where we sing, with the angels and the archangels and all the company of heaven. Everybody! This morning’s man born blind and the religious leaders interrogating him. The innocent civilians being bombed half a world away and the people who gleefully boast about bombing them. You and me and all the people who trouble us, gathered around the same table and saying, holy, holy, holy Lord . . . heaven and earth are full of your glory.
The table is bigger than we think, and everyone has a seat at it. Including you and me. Again—as our catechism says—The mission of the Church is to restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ. All people. No matter who still shows up at church on Sundays, no matter who has drifted away or left out of anger, no matter what the pandemic did to the size and unity of our parish, the mission of the Church has not changed: and it is to restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ.
The table God spreads before us is big enough for everybody. It’s only our own small thinking that would exclude anyone from that banquet. You are not excluded from this banquet, and neither are those who might trouble you. No matter our differences, we have unity in Christ, and that is why we rejoice on this Laetare Sunday. God’s table is big enough for everybody. Rejoice!
Amen.
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