Confidence is something that Jesus never lacked; in this Sunday's gospel, we see him cheerfully going for one of the "disastrous dinner-parties" with which Luke adorns his gospel. The host this time is "one of the rulers of the Pharisees — and they were watching him". So we know that there is going to be trouble. As indeed there is, for Jesus heals a man with dropsy, but for some reason the compilers of our lectionary have omitted that bit. Instead (and would you invite Jesus to one of your dinner-parties?) the first thing we encounter is Jesus criticising his fellow-guests for wanting the best seats at the party, and encouraging them instead to go straight to the worst seats, on the perhaps slightly cynical grounds that it is better to find yourself summoned upwards from there. Then, in case things had not got quite uncomfortable enough, he turns on his host, and attacks him for inviting his friends. "Don't", he says, as we groan with embarrassment, "invite your friends or brothers and sisters or your cousins or your wealthy neighbours — otherwise they'll invite you back". Instead, it seems, the people we are supposed to invite to our parties are all the wrong people (those with whom Jesus was nearly always to be found): "the destitute, the crippled, the lame, the blind and then you'll be happy, [precisely] because they have no way of repaying you: for you'll get your reward at the resurrection of the just".
We feebly try to imagine what the mood was like around the dinner-table after this speech; but if you are making a mental resolution not to put Jesus on your guest-list, then just ask yourself: suppose it is really true that we are happiest if we make a priority of those whom society ignores? Suppose that we are dealing with a God who prefers those on the margins? Can we cope with this unexpected God of ours?
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