Scrambling for the best seat

Homily for the Eleventh Sunday after Trinity, 31 August 2025, preached by Fr Christopher Woods, the Vicar.

Gospel: Luke 14. 1, 7-14

In today’s Gospel, St Luke brings us into the dining room of a Pharisee. The occasion is a Sabbath meal, a time of rest and hospitality, but Luke tells us the Pharisees were watching Jesus closely. But Jesus too is watching—observing how the guests scramble for the best places, the places of honour nearest the host. Jesus' gaze is always attentive. One could read the entire Gospel of Luke starting precisely from the perspective of Jesus' gaze.

“And when Jesus observed how the guests chose the best places, he told them a parable”.

In fact he tells them two parables, both to do with invitations and banquets, both exposing the habits of human pride and God’s startling reversal of expectations.

Luke, more than any other evangelist, loves the image of the banquet. Again and again, meals become the stage on which the drama of salvation unfolds. Think of Zacchaeus hosting Jesus, or the Emmaus supper where the Risen Lord is known in the breaking of bread, or the great banquet of the Kingdom in chapter 14 itself. Meals are never just meals in Luke—they are windows into God’s new order, foretastes of the heavenly feast.

And yet today’s Gospel begins with something utterly ordinary: the scramble for seats. How human it is! At school, at work, in politics, even in the Church—we are tempted to measure ourselves by proximity to influence, by how close we can get to the powerful, by whether we are noticed. The scramble reveals not just ambition, but, at its root, a hunger for love, a fear of being overlooked, a void of recognition.

Jesus’ teaching cuts to the heart: “When you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place… For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” But notice—this is not simply a piece of worldly advice on how to avoid embarrassment. Jesus is not urging us to practise false humility in order to be rewarded later, like some clever social tactic. No, this is about the whole posture of our hearts before God and one another. It is about discovering that we already have a place—an honoured place—in the heart of Christ. Only those who know themselves beloved can freely take the lower seat without anxiety. When we are secure in God’s love, we no longer have to scramble for status. As St Augustine put it, “God is always trying to give good things to us, but our hands are too full to receive them.” Humility is the emptying of those hands, that we might be filled with grace.

Jesus then sharpens his teaching with a second parable: When you give a banquet, invite the outcast, those who might look different or be different from us. This, too, is radical. The wealthy invited the wealthy, because reciprocity was the glue of society. If you dined with me, I would dine with you. But Jesus overturns this: invite those who cannot repay. Invite those who cannot boost your reputation, or open doors for you, or return the favour. Why? Because this is what God does. God invites the unworthy, the forgotten, the marginalised into his kingdom. Remember St Luke is teaching us that Jesus is announcing God’s welcome and invitation to all. The great banquet of the Kingdom is filled not only with the successful, but with the poor in spirit, the sinners, the ones who have nothing to offer but their emptiness. “Blessed indeed will you be,” says Jesus, “because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.”

Here we glimpse what the Letter to the Hebrews calls the “festal gathering” of heaven. Not the fearsome scene of Sinai with its thunder and fire, but Mount Zion, the city of the living God, where countless angels rejoice and Jesus himself is host. To be part of that feast is pure gift. We cannot earn our way there. We cannot buy the ticket or claim the seat of honour. We can only receive the invitation—and pass it on in how we treat others.

This teaching resonates deeply with the Anglican tradition. Richard Hooker, in his Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity, speaks of the Church as “a school of humility.” Our liturgy is shaped to remind us of this: we confess our sins at the start of Mass, we approach the altar saying “Lord, I am not worthy,” we kneel to receive the Body of Christ as seekers of grace. The posture of Christian worship is the posture of humility, and in that posture we are raised up.

Yet this humility is not dour self-abasement. It is radiant freedom.Humility is not about thinking less of ourselves, but about being free from the endless task of defending ourselves. To live humbly is to live truthfully, knowing who we are in Christ: forgiven, beloved, welcomed at the table.

And from that humility flows hospitality. Every parish, every Christian home, is called to be a sign of that hospitality of the Kingdom, especially to the poor and forgotten.

So what does this Gospel ask of us today? Perhaps three things.

First, to examine our own “scramble for seats”—the ways we seek recognition, power, or control. What drives us there? Often it is insecurity, a void of love. Christ meets us precisely there, offering us the assurance that we already have a place in his heart.

Second, to practise humility not as a trick but as a truth: to live unafraid of the lower seat, knowing that our worth comes not from status but from God’s love.

And third, to extend hospitality beyond the circle of reciprocity—to welcome those who cannot repay, to make space at our table for those who otherwise would have no place. For in welcoming them, we welcome Christ.

“All who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” These words are not a threat but a promise. The way of humility is the way of joy, the way into the banquet where angels feast and Christ himself is our host.

Amen.