A seat in the kingdom of God

Sermon by Pr. Sharai Jacob on the Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 22 + Saturday, August 30, 2025.

This week, I had the chance to go to a live Dungeons & Dragons show at Broadway in Chicago! I was especially excited because Aabria Iyengar, one of my favorite Dungeon Masters, was a guest star. She’s led some of the most creative and moving campaigns I’ve watched online.

I went with a friend from seminary, and as we shuffled into our seats, the cast was already on stage, mics off, milling around and laughing together. We could see Aabria chatting with the others—joking, roughhousing, clearly enjoying herself. We leaned in, watching, trying to guess what they were saying. We squealed quietly to each other: “We’re in the same room as Aabria!”

Then, just before the show started, the cast began chatting with people in the front row! I was so jealous. For a moment, I wished I’d bought front-row seats—but then I remembered: I’d been invited for free. I didn’t even want to know what front-row tickets cost. Plus, if Aabria had actually spoken to me, I probably would’ve frozen on the spot. What would I even say?

But as soon as the show began, we forgot about all that. We were too busy laughing, cheering, and enjoying the night. The seats didn’t matter anymore.

Our Gospel reading today opens with a similar kind of moment—only this time, it’s not a show, it’s a dinner party. Jesus has been invited to eat at the house of a Pharisee on the Sabbath. And like we watched Aabria before the show, people are watching Jesus. Closely.

What they don’t realize is that Jesus is watching them, too.

He notices how the guests are choosing their seats—jostling for the places of honor. In Jesus’ day, banquets were arranged around a U-shaped table. Where you sat said a lot about your rank, your reputation, your influence. If you were close to the host, people knew you mattered.

These gatherings weren’t just about food—they were strategic. You’d invite friends, family, and often wealthy neighbors in hopes they’d return the favor. Banquets were not only about hospitality, they were also a way to affect your social standing.

While watching the people, Jesus offers some wise words: Don’t scramble for the seat of honor. If someone more distinguished arrives, you might be asked to move—how embarrassing! Instead, take the lowest seat, and let the host invite you higher.

At first, this might sound like just good advice—like Jesus is offering tips on etiquette. But then he says this:

“For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

This isn’t just about dinner party manners. This is about the Kindom of God—a world turned upside down, where status doesn’t determine belonging, and honor is not reserved for the powerful.

So, is Jesus saying we should all just think of ourselves as the least important in every room? That doesn’t sound quite right.

I don’t think Jesus is telling us to obsess over where we fall in the hierarchy. I think he’s telling us to stop playing the game altogether. The point isn’t to pretend we’re less than we are—it’s to realize that in God’s economy, status doesn’t matter at all.

So, if we’re not meant to worry about where we sit or who we’re sitting near… what should we focus on?

The answer comes in the second part of our reading:

“When you give a banquet, do not invite your friends or your relatives or your rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind.”

Jesus is flipping the script. Instead of inviting people who can pay us back, we’re called to invite people who can’t. We’re invited to make community based on grace.

When I read these last verses, all I could think about was South Loop Community Table.

The first time I walked into Second Presbyterian Church for one of these dinners, I had no idea what to expect. I was nervous—unsure who I would meet, unsure if I’d know what to say.

The volunteers arrived early, choosing roles for the evening. I was asked to sit at a table and help guests make nametags as they came in. Others prepped the buffet, set out the food, made coffee and tea.

And then the doors opened.

People streamed in—many of them experiencing homelessness. But instead of fear, I felt something else: welcome. The guests smiled at me, asked for my name, and greeted me like a neighbor. We all got hot drinks and found a place to sit.

There was a moment of prayer, and then one table at a time got up to receive food. Volunteers served heaping plates. Kids played games. Someone passed around a baby so her mom could eat in peace. I sat with a man who just wanted to play Go Fish—though he changed the rules on me every few turns to keep it interesting.

By the end of the night, I was tired, full, and certain I had seen a glimpse of the Kindom of God.

That night, I didn’t see anyone worrying about who deserved what. There were no seats of honor. Just people—sharing a meal, a laugh, a name.

That’s the kind of table Jesus points us toward. A table where no one’s worth is determined by wealth or power. A table where the poor, the excluded, and the overlooked are not just included—but honored.

Because the Kindom of God is not a kingdom of scarcity, where only a few get the good seats. It’s a table of abundance, where everyone gets fed, everyone gets seen, and no one is forgotten.

So this week, as you take your place at the tables of your life—at work, in your family, at church, or even at a D&D show—remember:

You don’t need the front-row seat to belong.

You don’t need to impress the host to be welcomed.

You don’t need to climb over others to matter.

In God’s Kindom, there’s room at the table for everyone.

Even, and especially for you.

Amen.