Excuse Me, That's My Seat

Excuse Me, That's My Seat"

Luke 14:1, 7–14

James McTyre

Trinity Presbyterian Church

Labor Day Weekend, 2025-08-31

Today's gospel reading from Luke is about a dinner party where Jesus gives a lecture on table manners.

Now, I realize a Bible lesson about etiquette might not be what you were expecting to hear. Especially not from Jesus. We'd expect Jesus to talk about something lofty and mysterious, like the Kingdom of God. But here's the twist — he is. Turns out, you can learn a lot about heaven… how it is… and how it isn't… by watching who gets the best seat in the house.

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We don't call attention to this very often, but our sanctuary is laid out like a dinner party. Sort of. Not like at your house. Unless your chairs are 30 feet wide and bolted to the floor. But look! What's front and center? The pipe organ. The preacher. Hyunjoo. All true, but not the answer I'm searching for. The truly central thing in church is: The Supper Table. The Lord's Table. That's in line with Jesus's favorite thing to do, drop in at somebody's house and eat supper. When we use our supper tables well, they turn into holy furniture.

This is true for pretty much all churches. Where we sit is – well, maybe not predestined, but definitely predetermined. We know our place. Even in church. Especially in church. 

You want to really confuse a preacher – and the choir? One Sunday, everyone swap sides and pretend everything's normal. We'll think we're having a stroke. It'll never happen, though. Because your seats are your holy furniture. If Jesus comes back, we want him to know where to find us.

Jesus is invited to a grand dinner at the home of a prominent Pharisee. It's fancy. Think Grandma's tablecloths. The wedding gift china. And a guest list like the Oscars. Jesus walks in. He notices something: people scrambling for the good seats. People heading for "their" seats. Just like church. Or other religious places. Like a football stadium.

At a football game, you don't want to be under the Jumbotron. The cheap seats. You want the 50 yard line. You want the front row. Or – if you're really important – a skybox with your boyfriend's mom. Oops, I meant fiance's mom. Yes, I'm talking about Tay-Tay and Trav. Move over Jeff Bezos. THIS will be the wedding of the century. Can you imagine scalper prices for those seats?

Seating matters.

So Jesus, never one to shy away from a teachable moment, tells them a parable. He says, "When you're invited to a wedding banquet, don't march up to the front and plop down like you own the place. Because someone more important might come along, and the host will have to tell you to move. (As in, "Excuse me, that's OUR pew.") And you'll be humiliated. If it's Christmas or Easter, you might even have to sit in "the front pew." Dun, dun, dunnnn!

"Instead," Jesus says, "take the lowest place. Be humble. Let the host invite you to move up." And then he drops the punchline:

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

Suddenly, we're not just talking about dinner anymore.

Now, on the surface this just sounds like good advice for avoiding embarrassment. But Jesus is flipping the tables on how life works. He's challenging the whole idea that our worth is measured by where we place our rear ends, or by what we wear, or who we know, or where we work, our property values, or the size of our offshore bank accounts.

In Jesus' kingdom, status doesn't climb — it kneels.

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The climb. 

On America's Got Talent there are those acts where the acrobats stack chairs. And finally, there's one guy who climbs all the way to the top of the swaying tower. And sits there, on one chair leg. The crowd goes, "Ooooh." And Simon hits the buzzer. "Oh, it's good, but we've seen this before."

Could you imagine how long the guy in the top chair had to practice? I've never tried it, but I'd think it takes years to sit at the top. 

We're all about climbing, aren't we? From a young age, all through school, we're told: Climb! Achieve! Get noticed! Someday you'll move up. Up from the Children's Table. You could even be at the head of the table! Someday, you might ask the blessing. You might carve the turkey. It might take years. And the strategic removal of certain relatives. But work hard, practice. You'll get there.

And good, to a point. Nothing wrong with hard work to get you to the top. Labor Day exists because work matters. Labor Day exists because people matter. Even if their line of work seems lower on the spreadsheet.

Labor Day exists because 100 years ago, people got tired of working hard, and sending their children to work hard, but never getting any higher. Labor Day's not just about work; it's about working together, to make everything work better for working people.

But Jesus reminds us: when our work to get a primo place turns into self-promotion, when it becomes a scramble for attention, when it's all about stepping on the people ahead of you, when it's all about us, when it's about jumping line, cutting corners, and cutting out the people of lesser status — then our daily bread turns stale.

Climbing isn't the problem. Kicking people off the ladder is.

Jesus says, "Don't assume you're the most important person in the room." And let's be honest, that's not always easy to hear. Especially for those of us with the highest grade point average. Or those who were always picked first in gym class. (So I hear.) Or we who are used to being Number One, Kings of the world, all the time.

But here's the thing: in God's economy, in God's kingdom, there's no VIP section. There's no velvet rope. And nobody gets ahead by pretending they deserve better than others. (So says Jesus.)

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But Jesus isn't finished preaching. Jesus doesn't stop at seating advice. He turns to the host and says, "By the way, next time you throw a party, don't just invite your friends and neighbors and all the people who can return the favor. Invite the poor. Invite people who can't pay you back. Invite the ones who never get invited anywhere."

Now, this is where it gets real.

Because let's be honest—our parties tend to be for people like us. Who look like us, whose children go to the same schools as ours, who shop at the same Publix as us, who belong to the same political parties and Facebook groups as us. Even our churches tend to be for people like us. Obviously, y'all don't want some preacher in skinny jeans who yells a lot. Trust me, if I tried to wear skinny jeans, there would be yelling.

Grouping up with people like yourself – nothing necessarily bad about that. It's just human. We like our circles. We like familiar faces. But then, we don't think to invite the guy with the sign on the corner by Walmart.

But Jesus says: Those are exactly the kind of people God notices. The ones who live in their cars, or in tents, or in jail. Jesus says those are the ones who belong at his table. Even if they haven't worked for it. Even if they haven't earned the food stamps. Anne Lamott has that great line: When we get to heaven, we're going to be very surprised to see who's sitting next to us. (She also says she hopes she gets a seat near the desert table.)

And once again, Jesus isn't talking about seating charts. He's talking about hospitality. About mercy. About including the excluded. He's talking about your heart. Who do you see as worthy of your time? Who's worthy of your kindness? Who's worthy of your attention? Who's worthy of your tax dollars?

God's guest list is… a bunch of weirdoes. God's guest list has pretty much anyone who I'd never invite to my house. God's table has seats for the overlooked, the underpaid, the awkward, the inconvenient, the immigrant, the addict. The people the world ignores or exploits or just doesn't know what to do with so it treats them like dirt.

And God says, "Yep. Them. Front row. Head table. Prime rib. The good wine."

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Labor Day started as a way to recognize the dignity of people whose work often goes unnoticed. You know, the ones who during COVID, we called "essential." For a while. Why is it that the "essential" workers are often the ones that come with the least respect and the lowest pay, and the highest danger. Like, teachers. The ones you can't hear from way down at the other end of the table.

But not in God's kingdom.

In God's kingdom, every honest job is holy. The bus driver. The teacher. The trash collector. The person stocking shelves at 3 a.m. The PA cleaning hospital beds. As well as the neurosurgeon, the police officer, the jet pilot. Maybe even the politician. 

Not when we all get to heaven and everything's peachy. Jesus taught us to pray, "Thy kingdom come." When? Can't think of a better time than today. Hopefully, Jesus didn't want us to have to wait to get to heaven to have a seat at the big people's table.

Jesus says, "The ones on the bottom matter just as much as the one on top. Just show up. Accept the invite. Do your work. Your holy work of treating people like they're a child of God. Because they are.

Maybe the most radical thing we can do this Labor Day weekend is to stop rushing to the head of the table… and start pulling up more chairs.

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So… Where's your seat?

That's the question Jesus leaves us with: Where are you sitting? Where do you stand?

Are you elbowing your way forward, worried someone might get ahead of you?

Are you sitting in the back, hoping someone notices?

Are you guarding your seat, afraid someone else might take it?

Are you looking around to see who's not seated at all?

Where you sit says a lot.

But maybe what really matters is where you make room.

Maybe the most blessed dinner table words we can say are, "Come over here. Sit by me."

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So this weekend, as you fire up the grill or float in the pool or just enjoy the peace and quiet of an extra day off — remember this:

God doesn't care where you sit. God cares who's sitting next to you.

God cares who you notice.

And when we stop scrambling to prove ourselves, we might just find that the best seat… is the one we offer someone else.

In the kingdom come, it's not, "Hey, that's my seat." 

It's, "Here, take my seat.