I Don’t Like It

Dear Sutton and Savannah, 

The temptation with a troubling biblical text is remarkably similar to the temptation with a troubling inner part of one’s self: explain it away, suppress it, rehabilitate it too quickly, or somehow make it acceptable. But perhaps both scripture and psyche occasionally ask us simply to remain curious in the presence of something we don’t particularly like.

-Dad

Inside Out Lectionary Letters

Year A Proper  23  - (Texts, Art, Hymns)

Readings for Sunday, October 11, 2026

Exodus 32:1-14 / Psalm 106:1-6, 19-23 / Philippians 4:1-9 / Matthew 22:1-14

Summary of Matthew 22:1-14

This is the parable Jesus tells of a wedding banquet and the wedding guest list. We are invited to compare this seemingly chaotic scene with the Kingdom of Heaven.

Scripture as Mirror of the Soul

I struggle with this parable. If the king represents God in every detail, I have difficulty reconciling his violence with the way of love Jesus so consistently embodies. And if the kingdom of heaven is really like this banquet, I find myself wondering exactly what kind of invitation this is. Come to the celebration…or else? Wear the right clothing…or be thrown into darkness? Many are invited, but few are chosen? Rather than explaining away these troubling images, perhaps I need to let them trouble me. Jesus’ parables have a way of doing that.

Still, the image of a wedding draws me in. A wedding brings separate lives together without requiring either person to cease being who they are. Perhaps that offers an image of the inner journey as well. Wholeness does not require the elimination of my different parts, but their integration into something larger. And notice who eventually gets invited: everyone the servants can find, “both good and bad.” What if I extended that invitation inwardly? The confident parts and the frightened parts. The generous and the selfish. The parts I proudly display and those I keep hidden in the shadows. The banquet of wholeness may begin when I stop deciding which parts of myself deserve an invitation.

But even the desire for integration can become another exercise in control. I can become angry with the parts that won’t cooperate, impatient with wounds that haven’t healed, frustrated by patterns I thought I had outgrown. Before long, my inner banquet has become an inner battlefield. The ego demands compliance; the shadow resists; each declares the other the problem. Perhaps the wedding garment offers another possibility. What if it represents not perfection or conformity, but a willingness to participate—to enter the room curious, open, and willing to be changed? Every part is invited, but integration asks something of every part. None gets to rule the whole.

Maybe that is where I catch a glimpse of the kingdom of heaven in this difficult parable. Not in violence or coercion, but in the contrast between wielding power and extending invitation. I can continue the exhausting work of deciding which parts are acceptable, suppressing those that frighten me, and defending the inner structures that make me feel safe. Or I can make room for a different way. I can listen before judging, become curious about what I have rejected, and allow love to preside over the gathering. Perhaps the kingdom begins whenever enough inner safety is created for the divided parts of myself to come to the same table, and discover that none of them has to be destroyed for me to become whole.

Psalm 106:1-6, 19-23 Scripture as Prayers of the Soul

Creator of all, Lord of all, I have come to believe the old adage that confession is good for the soul. But I also know how easily confession can bury me in a sea of regret, freeze me with the fear of repeating old failures, or shame me into giving up. So I begin in the place of hope. I start with the end in mind. My failures do not have the final word; love does. Learning sometimes requires stumbling, and nothing within me is beyond the reach of redemption.

I depend upon Your goodness and Your Spirit that abides within. Lead me toward righteousness and justice, toward a goodness that reflects all of who I am, honors all of who You are, and respects all of Your creation. May I flourish in wholeness, rejoice in gladness, and contribute to a heritage of healing.

And now, from within that love, give me courage to confess. My story contains fear and anger and a deeply competitive spirit. I have misinterpreted others, exalted myself, and failed to recognize injustices to which I have contributed. I have longed for what others have, while neglecting the peace available within me. I have created my own golden calves—things I believed would make me important, secure, successful, or whole. I have sometimes exchanged what is sacred for what merely made me feel safe.

And perhaps underneath so much of it, I simply forgot. I forgot who I am. I forgot who You are. I forgot that I am loved and therefore don’t have to prove my worth. I forgot that other people are loved and therefore cannot simply become competitors, obstacles, or enemies. I forgot that possessing, winning, controlling, and being right cannot give me what my soul most deeply needs. And forgetting these things never works out very well.

So before I destroy any more—within myself, within another, or within the world around me—help me remember. Not so that I can rehearse my failures or punish myself for having them, but so that I can learn from them. Teach me again who You are. Teach me again who I am. And may remembering lead me, once again, toward love.

Amen.