the good news is… all are invited!

“the good news is… all are invited!” was preached at First Presbyterian Church of Allentown, PA on Ash Wednesday, February 18, 2026.

You can hear/watch this sermon here, starting at 9:48.
You can listen to a podcast version of the sermon here.

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Scripture text:
Luke 14:15-24

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Tonight, as we step into the season of Lent, I’m encouraging us to try something new this year. There’s some truth that we as people – not just here at First Presbyterian – but we the people have experienced loss. I don’t know it’s the healthy thing this Lent to go into the season with a command to deny ourselves or a spiritual challenge to prove our devotion. So what if we begin with a story about a table that refuses to remain empty and a host whose welcome never ends. What if we began with invitation this Lent? 

In Luke 14, Jesus describes a banquet prepared with care and expectation, invitations sent to those who would naturally assume they belonged, and responses that feel painfully ordinary: one has land to inspect, another has business to tend, and another is preoccupied with family obligations. And let’s be honest: none of these reasons are wrong. But they do reveal how easily even good and responsible concerns can neglect a deeper invitation to communion.

But then the host, instead of canceling the feast or narrowing the guest list to protect his pride, expands it; he sends servants into streets and alleys, into neighborhoods where hunger is visible and exclusion has become routine, calling in the poor, the blind, the lame, those who were never at the top of anyone’s seating chart, and when there is still space, he sends them out again. It is more important for the host for all to be welcomed into his home. 

That is how Lent begins for us this year: with an ever-widening circle of welcome.

I want to invite you – see there it is again, an invitation – to look at the image* on the back of the bulletin. You’ll notice that everything radiates outward from the center, where a table is set and arms are stretched wide in welcome. At the heart of that table sit the bread and cup. The host in this parable and image is also the One who will gather his friends around a table and offer himself as grace. The same one who gathers us at the table tonight. 

Around that center is a ring of rejection, figures whose arms are crossed. It would be easy to linger there, to focus on the refusal, to fixate on the missed opportunity; but the artist does something else, because from beneath that closed circle trees begin to grow, roots press down into soil, branches stretch outward, and the invitation not only survives rejection but pushes past it, bearing fruit and creating space for an even larger gathering.

In the outer ring, the table has grown and the crowd has expanded. They have accepted the invitation to feast with their host. And – and! – there are still empty seats because the host will send the servants out again and again. 

There is something deeply hopeful about this image of the outer table because it tells us that the generosity of God is not exhausted by our hesitation nor diminished by our distraction.

Tonight as we come forward for ashes and hear the words, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” we are reminded of our own humanity, of our own limits and the truth that no perfect life can ultimately secure our belonging at the table. We are dust, and yet we are dust invited to dinner.

I think about the way communities like ours respond after loss, when we hold celebrations of life or grieve privately in our homes, food is one of the very first things offered. Our community of faith has this exact ministry. Because when life reminds us of our dust, our instinct is to gather and feed one another. There is a reason for that instinct.

So much of Jesus’ ministry unfolded around meals, around shared bread and conversation, around tables where boundaries dissolved and unexpected relationships. And in just a few moments we will come to this table invited into that same widening grace.

The ashes we receive tonight do not turn us away from the feast; they prepare us to approach it. We don’t prove ourselves worthy to be invited to the feast, since the invitation was never about who we are but whose we are.

At the same time, this parable does not let us remain only guests, because just before telling this story Jesus challenges his listeners to consider how they host, asking whether their banquets are arranged for status and repayment or whether they dare to invite those who cannot return the favor; which means that as we accept God’s invitation, we are being formed into people who extend it.

And that too is good news. The host will keep sending out disciples inviting more and more to the feast. And even then, when all is said and done, there is still room.

So tonight, as ashes mark your skin and the bread and cup touches your lips, may you hear beneath every word and motion the steady voice of the One who prepares the feast: You are dust, and you are beloved. You are invited, and there is still room. Amen. 

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* "There is Still Room" by Lauren Wright Pittman | A Sanctified Art LLC | sanctifiedart.org

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Graphic design by Rev. Lauren Wright Pittman | A Sanctified Art LLC | sanctifiedart.org