No one's life reaches its fullest potential until that life is tapped into a wonder bigger than yourself.

You were not created to chase the predictable. You were not created for a low-profile, spiritually average existence. You were created for wonder so big it floods every corner of your soul and spills into your world in incredible ways.

For this series on the Harbor and the Horizon, I have been asking you questions, as we looked at parables of Jesus that pose those questions.

From the parable of a man who built bigger barns to store his goods... we asked: What Cathedral are You Building?

Then, from the parable of the master who entrusted his servants with capital and told them to invest it, but one hoarded it... we asked: What God are You Serving?

Today, one final question to close out the series.
This will come from what is called the Parable of the Great Feast:

You are created for wonders greater than this planet can offer you; you were made to touch the transcendent invisible realms.

Which means that a life's biggest tragedy is not that you might choose something evil. It is that you become content with lesser things that just don't matter.

The tragedy is that you might trade the glory of the transcendent for the easy path of the average.

Jesus told this parable:
"A certain man gave a great supper and invited many, and sent his servant at supper time to say to those who were invited, 'Come, for all things are now ready.' But they all with one accord began to make excuses. The first said to him, 'I have bought a piece of ground, and I must go and see it. I ask you to have me excused.' And another said, 'I have bought five yoke of oxen, and I am going to test them. I ask you to have me excused.' Still another said, 'I have married a wife, and therefore I cannot come.' So that servant came and reported these things to his master. Then the master of the house, being angry, said to his servant, 'Go out quickly into the streets and lanes of the city, and bring in here the poor and the maimed and the lame and the blind.' And the servant said, 'Master, it is done as you commanded, and still there is room.' Then the master said to the servant, 'Go out into the highways and hedges, and compel them to come in, that my house may be filled.'" (Luke 14:16-23)

Look at the excuses. A field. Some oxen. A wife.

All good things... really good things. A field is a good thing. Oxen are a good thing. A marriage is a wonderful thing. These are blessings. Nothing here could possibly be classified as a sin.

The tragedy of this parable isn't that the people chose evil over good.
The tragedy is that they chose the good over the wondrous.

They had a King's feast waiting — prepared at staggering cost — and they traded it for a Tuesday afternoon errand.

They did not respect the Master. They did not respect his gift. The excuses they made were not because they had other things to do; the excuses they made were because they disrespected the Host of the Party. They had better things to do with their time, so they made excuses.

If you were to see their faces, they wouldn't look angry. They would look Distracted, Bored, and Smug.

Distracted by the "stuff" of the world.
Bored by the "simple" gift of grace.

Smug in the belief that their "must-dos" made them more important than the Host.

 

CS Lewis wrote,
"It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half‑hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased." — C. S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory

They traded a lifetime of abundance for a completely forgettable afternoon.

Look at what they missed:
"But you have come to Mount Zion and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, to an innumerable company of angels, to the general assembly and church of the firstborn who are registered in heaven, to God the Judge of all, to the spirits of just men made perfect, to Jesus the Mediator of the new covenant, and to the blood of sprinkling that speaks better things than that of Abel." (Hebrews 12:22-24)

The Greek here is perfect tense. Past action with continuing results. It is done. Not "you might come if you behave." Not "you'll come when you die."

The moment you said yes to Jesus, you were teleported into the capital city of the cosmos. You sit on that throne. You hold those keys.

A few verses earlier, the writer reminded his readers of Mount Sinai, where God gave Moses the Ten Commandments. Mt. Sinai is the mountain of trembling, smoke, and fire, where God's voice was so terrifying that even Moses shuddered.

That is not where you are.

The city of the Living God. Mt. Zion is not a place of fear; it is a place of grace. It is where the feast is. It is the throne room of the universe, dressed for a wedding. Music in the air. Lights in every window. The Father of Lights Himself walking the halls, waiting for you to look up and see where you actually are.

And look at the list of who is standing there with you.

A number so vast the Greek language gave up trying to count it. You are never, ever alone. You have stepped into a celestial chorus that began the morning the stars were born and will not stop singing for ten thousand years and ten thousand more.

The underground Christian in North Korea is your brother. The martyr in ancient Rome is your sister. The kids who will receive Jesus thirty years from now in our church — they're family. Our names are registered in heaven. Written by the hand of God in the blood of Jesus.

On Sinai, the Judge is terrifying. On Zion, the Judge set aside his gavel to become the Host of the Feast. He said, Not guilty. And then He stood up from the bench, walked across the room, pulled out your chair, helped you in, and filled your plate with the richest of fare.

Abraham is at your table. Ruth, Mary, Peter, Paul, Esther, Daniel — at your table. The faithful grandmother who prayed for you when you were too young to remember — at your table. You haven't just started the race. You have stepped onto the victor's platform.

And all of this — all of it — because of Jesus the Mediator. Jesus is the Master of Ceremonies who personally walks you to your seat. He does not point you to the table; He pulls you to it.

You have come to the blood of sprinkling that speaks better things than the blood of Abel.
Abel was murdered, and his blood cried out from the ground for vengeance.
Jesus was murdered, and his blood cries out from the cross for forgiveness.

Pardon. Peace. Mercy. Welcome home.

You've come to a place you're qualified for. Stop wondering if you belong. You are not on probation. You have been adopted, sealed, and seated at the eternal table of the King.

You are richly blessed, highly favored, deeply loved.

This wonder is where you belong.
This wonder is your natural setting.
This wonder is where you are truly yourself as you were meant to be and as you long to be.

Which makes me wonder, what wonder are you chasing?

You say, I want this. I know this. Why don't I experience this?

Listen carefully. I want to give you a sentence I want you to write down and tape to your bathroom mirror:

In the Old Testament, a poor widow comes to the prophet for help. Her husband is dead. The creditor is coming to take her two sons to pay off her debt. And Elisha asks her: "What do you have in the house?"

She says, "Nothing — except a small jar of oil."

And Elisha tells her something strange. "Go, borrow vessels from everywhere — empty vessels; do not gather just a few." So she goes. She knocks on doors. She borrows vessels, pots, jars, anything. She shuts the door. And she begins to pour.

And from that small jar of oil, more oil pours. And pours. And pours.

Until — listen — "When the vessels were full, she said to her son, 'Bring me another vessel.' And he said to her, 'There is not another vessel.' So the oil ceased."

Why did the oil stop?

Not because God ran out.

The oil stopped because she ran out of vessels. The only limit on her experience of grace was her provision of faith.