St. John’s Episcopal Church
Tallahassee, FL

Luke 14:1, 7–14

This sermon was preached during the summer of 2025, when worship at St. John’s was held in the parish hall, Alfriend Hall, while the sanctuary ceiling was being cleaned.

Today is our last day of 
“summer church” in Alfriend Hall, 
and I have to admit 
there is something about this room
that I am going to miss.

Sure, we are ready to get back 
to our normal place and pace of worship.
The mold is gone.
The pews are repaired and polished.
The sanctuary is waiting:
refreshed, renewed, beautiful.

But this space—this summer—
has been beautiful, too.

We have been packed in here—
in Alfriend, in Killeen overflow—
week after week,
shoulder to shoulder,
with new faces and old friends,
discovering that the sacred does not depend
on pews or stained glass.

It lives in presence.
In people.
In humility.
In grace.

As our theme all summer long,
we have been looking for the sacred in the ordinary.
Each week, we’ve taken an ordinary object—
dirty shoes, 
a digital clock, 
a cell phone, 
a children’s book, 
even a rubber penguin—
and used it as a focus to find the Divine.
And all summer long we have found over and over 
that God does not wait for perfect conditions.
God meets us right where we are 
in the midst of what’s in front of us.

So, here behind me 
is my final object of the season:
this massive mural 
that has also been quietly preaching to us 
all summer long.

Painted by Ron Yrebedra,
this shimmering forest 
tells the story of scripture 
not through kings or cathedrals,
but through 
fig trees and burning bushes,  
olives and lilies,
grapes 
and wheat 
and palm trees 
and thorns.

And what I love most about it 
is that it is a story of roots.

Every one of those trees
starts as a seed: 
buried in darkness,
hidden in the dirt,
pushed down into the low place
before rising into beauty and glory.

This mural is not a monument to triumph.
It is a testimony to trust: 
the kind that takes root in ordinary soil,
and flourishes from there.

Just like today’s Gospel.

* * *

Today Jesus watches 
as people vie and jockey 
for their seats at a party.

To this, he says: 
“Okay, listen. 
When you show up to a wedding,
don’t plop yourself down 
in the best seat in the house.
If someone more important shows up,
you’ll get bumped, 
and trust me . . . 
that walk of shame to the cheap seats?
Everyone will see it.

“Better to start low.
Then when your host sees you,
he might say,
‘Hey pal. 
Why are you at the kiddie table?
Come up higher!’

“And just like that,
you’ll be honored
right there in front of everybody.”

This, my friends, is not a lesson in manners. 
This is not about etiquette.
This is a revelation and a revolution.

Because when Jesus talks about 
“taking the low place,” 
he’s not really talking at all
about tables and chairs and wedding halls. 

No, when Jesus talks about 
“taking the low place,” 
Jesus is talking about being
living where he already does.

For you see, 
the One who told this parable
is the the same One who washed feet,
welcomed the outcast,
and humbled himself
all the way to the cross.

So when we take the low seat,
we are not just showing humility.
We are drawing near to him.

And that changes everything.

* * *

Part of what happened this summer—
whether you knew it or not—
is you took the low seat.

You worshiped in a fellowship hall.
You moved chairs on Saturdays, 
hauled altar supplies, 
ran camera cables, 
lifted your voices, 
and made do.
You turned an ordinary café 
into a sanctuary of praise.

You welcomed strangers.
You slid over and made space.
You discovered that true belonging
does not come from pushing to the front,
but from making room at the Table.

And what has grown here
is not just attendance.
It is deep roots.

Because that is what happens
when people choose 
presence over polish,
humility over perfection.

They get planted.
They find one another.
They discover grace . . . 
not because they earned it,
but because God finds us where we are 
and just keeps giving it.

That is the story this mural tells.
That is the lesson Jesus teaches today.
That is what this summer has been all about.

The kingdom of God
does not rise like a tower of ego or ambition.
It grows like a tree.
It deepens like roots in rich, dark soil.

The low place
is not a waiting room for reward.
It is not a detour or delay.

It is the very place
where the Kingdom begins.
It is the throne of Christ himself.

The lesson for this summer—
and really for all of life—
is that the lowest seat
is not beneath your dignity.
It is soaked in his glory.

And when you live there 
and lift others up from there, 
you find not just belonging.
You find him.

* * *

This whole summer in Alfriend, 
what felt temporary, 
awkward, 
maybe even second-best
has turned out to be
one of the most faithful things 
we have done in years.

Because what looked like improvisation
was actually transformation.

You did not wait for the sanctuary to be ready.
You just became a sanctuary.

And now, 
we return home changed.

Next week 
we are going back to the sanctuary, 
but we are not going back the same.

We go back with deep roots . . . 
not in comfort, but in conviction.

We go back with true belonging . . . 
not reserved for the few,
but stretched wide for all.

We go back with abundant grace . . .
not for display,
but for pouring out.

Because the Kingdom of God
has taken root in us.
It is already growing—
in this church,
in this city,
in this moment. 
(Sort of like—I don’t know—
in a 2-and-10 team
that to everyone’s surprise 
rose up from the low place yesterday 
and is now the team to beat. 😏)

So take the low seat.
Stay rooted in love.
Throw open the doors.
And walk back into the sanctuary 
as the Church we have become . . . 
not just refreshed,
but transformed.

Amen.