The wedding guest who was cast into outer darkness by the king is me. Or it might as well have been me, in a version of my own occasionally recurring anxiety dream, about which I have spoken from this pulpit before. In my dream, I am not only without a robe, without the proper attire, I am without any clothes at all: I am naked and exposed, and I cannot hide. Also, I am late; which I’m pretty sure was also true for the wedding guest in the parable.
My recurring anxiety dream, in which I am late for church and I have no clothing on, never reaches a conclusion, so I don't know if it resulted in my being bound hand and foot and then cast into outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth. But such an ending is implied by the dream, I think. It’s the nature of anxiety dreams (like so many dreams) that you never get to the end of them, I think. They leave you hanging.
But those details of punishment, of how the dream could end, of the consequences of my naked lateness are aspects of the story over which I have no control. The punishment is not really the cause of my anxiety. My anxiety arises in my dreams precisely because of the things I should have been in control of: namely, being on time and clothed (with something, anything). But even if my lateness could be excused, my nakedness cannot be - of that I am certain. Do you know that anxiety, too? That your nakedness, your exposure, being seen for who you really are, will surely result in your rejection?
This dream does not qualify as a nightmare, because nightmares are freaky and outlandish, and can be dismissed as “only a bad dream.” But anxiety dreams are rooted in details that seem plausible, and that tell a story that we believe to be genuinely and mostly true. I could have been on time, if only I have prepared sooner and left earlier, but I didn’t; I failed. And I could have had a wedding garment on, but I was so frazzled that I didn’t even realize I was naked; I didn’t even notice how exposed I was. And now I have arrived: late and naked.
We never find out what happens as a result of our anxiety - I never do. I always wake up before it’s over and the actual consequences are realized. Not knowing how it ends is its own kind of torture, I suppose. But all I have to do is listen to this parable to realize what happens to me as a result of my anxiety and my failure: I am cast into outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Modern people are not supposed to worry about things like this any more. But maybe our dreams and our anxiety are not as modern as we are.
Is this really what the kingdom of heaven may be compared to? The citizens are indifferent to the king’s invitation, and are vicious with his servants. The king is prone to fits of rage and is vengeful. The only people who show up to the banquet are those who are compelled to do so, regardless of their virtue. And if you should happen to suffer from anxiety; if you arrive late and you can be seen for who you are; if you should happen to displease the king for circumstances you were never prepared to deal with, and show up without the proper robe, then he will treat you with cynical cruelty, calling you his “friend,” as you stand speechless before him, just moments before he has you bound, hand and foot, and thrown into outer darkness. I don’t much like this parable when you read it as written.
I’m wondering if this parable works out better if you read it backwards; if you start in outer darkness, having failed already, your anxiety having gotten the best of you, and having been exposed for what you really are: which is a disappointment and a failure. I am deeply tempted to want to hear the parable this way: to try to hear it backwards. I am tempted to try to dream my dream backwards. It would go something like this:
It begins in outer darkness, where I find myself bound, hand and foot. Somehow, I manage to free myself, hands and my feet. And through some combination of cleverness and deceit, born of desperation, I manage to crawl toward the dim light of a street. There, in the gutter, I can see that there are others, but I can’t tell who I can trust, so I dare not ask for help. Eavesdropping, I discover that I am on the outskirts of the kingdom. And the word is that a wedding banquet is to take place. But I feel lucky just to be here in the street, to have escaped outer darkness. I am profoundly relieved to be able to finally stop weeping, and to unclench my jaw as I cease gnashing my teeth.
Now that my tears have stopped flowing, I realize that I have been clutching a large and elegantly addressed envelope. It is an invitation, addressed to me. How I held onto the invitation through the ordeal of outer darkness , I cannot imagine, but what a stroke of luck it seems to me! Uncertain, but with nothing else to do and nowhere else to go, I venture through the streets and toward the wedding hall, where, wonder of wonders, I am immediately admitted to the banquet.
In the wedding hall there is music. Dinner is prepared: oxen and fat calves have been slaughtered for the occasion. Everything is ready. And I realize that I am about to be presented to the king. This is the first moment that it occurs to me that I have no idea what I am wearing. I feel a dream coming on, a dream within a dream, an anxiety dream in which I am late and naked. And so I turn to an attendant of the king’s, and the desperation on my face says it all. In a flash, I am surrounded by a host of other attendants who whisk me away, strip me, and wash me, and who dress me in the kind of terry cloth robe you get at a good hotel, which is very comfy, but this one has no belt, and keeps falling open in front, so that I am somehow both covered and exposed at the same time.
I am returned to the wedding hall. And this is how I am presented to the king: smelling clean and fresh, my hair a little wet, my feet bare, clutching my robe in front to try not to embarrass myself as it falls open. Here I stand before the king, having had the good fortune to dream this parable backwards. He is a king that I had been encouraged to believe is ill-tempered, erratic, and judgmental, prone to fits of rage.
But approaching him backwards through the parable, I discover that this is not the case at all, as I try to figure out how to bow to him properly without letting my terry cloth robe fall open in front, exposing myself. I am not successful. But I have traveled through this parable backwards, and the king, who when encountered in the other direction, at the end of the parable, is capricious and condemning, presents himself quite differently here at the beginning of the parable. For it was here, at the beginning of the parable, that the king always intended to greet me (and you).
As I lift my head, clutching my robe awkwardly and unsuccessfully in front of me, the king does, in fact, see me for who I am, barely concealed behind the soft robe. And he smiles, and extends his arms as he comes to embrace me. And what does he say to me as he does so? Oh, I don’t even know, for the sound of his voice strikes me as something akin to the sound of a cat purring, as he reassures me and holds me, “My child, my child, I am so glad you’re here!” Or something like that.
Gripped by anxiety and shame that God will see me for who I really am, I lose track of the fact that God has always known me for who I really am, and I could never hide that from him, no matter how successfully I might hide it from others. And from the vantage point of anxiety and shame, I am tempted to hear the parable the way it is presented in the scriptures; as a parable that leads to outer darkness where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth.
But when I begin in outer darkness and crawl back toward the light, that’s when I realize that the invitation has always been mine, and the king was always ready to see me for who I truly am. It was only my anxiety that led me to believe that he could ever see me any other way. It was only my shame that led me to believe that he could cast me into outer darkness. And if I am ashamed of who I am when I am exposed then what does that say about what I think of the king, who is the one who made me who I am? I need to read this parable backwards, because otherwise I am doomed to a life that is a perpetual loop of my anxiety dream in which I am always late and naked: always missing out and inadequate, always failing and a disappointment.
But Jesus does not tell the parable because he wants his followers to learn that they belong in outer darkness with the late and the naked, the missing-out and the inadequate, the failures and the disappointments. Jesus tells this parable because he wants us at the banquet.
Oh, that’s a very loosey-goosey way of reading this parable, I admit. But I think at this moment, when it’s so easy to feel as though we are in outer darkness of our own or someone else’s making, we might need a more loosey-goosey way reading of parables like this. And if you are certain that Jesus wants you at the banquet, then I think you can read the parable any way that leads you there, held in the long, warm embrace of the king, who sees you for who you truly are, and who purrs in your ear when he holds you, “My child, my child, I am so glad you’re here!” Or something like that.
Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
15 October 2023
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia
