Is. 25:6-10a; Phil. 4:12-14, 19-20; Mt. 22:1-14
The image of the banquet runs like a golden thread through Scripture. Israel knew hunger in the wilderness, and God gave manna from heaven (Exodus 16:4-15). Elijah, exhausted and wishing to die, lay beneath a broom tree, and an angel touched him and said, “Get up and eat” (1 Kings 19:5). Psalm 23 speaks of God who “prepare[s] a table before me” (Psalm 23:5). Isaiah sees the final victory of God as a feast where the Lord “will wipe away the tears from all faces” and “swallow up death forever” (Isaiah 25:8). Jesus feeds the hungry multitude (Matthew 14:13-21), eats with sinners (Matthew 9:10-13), gives himself at the Last Supper (Matthew 26:26-28), and after the Resurrection even prepares breakfast for tired fishermen beside the sea (John 21:9-13). God seems very fond of feeding people. Perhaps that is good news for Christians who also seem very fond of eating! But behind the humour lies something profound: the table means communion. God does not merely send us instructions from heaven. He calls us into fellowship with himself.
Yet the Gospel contains a surprise. The banquet is ready, but the invited guests refuse to come. One goes to his farm, another to his business (Matthew 22:5). None of these activities is evil. That is precisely the danger. They miss something extraordinary because they are absorbed in something ordinary. God’s call has continued throughout history, but recognizing it has always required an attentive heart. Abraham heard, “Go from your country” and went without knowing his destination (Genesis 12:1-4; Hebrews 11:8). Samuel needed Eli’s help before he understood that the voice calling him in the night was God’s voice: “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening” (1 Samuel 3:9-10). Moses noticed the burning bush because he turned aside to look (Exodus 3:3-4). The bush may have been burning, but Moses still had to turn aside. God calls; human beings must become capable of noticing.
No one illustrates this attentive readiness more beautifully than Mary. At Nazareth, the angel’s message interrupted the plans of an ordinary young woman. She was “greatly troubled” (Luke 1:29); she questioned, “How can this be?” (Luke 1:34); but finally she answered, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word” (Luke 1:38). Her yes was not given after God showed her a comfortable future. Soon she faced misunderstanding, travelled while pregnant, found no proper place for the birth of her child (Luke 2:7), fled with Joseph and Jesus into Egypt because Herod wanted the child killed (Matthew 2:13-15), and later heard Simeon’s frightening prophecy: “A sword will pierce your own soul too” (Luke 2:35). Mary’s response to God’s call was not the absence of questions or suffering. It was fidelity within them.
That fidelity reaches its deepest point on Calvary. John tells us simply, “Standing near the cross of Jesus were his mother” and the other faithful women (John 19:25). The Gospel does not record a speech from Mary there. She does not explain suffering or pretend that it does not hurt. She stands. Sometimes the most courageous response to God is simply to remain standing when life gives us every reason to run away. Mary who said “yes” at Nazareth was still saying yes at Calvary, now without Gabriel, without angels singing, and without any visible sign that things would end well. Her journey reminds us of Job, who lost almost everything and yet continued wrestling with God (Job 1–2), and of Hannah, who carried her anguish into the sanctuary and “poured out” her soul before the Lord (1 Samuel 1:15). Biblical faith is rarely a life without tears; it is a life in which tears do not have the final word. Isaiah promises precisely this: God “will wipe away the tears from all faces” (Isaiah 25:8).
There is something similar in the life of St. Josephine Bakhita. Kidnapped as a child in Sudan and sold repeatedly into slavery, she endured cruelty that left lasting scars. Eventually, in Italy, she encountered Christianity and came to understand God not as another master who possessed her but as the Lord who loved her. She was baptized, gained her freedom, and entered the Canossian Sisters. What is remarkable is that suffering did not become the final definition of her life. She became known for gentleness, welcome and gratitude. Like the wedding garment in today’s Gospel, grace had clothed a wounded life with something new. The garment Jesus speaks about is not expensive clothing for heaven. The whole parable has already shown that the poor and people found along the roads are welcome (Matthew 22:9-10). The garment points to the response appropriate to the invitation. God’s grace welcomes us as we are, but grace also begins to transform us. Paul uses the same image when he says, “Clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience” (Colossians 3:12).
That helps us understand the strange ending of the Gospel. One man reaches the feast but has no wedding garment (Matthew 22:11-13). It sounds almost unfair until we notice the message of the whole parable: invitation alone is not the same as response. Israel had experienced this before. God liberated the people from Egypt, but they still had to learn how to live as a covenant people. They crossed the Red Sea, yet the wilderness exposed what remained unchanged in their hearts (Exodus 14–17). The invitation is free; readiness is something that grows. That is why Jesus concludes, “Many are called, but few are chosen” (Matthew 22:14). God’s call reaches the highways and crossroads, but being chosen involves allowing that call to become part of one’s life.
Sometimes that transformation begins with something very small. Pamela Atkinson, who later became known for decades of personal service among homeless people and refugees in the United States, described herself simply as an ordinary person. Her involvement began when she heard a radio invitation asking for volunteers to serve Christmas dinner with the Salvation Army. She asked her family, they went, and what began as one response to one invitation grew into years of service. Most calls from God probably do not arrive with Gabriel at the door. They arrive disguised as an interruption, a person needing attention, an opportunity to forgive, a lonely neighbour, a task nobody wants, or a quiet thought saying, “Perhaps I should do something.” We sometimes wait for God to send a registered letter from heaven, preferably with three reminders and a convenient deadline. Scripture suggests that he usually works more quietly.
And perhaps that is where the three readings meet. Isaiah says that God has prepared the feast. Jesus says that the invitation has gone out. Paul tells us how to live when accepting that invitation leads through abundance and need. Mary shows us what such a life looks like from Nazareth to Calvary: she listens, questions, accepts, suffers, treasures things in her heart (Luke 2:19), stands beneath the Cross, and is found praying with the disciples as the Church awaits the Holy Spirit (Acts 1:14). Her first yes was not her last yes. It had to be renewed through changing circumstances.
Every day, then, contains a small invitation to the banquet of God. Sometimes it comes through joy, sometimes through responsibility, and sometimes through an unexpected cross. We may not recognize it immediately. Samuel needed to listen again; Elijah needed food and rest; Mary pondered; Paul had to learn contentment. God’s call continues, and God continues preparing his feast. Our simple part is to keep the heart ready enough to recognize the invitation when it arrives and free enough to respond. The message is simple: when life places a small invitation to love, serve, forgive, endure or begin again before us, do not be so busy with the farm or the business that we miss the feast.
Satish Selvarance