The Tragedy of the RSVP

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Why My 'Good Excuses' are insulting God

Luke 14:15-24, focusing on the beautiful, inclusive end: the Master inviting the poor, the crippled, the blind, and the lame. It’s a powerful validation of God’s preference for the humble and the outcast.

But lately, what haunts me is the beginning—the three trivial, yet polite, rejections.

I see myself in those original, highly esteemed guests. I'm a Catholic, I study the theology, I've received the Sacraments, and I even have the Catechism marked on my phone’s daily calendar. I’m precisely the one who should be at the table.

Yet, I've realized these parables aren't about other people's sins; they're about the polite, white-collar rejection of Christ that I commit every day. The guests weren't criminals; they were successful, busy people who had "good" reasons for missing the party.

My Own Trivial Excuses

My personal battlefield is my focus on my children and family security. I routinely sacrifice the urgent reality of the Kingdom for the fleeting illusion of control over my own life.

1.    The Field is My Urgent Domestic Anxiety: My "field" is the relentless pursuit of my children's immediate well-being and the pressing anxiety of depression. I tell God, "I have to spend this time searching for peace of mind; I must manage this household detail; I cannot step away from the immediate need because my family needs oftentimes hinges on my constant, household efforts." I’m treating the Great Supper (the spiritual life, deep prayer, the Eucharist) as a luxury that must wait until the daily chaos and financial uncertainty are perfectly secured. This is idolatry. I am preferring the land of immediate, visible provision (my constant striving) to the Heaven of true security (trusting in Divine Providence). The focus on immediate, crushing responsibility, while noble in its motive, becomes the veil that keeps me from the Host.

2.    The Oxen are My Busy-ness: My "five yoke of oxen" are the endless tasks I use to justify my worth — the rigorous cleaning, cooking, the exhaustive budgeting, the constant planning to mitigate risk. I am terrified of stillness. If I’m not doing something productive—managing the house, researching leads, or building my children’s lives—I feel worthless. So, when the Holy Spirit says, "Come, everything is ready now," my immediate, reflexive lie is: "I must go try out my oxen." I am spiritually too tired from proving my worth as a parent and provider to accept God's free gift of rest and grace.

3.    The Wife is My Comfort Zone: This isn't just about marriage; for me, it’s the fear of emotional disruption and vulnerability. It’s preferring the predictable comfort of my routine, my quiet space, or my preferred digital distraction over the discomfort of true vulnerability, true prayer, or true service. I avoid the "party" because I know it will involve meeting challenging people, changing my priorities, and potentially risking my comfort.




The Humility of the Uninvited

The profound, personal lesson here is that God hates my self-sufficiency. He doesn't want my résumé; He wants my brokenness.

The Master turns to the poor, crippled, blind, and lame. These people are honest about their state. They know they have nothing to lose and everything to gain. They don't have a field to inspect; they have no oxen to prove; they have no comfortable life to protect. They are compelled to come in simply because they are desperate and because they believe the invitation is real.

I realize I must stop acting like a privileged guest who has the option to politely decline. I must choose the humility of the outcast. We all do. I must confess that I am spiritually blind and crippled and that I have no good excuse for my distance from God. My only hope is to be compelled by the overwhelming, illogical, and relentless love of the Master who wants His house filled—even with me.

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