Supper Time

I grew up one of seven children.

In a house that full, noise was normal—laughing, teasing, fussing, the thud of feet running in and out the back door. But no matter how wild the day got, there was one sound that could stop everything in an instant.

It wasn’t thunder. It wasn’t Dad’s whistle.

It was Mom leaning out the screen door, her voice cutting across the yard:

“Supper time!”

You never had to ask what she meant.

Supper time meant something good was waiting.

It meant the food was hot, the table was full, and you were wanted.

No one ever said, “Maybe later,” or, “I’m too busy.”

You came running—muddy shoes, scraped knees, grass in your hair—because supper time was more than a meal; it was home.

And I think heaven sounds something like that.

Through all the noise of life, through the voices of fear, ambition, and distraction, God leans out the door of eternity and calls, “Supper time!”

The table’s ready. The feast is prepared. The invitation has gone out to every heart: “Come, for all things are now ready.”

That’s what Jesus was talking about in Luke 14—the Great Supper. He said, “A certain man made a great supper and invited many.”

The table represents the kingdom of God, the meal represents His grace, and the invitation goes to everyone.

But in the story, not everyone comes.

Some are too busy, too distracted, too preoccupied.

And I wonder sometimes if the tragedy of the ages isn’t that people reject God’s wrath, but that they ignore His invitation.

Because He’s not shouting “Judgment time!”—He’s calling, “Supper time.”

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Part 2 — Excuses at the Door

When Jesus told the story of the Great Supper, He said the servant went out with the invitation: “Come, for all things are now ready.”

But instead of joy, the master heard excuses.

One said, “I bought a piece of land, and I have to go see it.”

Another said, “I bought five yoke of oxen, and I’m on my way to test them.”

Still another said, “I just got married, so I can’t come.”

Now, on the surface, those all sound reasonable.

There’s nothing sinful about real estate, work, or family.

These are good things—but in this story, even good things become dangerous when they take the place of the best thing.

We often think rejection of God comes through hatred or unbelief.

But in the parable, rejection comes through preoccupation.

It’s not rebellion that keeps most people from the table—it’s distraction.

The first man was caught up in possessions.

The second in occupation.

The third in relationships.

Different reasons, same result—they missed supper.

If we listen closely, we might hear echoes of our own voices in theirs.

“I bought a piece of land…”

—We say, “I’ve got investments to manage, projects to finish, responsibilities to meet.”

We tell ourselves, “I’ll come to God when things settle down.”

But life never really settles down, does it?

“I bought five yoke of oxen…”

—We say, “I’m testing out new plans, new goals, new opportunities.”

There’s always one more deal, one more deadline, one more ladder to climb.

“I have married a wife…”

—We say, “Family comes first.”

And that sounds noble, but if our family comes before our faith, we end up losing both.

Because the best thing we can ever give our loved ones is a heart that’s already said yes to God.

Excuses are the polite language of spiritual delay.

They sound harmless, but they can quietly close the door to eternity.

There’s a story of a preacher who was visiting a small town for a revival.

He met a young man after the service who said, “Pastor, I’ll come tomorrow night. I just need to get a few things straight first.”

The next evening, that young man wasn’t there.

He had been killed that day in a car accident on the way home from work.

Nobody knows when their last invitation will come.

The table is set. The candles are burning. The Master’s voice still calls—but one day, the supper will begin, and those who kept delaying will find the door closed.

When we were kids, if you waited too long after Mom called, you might come in to find six brothers and sisters already sitting at the table—and the mashed potatoes gone.

You could still eat, but you’d missed the joy of being there when the meal was fresh.

I sometimes wonder how many believers live like that—late to grace, nibbling at leftovers, because they kept God waiting.

It’s not that God stops loving; it’s that the warmth of the invitation cools in our hearts.

We don’t hear “Supper time” the way we used to.

We get used to the noise of the world, and the call becomes just another sound in the distance.