Note: This was the first sermon I preached at Germantown Mennonite Church (August 24, 1986). At that time the congregation was still meeting in the historic meetinghouse, which has steep steps at the front and two very narrow doors into the sanctuary. I was new to the congregation and Michael King, one of the pastoral team members, had invited me to preach. I was told later that a couple who left the congregation shortly thereafter gave my preaching as the reason for their final decision to leave. I don't know whether it was because they'd let a gay man preach from the pulpit or whether what I said offended them.

The Narrow Way

Germantown Mennonite Church
Luke 13:22-30
by John Linscheid



Frankly folks, I don't like this passage of Scripture. It offends me. In fact, there's little about Jesus' entire discourse here that doesn't bother me. The narrow door image simply bothers me. When asked if many will be saved, Jesus points to a narrow open door and says strive to enter it. To my mind it's analogous to Jesus telling someone in a wheel chair to try to get up the steps and through one side of the narrow door to this sanctuary. What a struggle. But the word Jesus uses does have overtones of struggle-it's the word at the root of our English word agonize. Agonize to enter the narrow door, Jesus says. And he adds, "many will seek to enter and will not be able."

Now that offends my sense of grace. How is it that anyone sincerely making an effort might be excluded? I'd feel different if Jesus said, "the door stands wide open but many refuse to enter." At least then it would be their fault. But no, he says many try to enter but are unable.

And Jesus adds to the offense by continuing with a story:

"When once the householder has risen up and shut the door, you will begin to stand outside and to knock at the door, saying, 'Sir, open to us.' He will answer you, 'I do not know you.'" This from the Savior who said knock and the door will be opened unto to you-and only two chapters ago in Luke 11.

When I worked at Swan Lake Christian Camp in South Dakota, the junior-high campers constantly requested the song "I Wish We'd All Been Ready." I don't know what schizophrenic artist put such horrifying words to such soothing music: "Days were filled with guns as war" da da da "I wish we'd all been ready . . . There's no time to change your mind, the Son has come, and you've been left behind." Who could gloat at another's damnation?

But even while I abhor the implicit self-righteousness of it, I try to figure out why Jesus said practically the same thing. And in the process, I look for clues to who it is who actually gets locked outside when the householder shuts the door. They obviously expected to get in. In fact, they remind the householder that they fellowshipped together-ate, drank, and listened to the teachings. But all they get in response is, "I do not know where you came from; depart from me you workers of iniquity."

Now this is not a bad twist when I apply it to my enemies. I get a certain satisfaction imagining the Fellowship of Concerned Mennonites and the biblical legalists all in the outer darkness gnashing their teeth while the women pastors and worldly sinner they railed against flock from east and west and north and south to sit at God's banquet table.

It's not a bad thought at all. I begin to like the story--until I consider that all of them, like me, were simply some of the many agonizing to enter by the narrow door. How do we know which of us is aiming at the correct door? How do we know which of us may have the door slammed in our faces? What if someone in a wheel chair struggles to get up the steps and in through the narrow door to this sanctuary only to find that Truth is Presbyterian?

Mennonites have usually tried to solve this dilemma by appealing to the discernment of the church. The congregation gets to decide which is the narrow door. But history proves that the congregation that once discerned that head coverings were essential to getting through the narrow door likely now considers them optional. And what happens when different parts of Christ's body discern differently? We have no guarantees that we will not be the ones standing outside the locked door in genuine surprise, protesting that we struggled in good faith to enter the narrow door, listened carefully to God's message, and even fellowshipped with God in our worship and lives. Discernment may be good for a reality check, but it's no guarantee that we'll make it through the door.

This all seems to be leading quickly toward a helpless relativism or a hopeless cynicism. What's the use of striving to enter the narrow door, if we might find it slammed in our face despite our best efforts?

What's the point of putting my freedom on the line for Central American peace if I can't know for sure whether the God-and-country folks aren't right? Why should a woman go to seminary if she can't know for sure that the women-keep-silent people have chosen the wrong door? Life, Jesus' story seems to suggest-life is a gamble.

But it seems I'm making one crucial assumption--that the narrow door is the door to my salvation. I suppose it was the crucial point for the person who asked Jesus the question, "Lord, will those who are saved be few?" But by making that assumption, I put my eternal destiny in front of all other considerations. I've put myself up front, while looking at a story that ends, "some are last who will be first, and some are first who will be last."

What if--and I'm probably moving beyond the text here--what if the door is the door to God's rule? What if the point of striving to enter the narrow door is to focus on God's glory?

What it finally comes down to is this. The most I can do is follow Jesus to the best of my understanding and ability. I have no guarantees that I have got my understanding right and my opponents have it wrong. I'm not in control of who gets in through the narrow door or who gets the door slammed in their faces. Only God controls that. So what I need to do is pray for understanding, keep on striving-and then pray that whether I'm right or wrong, my striving will serve God's purposes.

I may well be butchering Augustine, but if I remember right, he said, "Love God and do whatever you please." I wonder if striving to enter the narrow door doesn't have something to do with loving God. And if we love God, how could even the outer darkness be teeth-gnashing torment?

Yes, some who are first will be last, and some who are last will be first. But may all, whether last or first, learn to love God and strive for God's glory.