Metropolitan Tabernacle Pulpit · Sermon No. 2122
“I cannot come.” Luke 14:20.
THERE are different ways of replying to the invitation of the Gospel when you mean to refuse it. They are all, at best, bad, and they may all be classed under one head, for, “they all with one consent began to make excuses.” But yet some are more decently worded than others and have a greater show of reason about them. The first two sets of people who were invited to the supper said to the servant, apologetically, with some appearance of courtesy, “I pray you have me excused.” But the third man did not beat about the bush at all, or pray to be excused—he said tersely, bluntly, sharply—”/ cannot come.” This was a final reply. He did not intend, nor wish to come to the supper. “I cannot come,” was a snappish reply but as he had married a wife, he thought the idea of his coming was utterly unreasonable and he needed no sort of excuse.
Now, what did that mean? Well, it meant that he thought very lightly of the giver of the feast. He had no respect for this “certain man,” who had made a great supper. He had an opportunity of slighting him by refusing his invitation and he did so outspokenly, saying, ”/ cannot come.” It also showed that he had a very low opinion of the supper itself. It might be a respectable meal, but he did not need it—he could have quite as good a supper at home. He was better off than those people in the streets. Those hedge birds might be glad enough to get a supper for nothing, but he was not dependent upon anybody and he could do very well for himself.
Do you not know many in this world who have no opinion of Christ, no love to God? Religion is to them mere nonsense—an unpractical, dreamy matter about which they have no time to concern themselves. It is a pitiful thing that they will not even think of the God whom angels worship! And the Christ who is the loveliest of the lovely—in Him they see no beauty! And the priceless provisions of mercy, the pardon of sin, the salvation of the soul, Heaven of God—they neglect these things as if they did not need them—or could get them whenever they please. Thousands are proudly independent of the free Grace of God—they are good enough and virtuous enough—they need not cry for mercy as the wicked and profane.
In their own judgment they are quite able to fight their own way to Heaven. They need not the charities of the Gospel. Contempt of the great Feast-Maker and contempt of the feast itself—these two pieces of proud disdain induce a man to say, ”/ cannot come.” But there was more than common pride in this brief, gruff speech, for this man had, at the first, made a promise to come. He had been invited to come and it is implied in the parable that he had, at that time, accepted the invitation. He had accepted the cards of invitation to the supper and, though he had done so, he now flies in the face of himself and says, “I cannot come.”
I think that I am addressing some here who have pledged themselves many a time to come to Christ. If I remember rightly you asked the prayers of friends and promised that you would be in real earnest. You looked your wife in the face and said, “I hope that it will not be long before I am with you in the Church of God and shall no longer have to go away and leave you alone at the Lord’s Table.” You asked some of your Christian friends to make a point of praying for you— but you have never carried out your intention of becoming a true Christian. Your resolutions may be still read in God’s eternal book of record—but they are there as witnesses to your falseness and changeableness. The counterfoils are there but there is no fulfillment of any of the resolutions.
God remembers them although you have forgotten to carry them out. You accepted the invitation on the spur of the moment but when worldliness got the upper hand with you, you went back to your old obstinacy and said, “I cannot come.” Perhaps you have not said it in quite as sharp a tone as I used just now, but it has come to the same thing, for you
have not come to the Gospel Supper. It matters little whether you say it angrily or quietly—if you do not come, the practical result is the same. I think I hear some of you, even now, say, “Do not ask me so often. I cannot come! It is of no use to worry me about it. I do not wish to be uncivil or unkind. Though I said I would come, I retract my words! I cannot come.”
In saying, “I cannot come,” the man intended, as it were, to dismiss the matter. He wished to be understood as having made up his mind and he was no longer open to argument. He did not parley. He did not talk. He just said, matter-of-factly, “I need no more persuading! I cannot come and that settles it.” Certain of our hearers have come to such a condition of heart that they would gladly silence our Gospel expostulations—with a kind but determined tone they would say—”/ cannot come. Do not trouble me anymore.”