“Many are invited, but few are chosen.” – Matthew 22:14

Be fer a vessel sets sail, tha captain ‘ill often put out a call fer crew. Any manner of feller might show up at that wharf. Why tha rabble might be drunks and knaves, orphans and lads of royalty running from home. Matters not ter tha captain what make or pedigree they be. Question is, kin they pull an oar, hoist a sail, stand a watch and fire straight.

This here word of warning from tha Son comes after a tale he told ‘bout some king who hosted a wedding, sent out invitations, and them on tha list refused ter show. Well, with tha feast prepared and that crowd ter make merry, he ordered his crew to put out a call. All who responded got britches and jacket, hat or bonnet fer tha event. ‘Cept thar be one feller who snuck in without tha right attire. Still wearing his smelly, grubby, fishing and fighting outfit—and seeing tha sorry lot ahead of him waltzing in—he figured he be welcomed.

‘Cept, as ya well know, once ya sign on with a vessel, ya have ter abide to the code of the captain. It be his ship, his fixings, his party, and his affair. We sail by his rules, as it were.

Many be called and many might show up at that wharf, but only a few gets ter sail with Skipper. It not be his doing that others don’ get ter share in tha passage. Only thing he asks is that we accept tha attire he offers.

Only some, like tha feller in tha Son’s story, be stow-aways, knaves and scoundrels so full of themselves they think Skipper won’ cares how they look.

But Skip does care; he cares mightily. And tha attire he demands is that we be dressed with tha Son. Them that Skipper chooses be those who have come inter a relationship with him through tha Son. Folks of that ilk percolate on Skip’s words day and night, checking ter make sure they be carrying out his orders. And when they find thar spirit off course, they make a correction right quick like. Tha chosen ones be them have thar spiritual conditioned changed from thar old way of walking and thar ears open ter Skip’s Word.

If ya wish ter sail with Skip, put on tha Son. Do that an’ ya kin come ter tha feast. But refuse and keep wearing yer own vomit stained blouse and bloody britches and ya kin expect ter get fed ter tha sharks.