“Well done, good and faithful servant; you have been faithful over a little, I will set you over much; enter into the joy of your master.” (Mt. 25:21)
Those words came to me as I prayed, not in my own voice, but in the impassioned tone of the late Fr. Mark Beard, echoing from one of his homilies that had lodged deep in my soul. As the familiar verse washed over me, something extraordinary began to unfold in my mind’s eye.
A vision unlike anything I’d ever imagined.
I found myself gazing upon a magnificent fortress, its spires reaching toward eternity. But it was what lay inside that took my breath away.
The main hall stretched beyond sight, filled with rows upon rows of tables. A joyful crowd sang, laughed, and feasted, their attire bright and colorful, expensive-looking but medieval in appearance. Lords and ladies, peasants and nobles, unified in celebration. At the center of it all stood three tall, ornate, kingly chairs. One for the Father, one for the Son, and one for the Holy Spirit.
This was Heaven.
The overwhelming desire to join this feast seized me immediately. Lord, please welcome me into your home, I pleaded silently. But even as the words formed, I knew—or rather felt—that I wasn’t yet “clean” enough for such a celebration.
“Lord,” I found myself saying, “how could I possibly be seated here, with You, when I am broken and sinful? With the help of Your grace, I’m working on trust, on obedience. On love. You’re molding me, I know, but there’s still work to be done. A lot of work. So allow me to be a waiter. Let me serve all those here. Let me clean the tables and sweep the floors. Allow me to bring the drink and food from the kitchen.”
But even this felt presumptuous. How could I serve in such a holy place when I felt so unworthy? So, I asked for a different job.
“Lord, if I can’t serve the room, let me at least cook the food.”
Suddenly I was in the kitchen, standing behind a large oven, wearing an apron. I prepared feast after feast. There were roasted meats and fresh bread, delicacies I could smell and see but never taste. That was for those already seated at His table. And that was okay. Actually, more than okay.
With utmost care, I set each dish upon gleaming white plates resting on silver-lined trays, watching waiters whisk them through heavy oak doors into the Main Hall.
The sounds of celebration drifted through those doors. Voices raised in praise, laughter. Pure joy. But I remained separated, unable to join, only able to serve.
Yet even this work felt too elevated for someone like me.
“Lord, if I can’t cook the food, allow me the opportunity to clean the plates, dishes, and utensils.”
The second I made the request, the vision shifted. I found myself bent over a large porcelain sink, scrubbing endlessly. Hard work that left me sweating, requiring tremendous effort to remove the dirt and grime from each piece of dinnerware. The water was scalding and freezing simultaneously—a paradox that somehow made perfect sense in this vision. The dirty plates piled up in what seemed like a never-ending stream. I could see the scraps, the leftovers from the celestial feast, evidence of the joy that I still felt unworthy to share.
There were no breaks. No rest. Just the endless cycle of cleaning what had been used by the truly worthy.
But still, I considered myself undeserving even of this humble task.
“Lord, allow me to take care of the firewood needed for the ovens, the garbage piles outside, the animals for the feast.”
The vision shifted once again. Now I stood outside the kitchen door, tending to the animals, chopping and bundling wood for the ovens, removing trash and stacking it in piles. The work was hard, unglamorous, forgotten. And that suited me.
It was then that I truly saw my surroundings. My eyes swept back and forth. My breath hitched. I stood in the innermost ring of this huge fortress. And in the distance, beyond the light, I heard wailing.
When I looked beyond and below the fortress walls, I saw a writhing mass of what I knew were souls forbidden from entering this gleaming citadel. Their cries carried such agony that a terrible sadness rippled across my heart, settling deep fear within me. A shiver ran across my skin.
I knew with absolute certainty that I never wanted to be on the other side of those walls. For that was Hell. Not fire and brimstone, but eternal separation from the feast, from the joy, from the presence of God.
Then, without explanation, I was back inside—a waiter again, tray balanced on my shoulder. I wove between the tables, setting down dishes and cups. No one paid me any attention. I was invisible, a servant whose work enabled the celebration but who wasn’t part of it.
Like those toiling in the kitchen, the work never ceased. But I didn’t complain, instead I was content to be a small cog in this great feast.
And then I saw something that made me stop: an opening. A space between revelers. In all the hundreds and thousands of tables, in all my time serving, I had never seen an open seat. Yet here was one.
A hush fell upon the crowd. All heads turned as the Lord stepped down from His throne and approached me. With a wondrous smile upon His face, He pointed to the open seat and said words that shattered every expectation: “Well done, good and faithful servant. Your place at My table awaits.”
At that moment, someone took the tray from my hand and flung it far away. The room erupted with a cheer so loud I felt the vibration in my very core.
The vision’s climax revealed the ultimate truth: God doesn’t want us to remain in the kitchen forever. He doesn’t desire our separation from the feast. The service, the hidden work, the faithfulness over little things—they’re all preparation for the moment when He says, “Well done, good and faithful servant. Your place at My table awaits.”
My service wasn’t payment for the seat, rather it was the grateful response to His saving grace, the natural overflow of a heart being sanctified through His ongoing work in me.
The vision ended, but its message continues to unfold in my daily life. I find myself looking for kitchens instead of thrones, seeking opportunities to serve rather than be served. Not because I’m trying to earn my way to the feast—as if that were even possible—but because I’ve caught a glimpse of the truth that the kitchen and the feast hall aren’t as separate as they appear.
When we serve with faithful love—born from our acceptance of His salvation—we’re already participating in the celebration. When we cook, wash dishes, or take out the trash with hearts full of joy and reverence, we’re already seated at His table.
“Well done, good and faithful servant. Your place at My table awaits.”
The words echo still, not as a distant promise but as a present reality. The feast has already begun. The question isn’t whether we’re worthy to join it, but whether our lives of service bear witness to His saving grace. We discover through serving that we were invited all along, not because of our work, but because of His.
Image from Wikimedia Commons
