The heavy cedar doors of the banqueting house stood open, pouring warm lamplight across the courtyard. Above the portal, the herald had sounded the silver trumpets for days, echoing the proclamation down every alley and crossroads: the King was holding a great marriage feast for His Son, and all were invited to come. Eliab stepped through the arched gates among a jostling crowd. The city streets had emptied, filled with travelers, merchants, laborers, and beggars. Some had ignored the early summons entirely, too consumed by their freshly purchased fields, their oxen, and the business of daily trade to heed the King’s voice. But Eliab had answered the call. He had walked the dusty road, climbed the ascent to the palace, and felt a surge of pride as he crossed the threshold. I am here, he thought. I heard the call, and that is enough. Near the inner entry, servants of the King stood beside vast cedar chests draped in immaculate white linen. Each incoming guest was offered a robe—woven without seam, bright, spotless, and prescribed by the royal court. "Take and put on the garment provided by the King," a steward said, holding out a gleaming tunic toward Eliab. "None may sit at the table in their own attire." Eliab glanced down at his tunic. It was made of fine wool, intricately embroidered at the cuffs, tailored to his liking, and carefully kept. "I am dressed well enough," Eliab said with a dismissive wave. "I came when the herald called. My presence honors the Son. Surely the King cares about my heart and my willingness to attend, not the particular weave of my robe." He brushed past the steward and entered the grand hall. The hall was vast and vibrant with song, overflowing with guests from every walk of life. But Eliab quickly noticed a distinct uniformity among the tables. From the poorest beggar who had sat by the wayside to the wealthiest merchant who had dropped his wares, every guest had set aside their personal clothes. They sat clothed in identical, dazzling white linen. Eliab took a seat, adjusting his embroidered cuffs, convinced that his own effort and presence placed him in good standing. Suddenly, a profound hush swept through the hall. The side doors opened, and the King Himself entered to inspect the guests. His eyes, clear and piercing like a flame of fire, moved across the long tables. He looked not merely at the crowd, but into each soul present. His gaze stopped. Eliab felt the room's warmth vanish as the King approached his seat. The rustle of white linen ceased; every conversation died down. "Friend," the King asked, His voice carrying both immense gravity and sorrow, "how did you come in here without a wedding garment?" Eliab’s tongue clung to the roof of his mouth. The proud excuses that seemed so reasonable at the entryway melted away. In the light of the King’s presence, his embroidered tunic appeared stained, threadbare, and utterly unfit. He had wanted the feast on his own terms. He had heard the call, but he had refused to submit to the King’s instruction, rejecting the pure righteousness provided by the Host. He stood entirely speechless. The King turned to the attendants standing by. "Bind him hand and foot, take him away, and cast him into outer darkness; there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth." Eliab was led out of the vibrant light and music, past the open gates, and into the cold night air where the forgotten wander. As the great doors shut behind him, the words of the Son echoed across the silence of the courtyard: "For many are called, but few are chosen."