Casualties

Then he said to his slaves, “The wedding is ready, but those invited were not worthy. Go therefore into the main streets, and invite everyone you find.” (Matthew 22.8-9)

Courting Danger

A couple years after Nintendo launched its game system, I bought one for Walt, thinking it the perfect birthday gift for him and a fun diversion for us. When I asked the clerk to recommend a few games, he handed me one based on The Lord of the Rings and something called “Grand Theft Auto”. I wasn’t so sure about his second choice. But he promised we’d love it, saying it was the season’s bestseller. We didn’t. The complicated controls made us feel old and inept, and we were unnerved by the graphic violence. Worst of all, the winning strategy directly opposed what we’d grown up with. Instead of avoiding danger—steering Pac-Man clear of Blue Meanies or watching for snakes that might kill Frogger—the game aggressively courted danger. Reaching the next level required players to wreak mayhem on whomever their avatars encountered. Appearances were deceiving and the rules seemed to shift with the developers’ whims. After giving it our best shot, we lost interest. Lack of dexterity, intuition, and ability to stomach the violence made the experience too unenjoyable.

Revisiting Jesus’s wedding feast story in Sunday’s Gospel (Matthew 22.1-14) may affect us in the same way. It’s very complicated, particularly if we’re accustomed to navigating the parables with ease. It’s not at all intuitive; the rules appear to change on a whim, as though Jesus makes them up as His story develops. And (in Matthew’s version, that is) it’s extremely—one might even say, gratuitously—violent. The tale is three-tiered, with each level introducing new characters, all courting danger to various extents, some to the degree we’re temporarily shut out of the story. We can’t conceive what provokes their rash behavior, and it's hard to rationalize the violence it causes. So wrestling with this parable is neither pleasant nor easy. Yet giving up on it too quickly will end with us missing one of the Gospels’ most fascinating, illuminating experiences.

An Open-Door Party

Here’s the story. Level One: A king invites the crème de la crème to his son’s wedding feast. Once everything’s set, he dispatches messengers to gather the guests. But they don’t come. So he sends a different group of servants, instructing them to tell the guests, “It’s time to show up.” Neither the momentous occasion (a royal wedding) nor the king’s trouble and expense—not even the honor of being invited—fazes the guests. Some offer piddling excuses: can’t get off work, can’t leave the farm, etc. Others attack and murder the messengers, inciting the king to order his troops to kill the killers and torch their city.

Level Two: With the feast on the back burner, the king tells his servants, “The wedding is ready, but those invited were not worthy. Go therefore into the main streets, and invite everyone you find.” (v8-9) They fan out across town and invite randomly chosen strangers—“good and bad,” verse 10 says—to celebrate the prince’s marriage with the king. Since Jesus scoots through this part of the story rather swiftly, never describing the guests’ response to the invitation, let’s fill in the blank with how we’d react. Our first thoughts would turn to why we shouldn’t attend. We’re not dressed for it. We don’t fit in that crowd. We won’t know how to act. We haven’t time or means to buy a suitable gift. Some of us, the “bad” folks Jesus mentions, might suspect we’re being duped; it could be a sting operation to lure us into a police trap. Having heard of the king’s temper, we probably worry about offending him once we’re there. So accepting the invitation is, in itself, courting danger. Do we dare? Absolutely. It’s an offer too grand and glorious to refuse.

Level Three: Either the king gives the impromptu guests time to dash home and change into customary wedding attire, or he outfits them once they arrive. In any case, everyone’s dressed to the nines and having a good time when he spots one guest in casual clothes. He confronts the man, asking, “Friend”—Jesus uses a sarcastic term more like, “Hey, buddy”—“how did you get in here without a wedding robe?” (v12) The man doesn’t reply. It’s tempting to imagine he shrugs, as if to say, “I heard you were giving an open-door party and thought I’d check it out.” More likely, he’s dumbstruck because he’s caught enjoying the king’s kindness without honoring his wishes. The king sentences him to a fate worse than death, binding him over to “outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth” (v13)

Choosing

After taking us through this gnarly, harrowing scenario, Jesus sums it up with a daunting moral: “For many are called, but few are chosen.” (v14) In light of whom He’s talking to (the disciples and Pharisees) and when He’s speaking (a few days before he’s arrested and executed), the parable breaks down easily. The king is God; the son is Jesus; and the invited guests are Israel’s religious establishment, which preaches exclusive right to divine favor but has a history of persecuting prophets sent to corral their behavior. The servants who take to the streets are apostles ordained to invite outsiders—estranged Jews and pagan Gentiles—to God’s table. They’re heralds of inclusion. And what of the imposter? We can see him one of two ways. Perhaps he’s a presumptive guest, possibly one who initially turned down the invitation, whose inflated sense of self as the king’s “friend” misguides him to believe he’s above honoring his host’s wishes. Or maybe he’s just a fool who abuses the king’s hospitality by refusing to change in a manner befitting the occasion. Either way, confusing the king’s grace with license to ill spells his doom. Like the no-show corpses buried in their city’s cinders, all the imposter can say is, “I was called.” His disregard for the king’s stature and standards deprives him of any right to number among “the chosen.”

Now comes the hard part, when we ask how Jesus’s story speaks to us. And make no mistake, it delivers an extremely profitable, potent, and pressing message. As with nearly all His parables, Jesus prefaces this one by saying, “The kingdom of heaven is like…” Thus, the story reveals how many who hear God’s call become casualties of self-imposed arrogance and ignorance. Some let obsessions with security and success keep them from the feast. Some give way to intellectual pride that rouses hostility to God’s invitation. Some presume insider status that exempts them from God’s expectations. Some exploit God’s grace by foolishly ignoring what’s asked of them.

And where do we fit in all of this? It comes down to choice. Do we join untold masses who are called but don’t show up? Worse yet, do we delude ourselves to think we’re doing God a big favor by showing up? Or do we override hesitations and feelings of inferiority to accept the open invitation to sit with other chosen guests—good and bad—at God’s table? When we put it like that, the stunning “Aha!” that ends Jesus’s story is inescapable. God does the calling. Choosing, however, is left entirely to us.

Dear God, we couldn’t more thrilled and delighted that You’ve invited us to Your feast. Nothing in this world could keep us from being there. All we ask is that You show us how to please You and be worthy of Your calling. Amen.

God calls everyone to the feast. Being numbered among the chosen is up to us.

The Freedom Plow

Therefore I tell you, the kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom. (Matthew 21.43)

I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 3.14)

Eyes on the Prize

A first look at Sunday’s readings put me a loss as to what the Lectionary organizers were up to. Each of the four passages is famous. How they fit together wasn’t immediately clear, however. The Old Testament text (Exodus 20) issues The Ten Commandments. Psalm 19 extols the wisdom of keeping God’s laws; the psalmist writes, “More to be desired are they than gold.” (v10) The New Testament selection (Philippians 3.4-14) contains Paul’s moving admission about never being content in his faith; “I press on,” he says. The Gospel (Matthew 21.33-46) renders another vineyard parable—the third in as many weeks—this one replete with ominous overtones, as Jesus tells of tenant farmers who beat and murder everyone the owner sends to collect the rent, including his son.

While the Exodus-Psalm connection is too obvious to miss, the through-line that ties all four readings together is by no means apparent. The linkage between Philippians and Matthew seems tenuous at best. Both Paul and Jesus allude to their final acts. Yet what Paul envisions as a prize, Jesus foresees as criminal injustice. And what either has to do with honoring God’s laws is anyone’s guess.

With Paul contributing the biggest chunk of inspiration, I considered settling there. “Nothing I’ve done compares to knowing Christ,” he says, adding he longs to know Christ more—to identify with Christ’s suffering so he can experience the power of Christ’s resurrection. He concludes with his great declaration: “Beloved, I do not consider that I have made it on my own; but this one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus.”

American slaves immortalized Paul’s legendary “eyes on the prize” passage in a powerful spiritual that Mavis Staples recorded a century later at the height of the civil rights movement.

Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on

Got my hand on the freedom plow

Wouldn't take nothing for my journey now

Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on!

The instant the melody wafted through my memory, the pieces fell into place.

Failure to Produce

The villains in Jesus’s story overstep their authority by confusing occupancy with ownership. Not only does their abominable behavior violate civil law. It flouts God’s edicts forbidding thievery, coveting, and homicide. By refusing to pay the rent, whatever they profit isn’t rightfully theirs; they trade in stolen goods. Coveting the owner’s property and status, they mug and murder his agents, who serve as physical reminders the tenants aren’t as high and mighty as they pretend. (When the son calls for the rent, Jesus says their scheme includes usurping his inheritance after they kill him!) The upshot of this heinous tale doesn’t get by its target—the Pharisees. They’re greatly annoyed with Jesus as it is. Since He arrived in Jerusalem for Passover, He’s irritated them at every turn, blatantly taunting them to take action against Him. Portraying them as wicked tenants tacitly charges them with breaking the whole of the Law. In addition to crimes mentioned above, they refute God’s sovereignty, idolize power, renounce holiness, dishonor parents, lie, and commit the spiritual equivalent of adultery by luring God’s people into disgrace to satisfy their egomaniacal lusts. The parable pushes the Pharisees over the edge. Matthew says they react by validating Jesus’s inflammatory depiction of their wickedness: they conspire to kill Him. He has to be got rid of so they can continue running the vineyard as if it’s theirs.

Even as He provokes them to retaliate, Jesus explicitly warns they’ll be their own undoing. “Therefore I tell you, the kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom,” He says. (Matthew 21.43) Failure to produce a worthy harvest will end in eviction. The vineyard’s sole Proprietor won’t hesitate to replace them with tenants who will gratefully, humbly, and faithfully earn their keep. They’ll rein in carnal cravings for power and do the hard work of God’s kingdom. They’ll bear good fruit that pleases God and nurtures God’s people. They’ll honor God’s laws. And, like Paul, they’ll dismiss any credit they may receive to avoid getting bogged down in self. They’ll keep their eyes on the prize and press on.

More of Ourselves

We can erect elaborate hierarchies in our faith communities, bestow impressive titles on our leaders, hang fancy names suggesting we’re in charge on our doors, and dispense with anyone God sends to call us to account—including God’s Son. But nothing can change the fact it’s God’s vineyard and we’re merely tenants. On the other hand, we can humble ourselves to serve God’s purpose and abide by God’s edicts. We can enter the vineyard, intent on working faithfully, seeking no praise for ourselves, pressing ahead with our eyes fixed on the prize. Instead of wielding self-aggrandizing weapons that wound and destroy, we can weld our hands to the freedom plow, uprooting injustice and oppression, nurturing liberty and dignity that every child of God deserves. Until all of us are free, loved, and accepted, none of us is. Our work isn’t finished until the entire vineyard is harvested.

Like the wicked tenants, the religious establishment of Jesus’s day goes too far. Sadly, many in our time do the same. Yet the texts also challenge those of us who abhor religious excess and abuse to demand more of ourselves than we’re presently offering. We can’t exploit fear of going too far to excuse not going far enough. In Luke 9.62, Jesus puts it like this: “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” Forget what you’ve seen wicked tenants do. Forget what you have or haven’t done. Put your hand to the freedom plow, keep your eyes on the prize, and press on.

Search our hearts, O God. Free our minds. If need be, put us in our place. Make us faithful tenants committed to produce fruit worthy of Your kingdom. Amen.

As worthy tenants of God's vineyard we fix our eyes on the prize and plow ahead until all of God's children are free, loved, and accepted.

Brighter by the Minute

The path of the righteous is like the light of dawn, which shines brighter and brighter until full day. The way of the wicked is like deep darkness; they do not know what they stumble over. (Proverbs 4.18-19)

To Make the Day

With each turn of the earth comes that silver moment, when light’s promise stills darkness’s confusion, when bitter cold of night surrenders to refreshing coolness. It’s my favorite time of day, an enchanting, innocent interlude that holds all of nature—as well as human ambition and mischief—in abeyance. It lasts no longer than a kiss. But there’s peace in the kiss, and with it, an ache to linger in the new day’s gentle arms. Knowing it’s just a moment sweetens it with melancholy. Brightness will slip over the horizon, shattering the silence with compelling brilliance that conceals a simple question: What will you do with this day?

Our answer teeters on how we greet the day as it unfolds. If we’re overly idealistic, each step into time will become heavier with regret, as dawn’s silvery promise fades into daylight’s ironclad realities. If we’re prone to cynicism and defensiveness, our jaded outlook will only find confirmation in the harsh light. Either way, we’ll discount our power to make the day happen—not only for us, but also for those who need us to make their day. Either way, we’ll settle for bemoaning injustice and selfishness, rather than responding in ways that restore balance. As people of faith, however, we have within us a bottomless wealth of compassion, tolerance, and kindness to make the day, because righteousness exists in us. In 2 Corinthians 5.21 we’re told God specifically ordained Christ’s sacrifice as the ultimate sin offering so that we might “become the righteousness of God.” Coupling this supreme gift of grace with the gift of sunrise empowers us to make the day—to bring to it the serenity and promise that announces each dawn.

Truly Awesome

I flinch when I hear the word “awesome” tossed around. God is awesome; we aren’t. Nature is awesome; human achievements and invention are not. Although heights we reach often surprise and baffle us, our success proves they’re neither inconceivable nor impossible. To inflate regard for our accomplishments with puffed-up awe diminishes our ability to perceive truly awesome miracles and might at work in our world—not the least of which is truly awesome goodness God endows in us. The righteousness of God is so far beyond us we’ll never fully comprehend it. Nor will we ever replicate or implement it purely by mortal means. We can manufacture light. We can raise mountains, dig valleys, plot rivers, and plant forests. We can even engineer new species and life forms. Righteousness, however, forever exceeds our scope, as we haven’t the innate wisdom and will to be infallibly right. “There is no one who is righteous, not even one,” Romans 3.10 insists, implicitly defining righteousness as an exclusively divine trait—which is why God’s provision through Christ enabling us to become righteous is a truly awesome phenomenon, a cherished gift to be shared at all times. (It’s also why self-righteousness is such a dangerous, foolhardy, and wicked proposition.)

Being confidently aware we possess God’s righteousness allows us to seize the promises of daybreak and greet every waking moment as a sacred opportunity. “The path of the righteous is like the light of dawn, which shines brighter and brighter until full day,” Proverbs 4.18 explains. We arise in peace, burst forth in splendor, and grow brighter by the minute. Propelled by an insatiable desire to reflect our Maker in all we say and do, we nurture justice and mercy where cruelty and resentment thrive. We dispel shadows that blight unenlightened souls with fear and ignorance. We answer chaos with clarity, despair with hope, doubt with faith, and hatred with love. Before speaking, we seek God’s infallible wisdom and will to say the right words. Before acting, we ask divine guidance to do the right thing. Before forming opinions and striking attitudes, we remind ourselves it’s within our power to govern our thoughts and emotions rightly.

Does this sound like a far-fetched, utopian fantasy? Of course it does. Resisting self-serving logic and dark impulses is a constant battle. The sun seldom, if ever, sets without witnessing momentary lapses. Rather than surrender to weaknesses, however, we defy them. Knowing God’s righteousness exists in us confirms our passing failures are out of character. We tap into the assurance Paul expresses in Philippians 1.4: “I am confident in this, that the One Who began a good work among you will bring it to completion by the day of Jesus Christ.” Faith in our God-given ability—and God’s faith in us—to do what’s right carries the day.

The Dark Side

To grasp the relative insignificance of temporary setbacks in a rightly led life, consider Proverbs’ depiction of those who reject righteousness. “The way of the wicked is like deep darkness,” it says. “They do not know what they stumble over.” (v19) Can you imagine a more dismally frustrating existence—repeatedly tripping over hidden obstacles, blindly falling into mean snares, fearing danger with every step, and never feeling confident of one’s direction or progress? This is how many around us live. Navigating the dark side is their daily reality.

Thus, growing brighter by the minute surpasses the peace and clarity we experience. It radiates God’s grace and love, giving those who neither see nor know true righteousness a glimmer of the goodness it affords. Because it’s completely alien to human nature, it’s unlikely they’ll understand it any better than we do. Indeed, many will be so confounded they’ll suspect ulterior motives drive our words, deeds, and attitudes. They have that choice. We need not qualify our behavior and we definitely shouldn’t respond in ways that suggest it’s any of our doing. There is no one righteous, not even one. All we are—all we can possibly be—are recipients of God’s righteousness. Since it’s so far beyond us, it shines through us despite our frailties and faults. How awesome is that?

Most Righteous God, we stand in awe of this unfathomable gift You place in us through Christ. And, like the psalmist, we pray, “Let the words of our mouths and the meditation of our hearts be acceptable to You.” Amen.

Each sunrise asks, “What will you do with this day?” Confidently aware we possess God’s righteousness, we greet each moment as a sacred opportunity. Our path grows brighter by the minute.

The New Wave

Jesus said to them, “Truly I tell you, the tax collectors and the prostitutes are going into the kingdom of God ahead of you.” (Matthew 21.31)

Early Adopters

A big part of me wishes I were what tech gurus call an “early adopter.” But I’m not. When it comes to gizmos and Web-related stuff, I’m a 2.0 type of guy; before I jump on the newest wave, I hang back to see if it actually materializes as the next wave. And a big part of me is okay with that, because I seldom find the process of mastering the latest—allegedly “intuitive”—convenience intuitive or convenient. Deciphering inscrutable instructions and reordering one’s life to adopt new technologies can be maddening, particularly if the effort outweighs the benefits or one’s frustrations come to naught when the concept doesn’t catch on. So, despite appearing lazy and technophobic, I tend to wait until early-adopter friends can explain an innovation’s value and functionality in language I understand. This tactic has taught me to appreciate the wisdom and courage of early adopters and why watching them closely is so essential.

We all know conspicuous consumers who strive to be up-to-the-minute by spending fortunes on high-tech marvels and leaping on every Web craze. Yet they rarely do more with them than older models they replace. Their excuses for not availing themselves of progress’s potential typically boil down to resisting change that newness requires. In contrast, early adopters look before they leap. To welcome change, they need to know it’s worth welcoming. If they sense pushing new buttons and adapting behaviors will get them no further than they are, they pass. But once they’re convinced something revolutionary is underway, they trust their instincts. They’re unconcerned with whom they impress or how nerdy their enthusiasm looks. All they care about is what the new wave signifies in terms of eliminating barriers and opening new vistas in their lives.

Disruptive Behavior

In Matthew 21, Jesus silences a challenge to His authority with a parable that describes the first-century equivalent of conspicuous consumers and early adopters. He doesn’t embroider the tale. Indeed, it’s one of His least nuanced stories—and for good reason, because the religious leaders who confront Him about His disruptive behavior love nothing better than getting lost in the weeds. And before we examine His response, we should concede those questioning Him are well within their rights. Jesus has just staged a raucous Passover arrival in Jerusalem, intentionally mounting a young donkey to fulfill prophecy that the Messiah will come to Israel riding an untried colt. After dismissing criticism that He’s incited the palm-waving crowd’s adulation, He marches into the Temple’s courtyard market and literally turns it upside down. He returns the next day—as if nothing happened—and has the temerity to teach the congregation. The Temple leaders immediately shut Him down, demanding, “Who do You think You are? Who authorized You to behave so outrageously?”

Jesus responds by questioning them. (Talk about audacity!) “Answer Me and I’ll answer you,” He says, asking, “Was John’s baptism authorized by God or just a fad he started?” It’s a brilliant move, leaving His challengers no viable option. Saying God ordained John to baptize begs why they didn’t believe him. If they say he invented baptism as a signature gimmick, the crowd—who regard him as a prophet—will turn on them. “We don’t know,” they opt out. “Well, I’m not going to explain Who authorized Me, either,” Jesus says. Then He reframes their dilemma as a parable.

When a man with two sons tells the first to go work in the family vineyard, the son refuses. But after thinking it over, he does as he’s told. The second son agrees to work, only to welch on his promise. “Who did the will of his father?” Jesus asks. (Matthew 21.31) “The first son,” His accusers say. With that, Jesus yanks the rug from under them. “Truly I tell you, the tax collectors and the prostitutes are going into the kingdom of God ahead of you,” He declares. They’re early adopters. They sensed something revolutionary transpiring and believed John. Reminding the Temple leaders they doubted John, He essentially casts them as conspicuous consumers who resist change. “Even after you saw it,” He asserts, “you did not change your minds and believe him.” (v32)

Going into the Vineyard

Although the parable and its application occupy only four verses, unpacking it opens numerous points of entry. We first have to come to grips with our fondness for the path of least resistance. It’s more convenient to maintain a 2.0 stance and let others deal with the frustrations of adopting—and adapting to—the new wave. It’s easier to promise and not deliver than to change our minds about what we’re unwilling to do. Appearing phobic and lazy seems less risky than summoning wit and courage to assess the validity of change and meet its demands. We’d rather be late than laughed at, safe than sorry. So we’re content to wait and see what the hubbub’s really about, never imagining it will amount to much and therefore never recognizing the significance of what we’re looking at. Besides, if this new wave does turn into the next wave, we can always catch up. (Note Jesus doesn’t say the Temple leaders will never enter the kingdom. He merely says their reluctance to change will ultimately cost their leadership status by putting people they revile in the vanguard position.)

But this parable also speaks specifically to those of us who—despite being misconstrued as sinners and reprobates—perceive faith’s revolutionary new wave and dare to believe it’s divinely ordained. Yes, it took a while to revise our views of what following Christ means and why it’s worth risking our reputations to believe. Being convinced of faith’s power to remove barriers and open new vistas in our lives, however, compels us to honor our calling as early adopters. We’ve got to do as God asks. Whether or not our brothers and sisters join us, going into the vineyard is the only way we’ll figure out how this new thing works. Being there is our sole means of bringing the promise of inclusion to fruition.

We should expect those tending the vineyard to be outraged when our presence turns everything upside down and challenge our right to be there. Still, we need not answer them, since they’ve yet to believe what we know is true and divinely ordered. Our task is to be seen obeying God’s will. Those who oppose us may not believe what they see. They may resist the change happening before their eyes. They’d rather be late than laughed at, safe than sorry. Nonetheless the new wave is here. It’s sweeping the Church, steadily demolishing barriers and opening new vistas. While appointed leaders balk at the excitement and disruptive behaviors it generates, we’ve been given divine authority to take the lead. And lest we get all cocky and confused about our vanguard position, we need to remember what early adopters do. They get there first so those struggling with newness can get there, too.

Dear Father, we’re tired of worrying about what people think and promising without delivering. Let them call us what they will and hate us for what we are. You asked us to work for You and we’ve decided it’s the right thing to do. So teach us to be wise and courageous. Lead us into Your kingdom and bless us to show the way to those who have yet to believe what they see. Amen.

Although early adopters stir up a lot of commotion and disrupt the status quo, they ultimately validate the significance of the newness they believe in.

All Things Being Equal

“I decided to give to the one who came last the same as you. Can’t I do what I want with my own money? Are you going to get stingy because I am generous?” Here it is again, the Great Reversal: many of the first ending up last, and the last first. (Matthew 20.14-16; The Message)

Mixed Messages

“The word of God is alive and active,” Hebrews 4.12 says, comparing it to a double-edged sword that slices through the clutter to reach our innermost thoughts and feelings. Scripture’s immediacy to speak to each of us “where we live” is one of faith’s most elusive mysteries. When we’re alive to God’s Word, actively engaging it in open-minded dialogue, the Spirit draws our attention to what God desires us to see and pronounces what God wants us to hear. Not everyone experiences this phenomenon, of course, because not everyone believes Scripture is alive and active. First Corinthians 2.14 comments on skeptics’ lack of perception, saying, “Those who are unspiritual do not receive the gifts of God’s Spirit, for they are foolishness to them, and they are unable to understand them because they are spiritually discerned.” Thus, it’s no mystery why those who approach Scripture unaided by spiritual discernment criticize its inconsistencies and contradictions. And let’s not kid ourselves. When read as an inert, fixed document, the Bible is overrun with mixed messages. What’s more, one needn’t comb its pages to locate them. It’s not unusual to stumble on seemingly crossed signals in a self-contained passage or story.

Sunday’s Gospel (Matthew 20.1-16) serves up a classic example. Undiscerning readers will find Jesus’s parable about a landowner’s compensation policy confusing, even meaningless. The employer’s logic makes no sense—it’s unfair and unrealistic. There’s no denying the workers’ fury about discrepancies in their pay is warranted. And it’s hard to say what prompts Jesus to equate the owner’s high-handed response to their protests with justice and righteousness. Unaided by spiritual insight, a reader can’t perceive the magnitude of the “Great Reversal” that flips the story to reveal what Jesus wants us to see. When we allow the Spirit to enliven and activate the text, however, what others view as mixed messages becomes readily apparent, multifaceted truth.

Whatever is Right

Jesus couches His “Great Reversal” in a premise as mundane as it is timeless, leading us to jump to conclusions about fairness and moral objectivity. He even tosses in a few red herrings to spur us down the garden path. He likens the kingdom of heaven to a vineyard owner who, early one morning, employs a group of field hands at a mutually acceptable, standard wage. Then, around nine o’clock, he goes into the village square, where day laborers gather, and expands his workforce by promising, “I will pay you whatever is right.” (Matthew 20.3) Already we’re ahead of Jesus. By saying he’ll pay the nine o’clock workers “whatever is right” (as opposed to what the text terms “the usual amount” for the first group), we assume the owner means they’ll earn a fair wage, based on hours worked. This assumption sets the trend for what follows.

The owner returns to the square at noon, three, and finally at five and hires more workers. With each addition, our sense of growing inequities sharpens. No doubt a pecking order evolves, with the first crew at the top and the five o’clock crowd at the bottom. Since later arrivals will be less productive than those who’ve been at the job longer, it stands to reason their pay will reflect their reduced service and productivity. We might even go as far as imagining the owner reduces the pay rate as the day goes on. In tracking the parable’s moving parts, though, we forget Jesus began by saying, “The kingdom of heaven is like …” We’re about to discover what seems fair and realistic to us is often unacceptable and inconceivable in the eternal realm.

Six o’clock: quitting time. The owner instructs his manager to line up the workers in reverse order, from latest hires to the earliest. Watching the manager hand a full day’s wages to the five o’clock workers excites those farther down the line. All things being fair, they anticipate extra pay for working longer hours and producing greater results. But in the kingdom of heaven, all things being equal takes precedence. “Whatever is right” means no one is deemed less worthy or more deserving than the rest. Everyone who answers the call to work is equally rewarded, because God’s grace and favor can’t be earned. When the outraged workers confront the owner, he puts them in their place. “I decided to give to the one who came last the same as you. Can’t I do what I want with my own money? Are you going to get stingy because I am generous?” (v14-15) Before His listeners can object to the assertion greed drives the workers’ demands, Jesus closes the loop. “There it is once again, the Great Reversal,” He says, reminding them the divine dynamic habitually subverts human expectations and logic. “Many of the first ending up last, and last first.”

At the End of the Day

Time and distance encourage us to envision Christ’s tales of farmers, shepherds, and socialites in soft focus that glosses over the harsh realities of primitive provincial life. This parable retains its bite, though, as concerns for fair wages and workers’ rights figure prominently in our reality. Unlike other parables’ bucolic pastures, wheat fields, and banquet halls, this vineyard is in our backyard. And much of what occurs there makes us uneasy. We have a hard time overlooking the obvious: the owner’s generosity, admirable though it may be, seems grossly unfair to those who’ve earned their pay. Then we crash into the Great Reversal, and the Spirit brings the message home.

To see the world through God’s eyes, we must hold equality and acceptance in highest regard. Personal opinions about what's fair and reasonable obstruct our view of what's right and just. It’s nonsense to imagine the work we do and beliefs we hold make us better Christians than those who do less or believe differently. The call goes out and all who answer are equally entitled to God’s grace and favor. Obsessions with recognition and reward warp our understanding of the parable’s Great Reversal. “The first ending up last” isn’t a demotion; nor is “the last first” a hand-up. They’re a level set that abolishes vain prejudice and ambition. Jesus shows us—once again—at the end of the day, all things being equal is the kingdom of heaven’s governing principle. It’s what God wants and what we should be about.

O God, we get so caught up by relying on comparisons with others to gauge where we stand, we forget how You see the world and each of us. Forgive our nonsense and give us new eyes. Fire in us a heavenly vision that perceives all who answer Your call as equally worthy and acceptable in Your sight. Amen.

In the kingdom of heaven, the day ends with all things being equal.

Falling

I was pushed so hard, so that I was falling, but the LORD helped me. The LORD is my strength and my might; God has become my salvation… I shall not die, but I shall live, and recount the deeds of the LORD. (Psalm 118.13-14,17)

Today is a turning point, a chance to recalibrate our heading. The dastardly violence visited on the US and world at large on 9/11/01 came so unexpectedly we had no time to consider how best to respond. But we’ve been given 10 years—3,652 days—to wrestle with all the justified emotions and irrational behaviors the tragedy unleashed. While its memory will forever be stamped in our hearts and minds, it’s time to let go the fear and ugliness it produced.

We’ve spent the last decade dying a slow death, knotted up in worst-case scenarios, shrinking in terror every time a lunatic whispers, “Boo!” and blaming whoever's handy for all that’s gone wrong since that horrible day. We’ve turned from a hated people into a hateful one, and we insist on pretending we don’t notice or care how far we’ve fallen. Plummeting in 9/11's spectral shadows has robbed us of the joy, hope, and trust in one another that warmed our days and stilled our nights.

We would do well to use this moment to embrace the Psalmist’s declaration: “I shall not die, but I shall live, and recount the deeds of the LORD.” (Psalm 118.17)

It's a stunning vow, given the circumstances. The writer’s rise to an enviable position of authority enraged his adversaries. He doesn’t speculate what stoked their hostility. It may have been jealousy, ethnic hostility, or a strategically devised preemptive strike. The nature of the conflict is secondary. It's most important we understand the poet's been blind-sided. He tells us his foes engulfed him, swarmed him like bees, and blazed like burning thorns. Things got real ugly real fast. He countered the attack with decisive force. “In the name of the LORD, I cut them off!” he says—not once, but three times, as though he can’t believe it. Then we discover why his reaction and success seem incredible to him.

“I was pushed so hard, so that I was falling, but the LORD helped me,” the psalmist confesses. (v13) Falling. The pressure sends him spiraling. He’s losing his grip. Yet God mercifully catches him before he tumbles over the precipice. And rather than depend on his own abilities, he puts his trust in his Maker. “The LORD is my strength and my might; God has become my salvation,” he exclaims in verse 14. [So convinced is he that God’s faithfulness is the deciding factor that earlier in the poem he states, “With the LORD on my side I do not fear. What can mortals do to me?” (v6)] The psalmist’s steadiness is not of his doing. God saves him. Acute awareness of God’s mercy turns him around. While the people rejoice in his triumph, he triumphs in the realization he won’t die. He will live. And he embraces a very specific reason for living: to “recount the deeds of the LORD.”

Instead of falling, the poet soars.

*****

The terrorists who conceived and executed 9/11 were a cunning, barbaric lot. Thugs they were—naïvely heartless people seduced by a jury-rigged promise of immortality. They brooked no concern about the unjust hatred and prejudice their deeds would heap on millions of upright people who shared their ethnic and faith heritage. They deluded themselves with the fantasy they were courageous avengers waging an undeclared holy war with no place or purpose in the modern world. They were simpletons.

I can’t accept one of them was bright enough to say, “You know, when all is said and done, we will have bruised the American character past all recognition.” Their medieval mindset proves they lacked the sophistication to foresee the impact their evil would have on our culture and politics. They wanted to make us afraid of them. But somehow, through none of their doing, we turned their malevolence inside out. We became afraid and suspicious of each other.

Nine-eleven launched a cold civil war with both sides rising up in alarm at every turn, convinced anyone unlike them was scheming to overthrow the nation. We’ve devoted an entire decade to calling one another Fascists, Anarchists, Socialists, Communists, Luddites, Militants, Opportunists, Racists, Misogynists, Homophobes, Atheists, Fanatics, Hypocrites—and, yes, Terrorists—as well as only God knows how many other vicious names, including many unfit for a faith-forward blog.

Not since Pearl Harbor had Americans united in such defiance of evil and selfless compassion for our wounded. Indeed, the extraordinary solidarity spilled from our shores and overflowed the world. From every corner of the planet cries went up: “We are all Americans!” Our venal enemies placed that magnificent gift right there, in the palm of our hand.

And we let it go.

*****

Nobody says, “We’re Americans!” these days—nobody who means it in the broadest sense, that is. “Extremists,” another label frequently heard in the wake of 9/11, has also faded from use. And little wonder why. We’re now a land overrun with extremists. The priceless middle ground on which our country rose has imploded. Moderates are wastes of space, unworthy of attention. Even the middle-class—the backbone of our economy and culture—is dwindling to dust. In an atmosphere that literally banks on overkill, anything less than reckless and ridiculous has no value. We’ll defend blatant stupidity to the death if it’s extreme. We’ll tune in and listen to anyone, as long as what he says and how she says it are extreme.

We’ve got fat to the point of stupor on a non-stop diet of flagrant animosity and ignorance. The post-9/11 gallery of pop and political icons resembles a nuthouse run amok: haters, conspiracy theorists, ne’er-do-wells, self-aggrandizing analysts, and shameless enablers in every arena have captivated our attention. Flip from ““The Real Housewives” to cable news to a conspiracy theory “documentary.” The subject and style vary, but the underlying message is the same: somebody wants to hurt me!

Just once, wouldn’t it be refreshing for someone say, “Squabbling makes no sense. Let’s compromise.” Such a statement would open fascinating dialogue. But we’re not interested in dialogue. We want to be entertained—provoked by and dragged into contrived dramas that invariably manifest themselves in emotional (in some cases, physical) violence. If it’s not extreme, we’re not buying.

And that’s the problem with compromise and common sense. Neither is ever extreme. They don’t hurt anyone beyond reason, nor do they help anyone beyond measure. In short, they neutralize the victim-and-villain charade—and that’s what we’re all about these days, feeling hurt and hurting feelings.

*****

Is it remotely possible the terrorists foresaw we’d take a liking to victim mentality? If we went back to September 10, 2001, stopped any American on any street, and told him/her, “After tomorrow, you’ll view yourself as a victim,” we’d get cussed out.

In the immediate wake of 9/11, we ponied up like true American cowboys, vowing to hunt down the villains and bring them to justice. “Nobody messes with us and gets by with it!” Then it slowly dawned on us that we were dealing with something we didn’t understand. “Where is Osama bin Laden?” turned into a punch line. And once we rounded up those we suspected of abetting his cause, justice became a joke. Retribution and punishment were the names of the game—one that permitted us to change the rules and invent new ones as we went.

Meanwhile, voluntary victimization surfaced in the Blame Game, the domestic version of our preoccupation with nefarious conspirators abroad. More things gone wrong gave us more people to blame. When the richest among us started whining about their mistreatment, the Blame Game ballooned into absurdist farce. In grand titan fashion, they deployed media henchmen to waft their high-end Eau de Victim through the media and—sure enough—tens of thousands struggling from paycheck to paycheck picked up the scent. The truly put-upon avidly defended the hardly put-upon for one reason: they both blamed the same people for their unhappiness. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, they say.

*****

No nation backslides from its hard-won reputation as an industrious, prodigiously capable people to become a multitude of mewlers and malingerers without its consent.

There was a time Americans had to be warned, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." We were innovators, tinkerers, and renovators who couldn’t leave well enough alone. We sauntered next door when we saw a neighbor working on his car, skipped an afternoon at the beach to make cupcakes for a charity bake sale, and knocked on a needy family’s door with a bag of groceries to tide them over. We turned barn raising and harvests into festivals, moving days into parties. Offering help before you were asked was the American way.

We witnessed that spirit at its highest after 9/11. People quit their jobs to clean up the ruins and get New Yorkers and Washingtonians back on their feet. We've caught glimpses of it after devastating natural disasters. But it's rarely sighted in our political and community lives. Now we distance ourselves from opportunities to help until the needs grow too big to handle and we blame everyone else for not doing what we wouldn't be bothered with.

But how can you blame someone else for your sad estate when you’ve done nothing to prevent it? What convinced us that 9/11 freed us of all responsibilities for our actions? Why do we think blaming somebody else gets us off the hook and magically mitigates problems we actively or passively—mostly passively—allowed to escalate?

My partner, Walt, insists there are no victims, only volunteers. While I don’t agree that’s true across-the-board, the post-9/11 American character certainly fits the profile.

*****

A few weeks ago, I turned on a local midday newscast just as the anchor tossed to commercial. The story slated after the break was about power outages due to a storm earlier that week. Residents were naturally frustrated that their lights weren’t back on. “We’ll tell you all about it,” the anchor said, “and who’s to blame.”

And she smiled—not maliciously, as if she relished pinning down the slackers who left families in the dark. No, she smiled in that annoying, news anchor way, suggesting she didn’t give the Blame Game a second thought. She might as well have said, “We’ll tell you all about it, and then we’ll play Duck-Duck-Goose.” She was just that oblivious to how blaming anyone for the situation didn’t remedy it. And who could blame her? She looked no older than 25. All she’s known her entire adult life is confusing blame with justice and, worse yet, progress. I would have been furious had I not been thoroughly chilled.

That’s the biggest calamity of 9/11’s aftermath. We’ve invested ten years nurturing a woe-is-me, be-very-afraid culture with not the slightest concern an entire generation has come of age believing that self-pity, paranoia, and helplessness are the American way of life. If the 1980s were the “Me” Decade, the 2000s will be remembered as the “Them” Decade—as in, “It’s their fault,” “It’s their duty,” and “It’s their neglect.”

Whose fault is that?

*****

In America, we pledge allegiance to “one nation under God.” We tender currency emblazoned with our trust in God. Whether or not we’re comfortable with how these and other legislated mentions of faith blur the lines between church and state, this is who we say we are and what we say we do. Yet we’ve permitted 9/11’s impact to divide us and we’ve exploited God’s name as a wedge that incites fear, the enemy of trust. God’s mercy and goodness to us—the strength and might God placed in us, without which our greatness as a people seems unlikely at best—have no prominence in the national dialogue, neither overtly nor implicitly. As believers, however, we know God has been unduly merciful and good to us, before and after 9/11. To acknowledge that would require us to shut down the Blame Game. It would mean living, not dying—praising, not accusing.

We let one awful morning rewire our minds. We decided there’s nothing good to say about or to one another. Consequently God’s deeds have gone unreported. And as we’ve gone down this path of retaliation and rudeness, we’ve created fewer opportunities for gratitude. What you say is what you get.

*****

Psalm 118 is a thanksgiving processional sung as priests approach the altar to offer sacrifices of praise. Its opening line invokes gratitude: “O give thanks to the LORD, for God is good; God’s steadfast love endures forever!” (v1) All the angst and violence the poet recounts comes in the next two stanzas to remind worshipers how close to falling he came and how God’s mercy caught him before he let go. The psalm peaks in verses 23-24: “This is the LORD’s doing; it is marvelous in our eyes. This is the day that the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

What do we make of this day? Will it end like the last 3,652, with fear’s putrid tang on our tongues and blind suspicion terrorizing our hearts? Or will we redeem the lives lost on 9/11/01 by joining a long overdue thanksgiving procession, offering sacrifices of praise for God’s goodness to us? Can we quit pointing fingers and recognize the marvelous things God has done? Will this be the day we finally open our eyes to see trust in God and one another is what transforms falling into soaring? Can we summon the clarity and courage to declare, “We shall not die. We shall live”?

This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.

Lord, open our eyes. Amen.

Trusting God and one another transforms falling into soaring.

The Church's First Protocol

Truly I tell you, whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven. (Matthew 18.18)

Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore love is fulfilling the law. (Romans 13.10)

Benevolent Aliens

On October 19, 1945, almost two months to the day after World War Two ended, George Orwell published an essay, “You and the Atomic Bomb,” serving notice the Allies had won and brokered a “peace that is no peace.” He warned that ideological rivalry between emergent empire builders, the US and USSR—each equipped with potential to annihilate the planet—would grip the world in anxiety. His prescience greatly influenced post-War science fiction, much of which channeled global paranoia into scenarios of technically superior alien attacks—space invaders armed with death rays and whatnot. A few sci-fi writers, however, understood the gravity of Orwell’s predictions. They harnessed the genre’s fantastic elements to imagine a new breed of extraterrestrials—benevolent aliens that journeyed to Earth and offered the young planet wisdom they acquired eons ago. The first notably benevolent alien appeared fully intact in the low budget, 1951 film The Day the Earth Stood Still.

If you’ve not seen the film or it’s been a while, it’s worth a look. With East-West tensions abated, the Christ parallels can’t be missed. Assuming human form, the alien takes the name “Carpenter.” By choice, he lives in a boarding house occupied by a widow, her son, and several social misfits. He conceals his identity and his presence generates widespread unease about his mission. He won’t speak to political insiders, insisting his message is for all people. He demonstrates command of the elements by shutting down the global power grid. When a suspicious acquaintance betrays him, he’s gunned down before being heard. A mysteriously powerful space companion revives him. His resurrection brings attention he uses to address all nations at once. What he says echoes Jesus’s words in Matthew 18.15-20 (today’s Gospel), and resounds with Paul’s counsel in today’s New Testament reading, Romans 13.8-14.

I am leaving soon, and you will forgive me if I speak bluntly. The universe grows smaller every day, and the threat of aggression by any group, anywhere, can no longer be tolerated. There must be security for all, or no one is secure… I came here to give you these facts… Your choice is simple: either live in peace, or pursue your present course and face obliteration. We shall be waiting for your answer. The decision rests with you.

Cosmic Implications

Earlier in the film, Carpenter explains the urgency of his mission. Newly armed with nuclear power, the Earth’s capability to destroy itself also threatens universal balance. If it abuses its powers to conquer other planets, it will foil a cosmic plan for harmony and peace. Learn to get along, Carpenter says, or forget belonging to the Big Picture. This is precisely what Jesus says in today’s passage, first spoken when everything He came to accomplish is due to transpire. The Earth will stand still at His execution. He’ll entrust His mission and message to His followers—Whom He collectively calls “the Church”—after His resurrection and departure. The same power that raises Him from the dead will remain with the disciples after he leaves, endowing them with capabilities unlike any the world has seen.

What the Church does with the Holy Spirit, however, rests on its shoulders. It can employ the Spirit's power to advance God’s kingdom on Earth. Or it can splinter into ideological rivalries that weaponize the Spirit and Scripture to build doctrinal empires. If the disciples go that route, Jesus foresees total anarchy. His mission will be in vain, His message reduced to ideals everyone admires, but no one lives by. Before responsibility for the Church gets dropped in the disciples’ laps, Jesus wants them to understand every decision and action they undertake is loaded with cosmic implications. They’re part of a divine plan that transcends human comprehension. But using these terms to set expectations the disciples will work together for His sake would sound like science fiction to them. So Jesus issues the Church’s first protocol in language they’ll readily absorb, speaking directly to conflicts and competing interests they’ve not dealt with until now.

The Peter Problem

The days prior to this conversation have been very strange. Everyone but Jesus has the jitters. He keeps talking about leaving them, after which Peter is supposed to take over. He as much as says their future depends on him when He promises to give Peter “the keys of the kingdom of heaven”—i.e., absolute authority—to lead the Church. (Matthew 16.18) The idea of Peter stepping into Christ’s shoes is as terrifying as it is baffling. He’s the most mercurial person in the group. He makes a big deal out of everything. No sooner does he witness Jesus’s transfiguration than he goes off on a tangent about building memorials—a thing he’s neither trained nor equipped to do. He’s useless in crisis. When taxes come due, rather than organize a fishing trip to earn some cash, He takes Jesus’s joke about finding money in a fish’s mouth seriously. (It turns out Jesus isn't kidding; the first fish Peter pulls from the water pays the bill.) He’s the only one crazy enough to believe he’ll actually walk on water because Jesus says so. (Oh, by the way, Peter is the only human known to walk on water.) Then there’s his hair-trigger temper. Why, a few days ago, he got so unnerved by all the death talk he went off on Jesus! And he’s supposed to be their leader?

The Peter problem creates many other problems. James and John—a.k.a. the Sons of Thunder—campaign for Jesus to reverse His decision and put them in charge. (They even drag their mother into it, pushing her to broach the topic with Jesus.) Judas is acting weird lately. He’s unhappy with where things are going. He signed on to overthrow Roman oppression, not to save the world. Mounting dissension and increasingly bolder lunges for power prove all the more unsettling because either Jesus fails to see or He simply doesn’t care about what’s happening. Of course, Jesus sees and cares. Just when tensions among the disciples reach their breaking point, He explains how and why they must work out their differences and stick to His plan.

The Earth-Heaven Connection

If someone wrongs you, talk it out, Jesus says. Don’t risk losing them over issues you can resolve. If they won’t listen, invite one or two witnesses to confirm you tried your best. If that doesn’t work, take the matter before the whole group. If the offender still refuses to acknowledge his/her error, put her/him out of mind. With that, the disciples discern responsibility for the Church’s stability and unity belongs to them. And Jesus explicitly says so in Matthew 18.18-20: “Truly I tell you, whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven. Again, truly I tell you, if two of you agree on earth about anything you ask, it will be done for you by My Father in heaven. For where two or three are gathered in My name, I am there among them.”

The Earth-Heaven connection is where the keys to the kingdom reside. And the protocol for accessing them is so simple it’s a wonder we don’t follow it religiously. Only when we agree are we aligned with Christ’s plan and purpose. Only when we bind forces that contradict Jesus’s mission and message, only when we loose the Spirit’s power to unite and liberate us, is Christ’s presence known and felt among us. The importance of doctrinal disputes and sectarian quirks is wildly exaggerated. It’s not about being right or wrong, but doing what’s right to avoid going wrong. Our power isn't evidenced by controlling others. It’s proven by conquering our desire to seize control. We don’t need a lot of rules and restrictions to secure the Earth-Heaven connection. We need a mind-boggling revelation that penetrates what we think to reach the depths of our understanding.

In a stunning take on why rules aren’t enough to resolve conflicts, Paul writes, “Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law. The commandments… are summed up in this word, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore, love is the fulfilling of the law.” (Romans 13.8-10) And there it is again: the only way to end our detrimental us-versus-them divisions in the Church is by making them our first concern.

In The Day the Earth Stood Still, Carpenter warned people of Earth that leveraging nuclear power to deepen political rifts not only endangered their survival. Unchecked, it would put the universe at risk. What Jesus and Paul say in today’s texts is no different. The Holy Spirit is given to unite us in purpose and principle. Jesus issued the Church’s first protocol, explaining how and why we must resolve our differences, lest we sever our connection to His divine plan. Paul discredits all notions of legally enforced unity. Love for one another is what binds evil’s power over us and liberates our hearts. We’ve been given a choice and Heaven waits for our answer. The decision rests with us.

Lord, we have heard You loud and clear. We pray Your Spirit will empower us to accept Your Word. May it penetrate what we think to reach the depths of our understanding. Instill in us an insatiable yearning to resolve our conflicts wisely, compassionately, showing true love for one another. Amen.

The Holy Spirit endows us with the power to resolve our conflicts and advance God’s kingdom. Jesus even tells us how to do it. Whether we follow His protocol is up to us.