Go and Work Today

Jesu Juva

St. Matthew 21:28-32                                                  

September 27, 2020

Proper 21A                                                           

 Dear saints of our Savior~

          There’s a lot about the two sons in today’s parable that we don’t know.  It’s a brief parable with just a few details.  But one thing we do know:  Those two boys were definitely not twins.  They couldn’t have been more different.

          But any parent with two or more children can tell a similar tale of diversity.  How can two or three or four kids comprised of the exact same genetic material—from the exact same parents—turn out to be so different and diverse from one another?  From the same two parents are born both leaders and followers, rule keepers and rule breakers.  From the very same brood come both silly and solemn, faithful and faithless offspring.  Siblings always surprise.  They’re like a box of chocolates.

          Their father gave these two sons the exact same command:  Son, go and work in the vineyard today.  Son number one said, “No, I will not.”  Now, as shocking and disrespectful as that is, at least we have the comfort of knowing that this son ultimately did the right thing.  Afterward he changed his mind and went to work.  We aren’t told whether he went to the vineyard mumbling or grumbling, or whether he went with tears of repentance in his eyes.  All we know is that he eventually did what his father requested.

          But son number two—he does the exact opposite of his brother.  Big surprise.  When he’s told to go and work in the vineyard, he responds with a pious-sounding, fourth-commandment-keeping, “I go, sir,” probably with a crisp salute.  But despite his good intentions and his initial impulse to go and work—he did not go, and he did not work.

          “So, what do you think?” Jesus asks.  “Which of the two did the will of his father?”  In light of these questions, we can actually begin to see a few similarities between these siblings.  For both sons were sinners.  Both disobeyed and 

disrespected their father.  Neither of them gave their father the honor and obedience he was owed.

          And, for that matter, what was so terrible about the father’s request?  Two times he said, “Son, go and work in the vineyard today.”  That very first word, “Son,” emphasized the loving relationship between the two.  He gently appealed to his sons to do what needed to be done.  The vineyard was their vineyard.  It wasn’t owned by a corporation or some wine-making conglomerate.  And in that vineyard, there was work that needed doing “today.”  Urgent tasks needed attention—not next week—but now.  Perhaps the Pinot needed pruning.  Maybe the Malbec was maturing.  The father’s request was simple, sincere, and reasonable; but neither son obeyed.

          So what do you think?  Which son are you?  I’ll tell you what I think.  I think we are both sons.

          I think that your heavenly Father has said to you, “My son, my daughter, go and work in my vineyard today.”  When did that happen, you ask?  It happened when you became a child of your heavenly Father in the cleansing splash of Holy Baptism.  In, with and under that water and Word, God, in effect said, “You, child, are mine.  I’ve adopted you.  I’ve got an amazing inheritance waiting for you.  Now go and work.  Go and love me above all others.  Go and love your neighbor as yourself.  Repent of your sin and believe in me.”

          What do you say in response to that?  Unfortunately, we too often say what the first son said.  God says, “Go and work.”  And we say “no.”  Jesus said that the first son was like the tax collectors and prostitutes.  Through John the Baptist God had said to them, “Go and lead a sexually pure and decent life in what you say and do.”  But they said, “No.  I will not.”  God had said to them, “Be content with what you have because the love of money is the root of all evil.”  But they said, “No.  I will not.” 

          God tells you and me much the same thing.  He tells husbands and wives to love and honor each other, that children should obey their parents in everything, that we should forgive those who sin against us, that we should return to Him a firstfruit percentage gift from our income—and all of us from the greatest to the least have brazenly said to our heavenly Father, “No.  I will not.”  And for that there is hell to pay.

          At other times we are twins of the second son—the son who said, “I will, sir,” but did not go.  At least he said the right thing.  He talked the talk.  We’re very good at that too.  Today your heavenly Father is telling you to go.  Go and forgive your brother from the heart.  Go and live a life of sexual purity.  Go and trust in me above all else.  And we all confess with gusto, “I will, sir.  Amen.” 

          But . . . then we start thinking—thinking about what it is we’re supposed to do.  We study.  We reflect.  We go to Bible studies, we listen to sermons, we read books, we talk to a counselor.  We ponder and procrastinate.  We evade and equivocate.  And as day turns to night, we realize that we haven’t gone and done what the Father has asked of us.  All of our pious-sounding promises have resulted in nothing—no change, no repentance, no obedience, just the same old lukewarm living.  We haven’t done what we pledged and promised to do.  And for that there is hell to pay.

          Whether it’s the open, defiant rebellion of the first son who said, “I will not,” or the syrupy-sweet hypocrisy of the second son who said, “I will,” but then didn’t, we aren’t so different.  In this respect ALL SIBLINGS ARE THE SAME:  There is no difference. All have sinned.  All fall short.  All are rebels and hypocrites.  And “the soul who sins shall die.”

          What do you think?  I think that both sons need another Son.  I think that both sons need God’s Son—and so do we.  Jesus is the Son—the only Son—who said to His Father, “I will,” and then went and did what He had promised to do.  When the Father surveyed this world of rebels and hypocrites and disobedient children, He asked, “Who?  Who will go and buy them back?  Who will pay the awful price?  Who will go today and do the dirty work required in My vineyard?”  And His one and only Son said, “I will, sir.”  And He went and did it.

          Conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried.  He made Himself nothing, set aside His royal robes, rolled up His sleeves, and put on the uniform of a servant.  He humbled Himself and became obedient to death—even death on a cross.  Jesus was obedient to every law, every commandment, every aspect of loving God and loving neighbor.  And best of all, He did it all for you—in your place.  The hard work of this Son counts for every wayward son and daughter.  He does all the hard work in the Father’s vineyard.  He labors, He toils, He works Himself to death on a cross—and you get all the credit simply through faith in Him.  His blood has the power to cleanse every bad boy, every sinful son and daughter.  And by His Holy Spirit He gives repentance to every rebel—gives a sure and certain hope to every hypocrite.

          What do you think?  I think this sounds like good news—the best of news!  When Jesus completed all the work His Father sent Him to do, Jesus said, “It is finished.”  At that moment, the sins of the world had been taken away.  At that moment, the road to heaven was blasted wide open for rebels and hypocrites and tax collectors and prostitutes and sinful sons and daughters, including you and me—all who confess that Jesus Christ is Lord to the glory of God the Father.

          Both sons in this parable were sinners.  Both sons needed God’s Son, the Savior of sinners.  But I’m sure you noticed the one critical difference between the two.  One son eventually did make his way into the vineyard.  The first son who said, “I will not,” later “changed his mind and went.”  I’d like to think that son was given grace to see his sin.  That son was given grace to repent of his sin.  And that’s exactly why you are here today.  For in the Divine Service God’s Son is here for you—to give you grace to see your sin. Here you receive power to repent of your sin, to receive His forgiveness, and to follow Him right back into the vineyard—to do the hard work the Father has asked of you in your vocations—and to do it all for reasons of love and thankfulness and joy. 

          In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.

 

It's not Fair!

 

Jesu Juva

St. Matt. 20:1-16                                                          

September 20, 2020

Proper 20A                                                               

 Dear saints of our Savior~

          We often hear it said of Jesus that He had no earthly possessions.  No house or home.  No money.  No personal property to speak of.  “Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests,” Jesus once said, “but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.”

          But frankly, after hearing the parable of the laborers in the vineyard, it’s a little more apparent why Jesus wasn’t wealthy.  Any small business owner who tried to adopt the business practices in this parable—well, he wouldn’t be in business for long.  Nor would Jesus fit in with today’s corporate world.  His accounting method of equal pay for unequal work sounds more like socialism than capitalism.

          After all, it doesn’t take an MBA degree to figure out what will happen when those who come to work at sunset are paid exactly the same amount as those who show up at sunrise.  Nobody would be so foolish as to come to work at dawn if he could get the same fat paycheck for showing up at dusk.  Who wouldn’t prefer to work for just a little while at the end of the day?  Nobody’s going to do ten times the work for the same amount of money.  It’s just not fair.

          But today we learn that God is not fair.  He’s just.  He’s gracious.  But God is not fair.  Then again, grace isn’t fair.  What’s fair is the Law.  If it’s fair, that means the first come in first and the last come in last, and the kingdom goes to those who earn it.  But if it’s grace we’re talking about, then the first are last, and the kingdom goes to the least of all.  But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.  Let’s go to the parable, shall we?

          A man had a vineyard and needed laborers to pick his grapes.  At about 6 AM he went out and negotiated with some laborers to work that day for a denarius—about $120.  And off they went.  By mid-morning they were still shorthanded.  So the vineyard owner went and found more laborers looking for work.  “You go and work in the vineyard too,” he told them, “and whatever is right I will give you.”  Note that he says, “whatever is right,” not “whatever is fair.”  The same thing happened at noon and 3PM.  At 5PM he still needed more help, so he went to the local tavern where some deadbeats had apparently spent the entire day.  “You go into my vineyard too,” he says, making no promises about the wages he would pay.

          Finally, at 6PM it’s Miller Time as they say in Milwaukee.  The vineyard workers all head to the foreman to receive their wages.  The owner has them line up in reverse order, from last-hired to first-hired—from the 11^th hour losers to the crack-of-dawn early birds.  The first girl in line (one of the deadbeats from the tavern) gets her envelope, expecting maybe ten dollars.  But what’s she find instead?  Six crisp twenties!  And so it continues.

          Pretty soon word filters to the back of the line—to those who began working at dawn—that those who worked only one hour got $120.  So they’re thinking, $120 per hour, for 12 hours—the biggest payday of their grape-picking lives.  But they hadn’t figured on one thing:  The payout from the owner is all based upon his goodness and his promises, and not on their work.  And in his infinite goodness, this guy gives six crisp twenties to every single worker, regardless of how much or how little they worked.  Each worker gets a denarius.  “It’s not fair,” shout the sweaty, exhausted, sun-burnt guys who worked all day.  But the owner reminds them that he didn’t promise to be fair, but to pay them a denarius.  Promise made; promise kept.  End of parable.

          One of the toughest pills for religious superstars to swallow is the idea that God justifies the ungodly.  God adopts deadbeats as His own dear children.  And when that final whistle blows on that final day of labor, our salvation will not be based upon our works, or upon how early we clocked in, but on the sheer grace of God in Jesus Christ who doles out a denarius  of salvation to all who believe, whether a lifelong Lutheran or a deathbed convert.  There’s nothing fair about it.

          Now, a day’s wages for a day’s work—that’s fair.  That’s what we expect in this world, and that’s well and good.  This world operates according to the law, and that’s good.  But in the kingdom of God things are different.  God’s thoughts are not our thoughts.  His ways are not our ways.  He deals with us not according to what’s fair, but according to His grace and mercy. 

          But if you want God to be fair—to deal with you according to your works and your time-card—well then, you will be damned.  You can look forward to an eternity of weeping and gnashing your teeth.  That’s fair.  Hell is the place where everyone gets treated fairly—where everyone gets exactly what they deserve according to the Law.

          Where do we fit into this parable?  Are we like those hired first or hired last?  Hard to say.  Most of us were baptized as babies; we grew up in the church.  We’ve been working in the vineyard a long time with not even a conscious moment when we didn’t know Jesus as our Savior.  We “clocked in” early and we’ve never clocked-out.

          Then again, we’re hardly the first to go to work in our Lord’s vineyard.  Countless others have believed before us.  Other saints have suffered before us—and much, much more than us.  There have been workers in this vineyard for two thousand years, including St. Matthew and St. Paul, St. Mary and St. Elizabeth, St. Polycarp and St. Augustine.  There were countless, nameless believers who bore the heat of persecution, who defended the faith, who suffered and died trusting in Jesus, who have now departed this life to be with Christ (which is far better).

          But now, in these last days, at the eleventh hour, as the sun is setting, with the fields still ripe and waiting for harvest, the Lord of the vineyard has been so kind and gracious to call YOU to work in this same vineyard.  And today, on this Confirmation Sunday, we welcome and pray for our three newest vineyard workers:  Katie, Rilan, and Delaney.  You three are really the last and the least.  You’re just setting foot in the vineyard when so much of the work is already done.  And yet—mysteriously and unfairly—you get the same denarius as everybody else—not 120 bucks, but the same forgiveness of sins, the same salvation, the same love and mercy, the same resurrection life in Jesus.  It’s not fair at all; but it’s oh, so gracious.

          While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.  While we were still ungodly deadbeats, Jesus justified us.  Before you so much as lifted a finger to work in His vineyard, He prepared an envelope with your name on it, containing your “denarius.”  You’re not saving up pay stubs to present at the pearly gates upon your arrival.  But as you go about everyday doing the work God has called you to do, you’re simply serving the Lord who has already served you.  You are loving Him who loved you first.

          Saint Paul expressed it this way in today’s epistle:  For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain.  And for you too:  “To live is Christ.”  To go on living and laboring and working in this world is a good and wonderful thing—a privilege grounded in grace.  “To live is Christ.” To receive His gifts, to forgive as you have been forgiven, to speak the truth in love, to rejoice in your sufferings, to love your neighbor as yourself.  It’s not easy work, to be sure.  But the day is almost over; and you have a generous Master who is full of wonderful surprises.  To live is Christ, and to die is gain.  All of our labor is done in that sure and certain confidence—to die is gain.  To die is to depart and be with Christ—and there is nothing better than that.

          It’s not fair.  There’s no denying that.  For whether first or last, whether we’ve worked hard or hardly worked—God’s grace and generosity  are awaiting each of His children at the end of the day.  Jesus has seen to that.  He got the wages we deserve for our sins.  And we get God’s free gift of eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.

          In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Those Who Trespass against Us

 Jesu Juva

St. Matthew 18:21-35                                                   

September 13, 2020 (Proper 19A)                                 

Dear saints of our Savior~

          Sometimes we pray carefully.  And sometimes we pray carelessly.  It’s just human nature.  Our prayers are never perfect.  Our motives are never pure.  Sometimes we pray because we need to; other times we pray because God commands us to do so.  The result is that sometimes we pray carefully; and sometimes we pray carelessly.

          Saint Augustine prayed carefully.  Saint Augustine would grow up to be a bishop in North Africa, a prolific author, and a revered church father.  But as a young man, Augustine lived recklessly.  He was a prodigal son in every sense who was relentlessly prayed for by his mother, Monica.  Augustine admits in his autobiographical “Confessions,” that, as a young man, he prayed carefully:  Lord, make me chaste,[he prayed,] but not yet.”  His spirit was willing; but his flesh was weak.  And so he prayed; but he prayed very carefully.

          Today’s holy gospel is a stark reminder of our obligation to forgive as we have been forgiven; but it’s also a reminder of how carelessly we pray most of the time.  For how many times each week do we carelessly amble our way through the Lord’s Prayer, including the Fifth Petition:  Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us?  Here we ask God to forgive our sins—but, only to the same degree—only insofar as—we forgive those who sin against us.  Kinda’ careless.  If we were praying more carefully we might just shorten and shrink that petition, and simply say, “Forgive us our trespasses. Period.”

          But praying carefully and cleverly about forgiveness isn’t really an option when Jesus teaches about it with such cold clarity.  It’s hard to miss the point of today’s parable.  That last line always sends a chill down my spine when, after the unforgiving servant is turned over to be tortured, Jesus concludes:  So also my heavenly Father will do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother from your heart. 

          The parable was prompted by a simple question:  Lord, how many times do I have to forgive my brother when he sins against me?  Seems like a legit question, right?  I mean, there has to be a limit, doesn’t there?  At some point, enough is enough.  The rabbis of Jesus’ day said three times was enough.  Peter suggested seven times, which has a nice ring to it.  It’s far more generous than three—once a day, every day, for one week.  That should do it, for sure.

          But forgiveness that has limits is not real forgiveness.  Forgiveness, the way Jesus practices it, has no limits, no exclusions, no exemptions, no asterisks with fine print at the bottom of the page.  “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy times seven,” said the Savior.  And the point is not 490 times.  The point is that forgiveness doesn’t keep score.  Forgiveness keeps no record of wrongs.

          But, oh, do we love to keep score on the sins committed against us.  Our mental file cabinets are full of alphabetized files of all times we’ve been wronged.  We’ve got spreadsheets, graphs, and PowerPoint slides describing in detail all the times we’ve been shafted, cheated, and slandered.  We nurse our grudges.  We baby our bitterness.  We walk carefully so as not to disturb all the chips on our shoulders we’ve so carefully collected.  Sound familiar?

          Beloved in the Lord, that’s no way to live.  To “forgive” literally means to “let go” of the sin committed against you.  It means to “send away” the sin to someplace where it’s no longer on your radar—to shred the files, delete the

PowerPoint slides, and let our grudges go.  To forgive means to go on as though the sin never happened.  The sin no longer has power over you because you’ve let it go.  To forgive is really to step into freedom—freedom that is yours as blood-bought brothers and sisters of Jesus.

          Forgiveness is so important for our life together that Jesus preached a powerful parable—designed to shake-up our ideas about the limits of forgiveness.  A king forgave his servant a million dollar debt—an absurd amount of money—more than could ever be repaid in one lifetime.  But this reckless, crazy king told his accountants to get out their erasers; and the servant got off scot free.

          But this same servant immediately tracked down a fellow servant who owed him a mere 500 bucks, grabbed him by the throat, and demanded to be repaid.  He’d just been forgiven a million; but he couldn’t let a mere five hundred slide.  When the king heard about it, the wicked, unforgiving servant was sent to prison, to be tortured.  There was hell to pay.  And just to make things clear, Jesus says, “So also my heavenly Father will do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother from your heart.”

          Do you see how much God hates un-forgiveness?  Nothing angers Him as much as our refusal to forgive others . . . as we ourselves have been forgiven by Him.  God forgave us first.  We owe Him big-time.  What others have done to us is just pocket change compared to what we’ve done to God.  When we refuse to forgive, we are denying how much God has forgiven us.  When we hold others hostage by our refusal to forgive, we’re setting ourselves up as gods in the place of God.

          Joseph has a lot to teach us about forgiveness.  Joseph forgave his brothers—brothers who hated him—brothers who sold him into slavery—jealous brothers who callously told dear ol’ dad that his favorite son was dead.  Joseph forgave them all.  He saved them all from famine.  He gladly did good to the brothers who had sinned against him.

          But when their father, Jacob, died, all bets were off.  The brothers expected Joseph’s revenge to come swiftly.  So they quickly got down on their knees and tried to bargain for their lives, hoping to cut a deal.  But Joseph would have none of it.  “Am I in the place of God,” he asked?  How can I not forgive in the presence of the God who forgives?  “You meant evil against me, but God meant it for good.”  You intended evil; God used it for good.  Can you see what Joseph saw—that behind the despicable sins his brothers committed against him—God Himself was at work for good?

          Look to the cross of Jesus, and you will begin to understand.  Men intended that cross for evil.  They wanted to kill the Son of God—get rid of Him for good, silence Him, destroy Him.  They lied.  They gave false testimony.  They mis-carried justice to get Jesus’ hands and feet nailed to a Roman tool of torture.  It was evil compounded on evil—evil to the nth degree—bloody, blasphemous evil.  And God used it for good—for your good—to save you, for the salvation of the world.  Good Friday, we call it.

          Every sin ever committed against you is atoned for in the death of Jesus.  When you look at that person who “owes you big time”—that person who has sinned against you—see that person as one for whom Christ died.  Does he or she know that?  Will he or she know that from you?  Certainly not if you’ve got your hands around his neck.  Certainly not if you regularly remind him of his sin.  But he or she may yet come to know the power of God’s love with your hand on his shoulder and with three of the most powerful words in the English language: I forgive you.  There’s great power in that simple sentence.  And we don’t say it nearly enough.

          As for you, you leave here today debt free.  As far as the east is from the west, so far have your trespasses been removed from you.  The books are closed.  The score has been settled with the blood of our Savior.  In His name and with His own words we pray.  We pray not too carefully nor too carelessly.  We pray confidently:  Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.

          In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.